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55sturn · 2 months

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.𖥔 ݁ ˖ SAYIN’ SORRY FOR THAT NIGHT

↳ series masterlist!

↳ summary: in which y/n is greeted by a sudden revelation on the night of chris’ most anticipated game, the one that determines whether or not the bruins get into the playoffs and she’s left apologizing for the night that caused it all.

↳ parings: boston bruins player!chris sturniolo x fem!reader!

↳ warnings: swearing, fluff, mentions and descriptions of violent fights, verbal arguments, unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortions, comments from the other team and hecklers, open ending, angst, angst, angst, and more angst.

↳ author's note: loosely based off back to december (taylor’s version) by taylor swift! , red italics are comments from random people!

↳ important things to note 0.02: a) i’m canadian and a montreal fan ‘til the day i die so writing a boston centric fic where the bruins win is killing me. b) i’m writing it so that carey price is still the canadien’s goalie bc i miss him and he was my favourite goalie.

THIRD PERSON POV

to be in the limelight alone is tough. to be in it for something such a hockey, where a million and one eyes are watching your every move, scrutinizing every play you make, every workout you do to toughen your body and build your endurance for the tasking time spent on the ice is even tougher, but to do all of that with a public relationship is the toughest thing.

chris knew that announcing his relationship at the peak of his career with the boston bruins was not going to be easy. he had all eyes on him as the bruins' newest right winger, but not only was he the newest player, he was also the youngest to join in years.

just like connor mcdavid's rise to fame with the edmonton oilers, chris was in the spotlight and it wasn't easy. he was in the spotlight because he was a phenomenal player with a chipper attitude that most hockey players don't seem to have. he had been scouted at one of his toughest games in his college career and almost immediately the contracts began flowing and the drafting process had started.

as eyes of everyone involved in the hockey world began to shift to the star of what they called "the boston bruins' new era and future captain", so did the female attention. not only was chris good at what he did, but he was insanely good looking, at least to the younger female demographic that had taken an interest in hockey.

but he didn't care for the, for a lack of a better name, puck bunnies or the future hockey wives in training, he had his own hockey wife sitting front row in the v.i.p section at every game, smiling as she watched him zip back and forth between his teammates and the teammates that he was facing

as he announced who the mystery girl in his practice jersey at every game was, he faced an onslaught of even more hate disguised as criticism and scrutiny from devout bruins fans, potential drafting scouts, and anyone willing to spare an opinion. but as the rather distasteful comments rolled in, his skin grew thicker, because as long as he had her to go home to, he could handle it.

PRESENT TIME

chris sat on the bench in the hallway adorning the infamous bruins logos, each brick in the wall holding some sort of history of the team, twirling tape around the blade of his stick. he found the dressing room too stuffy right before a game, so he and john beecher sat outside the dressing room, joking amongst themselves as they prepared for the game.

"cmon man, you played big games before you'll be fine." john chuckled, handing chris back his spare roll of stick tape as chris sighed.

"i know, it's just a big fuckin' game tonight. haven't played montreal yet."

"wait this is your first game against montreal?"

"yes and as a boston native, i know this is the game, just don't wanna fuck up when this decides whether or not we make it to playoffs."

"kid you'll be fine, you've outdone mcdavid's first year and that's pretty fuckin' bizarre 'cause he's a powerhouse." beecher reassured, clapping the young right winger on the shoulder before heading back to the dressing room. chris stared at the wall across, still struggling to comprehend how his life has become the way it is, he's incredibly grateful for the opportunities he's gotten and proud of the work he's put in, it's just still hard to fathom.

sensing that she should give her boyfriend a quick visit before he went on to the ice, y/n made her way through the crowds of people, smiling at the fans that addressed her, politely declining to take pictures until after the game. she proudly donned a large "8" and the name "STURNIOLO" scrawled across the back of a black away-game jersey and black jeans and her trusty, yet dirty, air forces, proudly showing her support for the man she's loved for six years, since she was a small fourteen year old navigating her year of high school with the triplets by her side.

the thin plastic stick weighed heavy in the pocket of her hoodie she wore beneath the jersey, she was about to tell chris about it, to give him a little motivation to play extra hard. but when she spotted the reporter’s mic pointed toward his helmet covered face, she placed that idea on the back burner. smiling she approached chris,

“hey mister big shot.” she laughed, causing chris to grin as he introduced her to the reported as his girlfriend. the reporter quickly bid the couple goodbye, leaving them to have their moment together.

“hey so i’ve got some really good news for you.” y/n smiled, smoothing her hands over his shoulder pads as he tugged off his helmet, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips.

“listen i wanna go be apart of the chant so i need to go, can this news wait?”

“i guess so. give ‘em hell baby, i love you.”

“always ma, i love you.” chris replied, bouncing on his skates slightly before shoving his helmet back on, quickly shoving his way through the door leading to short hallway his team would walk through.

y/n stared at his back, watching him fade away as she was left to mull over the news she was about to tell chris. it was the start of his career and she didn’t want to derail it any, so the choice between telling him now or tell him in a month waged a violent war in her mind.

shaking her head, she made her way back to the staircase leading to the v.i.p section, as she wove through crowds of people, she heard the gasps and murmurs.

“that’s who the new bruins guy is dating? i won’t be shocked when he starts fucking the puck sluts in a month.”

“she looks out of place and that jersey is so unflattering on her.”

“i hope sturniolo comes to his senses and dumps her ass soon.”

scoffing, y/n climbed the stairs, pushing the overwhelmingly upsetting thoughts from her mind as she spotted nick and matt in their seats. breaking the news to someone was imperative to her, not telling someone would break her but she didn’t know whether she should tell someone before chris.

of course she and chris had talked about their views on starting a family together and the idea of raising a baby together but there was one issue,

chris wanted to wait until secured a long term contract with the bruins. he didn’t want anything to deter his plans. and y/n understood, he has worked so unbelievably hard to get to the position he’s in now. starting a family takes a lot of dedication, time, effort, and devotion without distractions. chris was concerned that if they had a baby early on in his professional hockey career, she’d be left alone to carry out so many of the responsibilities that being a parent brought on.

so as y/n made her way to her designated seat, her heart felt heavy. her doubts only grew with every step she took, and it felt like her body had been held down, it was as if she had cinder blocks chained to her ankles. as she sat beside nick, he picked up on her mood, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that sonething was bothering her though. nick bumped her elbow with his, as if to ask what’s wrong and she just smiled and shook her head.

mary-lou, who was sat behind y/n and her three sons, immediately knew what was going on. y/n had a certain glow to her, despite the sorrowful look that had become deeply etched into her skin. she knew that pained expression anywhere, she understood what the taut shoulders, pinched eyebrows, and distraught gleam in her eyes all too well. but the older woman put her excitement about becoming a grandmother off to the side, deciding she’d wait to gloat until y/n had accepted the idea her self.

the family conversed among themselves while the teams prepared to saunter out onto the ice, letting the fans get hyped up. a voice boomed from above, prompting cheers and hollers from the people taking up the stands.

“please welcome your home team, the boston bruins!” the commentator exclaimed, dragging out the words boston bruins in typical emcee fashion, allowing the fans and supporters chant for their team as he played the bruins’ intro song as they skated onto the ice one by one, the emcee announcing the names and numbers above the music.

y/n couldn’t help but lett the pride and excitement she felt show brightly on her face, despite the worries she suffered deep down. she was so incredibly proud of chris, him landing a secure spot on the bruins was a long time coming. it was his dream back in high school the moment he secured a spot on his high school’s team with ease. he was a natural born hockey player and it showed through the surplus of dedication he put into it. and y/n felt more than lucky to be there on the sidelines from the very beginning.

as the emcee asked from everyone to stand for the national anthem, a cheesy grin broke out on her face as chris stood on the offensive line facing the vip box, and pointed up to where he knew she’d be sitting before forming his hand into the best half heart possible that his bulky gloves would allow. she felt her cheeks warm with a deep blush as chris’ family playfully teased her for having their brother and son completely and unfalteringly whipped.

“shut up!” she laughed, her nerves drifting away as the game started. the excitement she never failed to feel at every single one of chris’ games, whether it was just him filling in for the local adult men’s teams or an exhibition game for his old college team, she was always filled with adrenaline as she stood and sat in the stands.

but that was expected when born into a city that favours the winter sport, you were either born with the excitement coursing through your veins or you were born with a deep hatred for it filling every crevice of your body. there was no in between.

y/n cheered along with chris’ family as he zipped, swerved, bobbed, and weaved up and down the ice. that was one thing that most players envied chris for, he was fast and slick, almost as if he was water slipping through your fingers.

and not only was he fast, he held great control over the puck as she moved down the ice, the puck never got away from him as he maneuvered it between players, alternating which side his stick was covering and pushing it.

there was fifteen seconds left in the second period and both montreal and boston held three goals each as chris stood for a moment back checking as his teammates guarding him, and with five seconds ticking down, he delivered a brutal slap shot, sending the puck into the net behind carey price who had dropped to block it a second too late.

the bruins fans’ side of the stands erupted in loud cheers, and so did y/n and chris’ family, his parents laughing giddily as matt made a backhanded comment about price being too old for goaltending.

“i will be right back, i have to use the washroom.” y/n interjects, letting nick know where she’d while the rest of them grabbed drinks.

“yo y/n, you drink budlight right?” justin hums, causing her stomach to drop, her usual habit of having a beer with them at chris’ games being something she hadn’t even considered.

“uh can you just grab me an iced tea? i’ve got an early appointment tomorrow and i’d rather not show up at my doctor’s smelling like beer.” she laughs nervously, causing justin to shrug and accept her answer before heading off to the concession stand near the entrance of the vip box.

“i’ll come with you, i’ve got to use the ladie’s room too.” mary-lou hums, smiling appreciatively as y/n waited for her.

however as they made their way to back of the section they were sitting in, mary-lou motioned for y/n to follow her out into the small hallway that lead to the smoking doors, it was empty as the two stood there.

“how far along are you?” mary-lou whispers, unable to withhold her suspicions any longer, and the abrupt question had y/n’s stomach twisting into more knots than it was already in.

“wha-how did you figure it out?”

“i’ve had my suspicions for a while, the last time you were over i heard you throwing up, and you’ve got the pregnancy glow. plus you’ve been wearing baggy clothes and you aren’t drinking tonight.”

“fuck. sorry for my language. but i think i’m about two and a half months along. last month i just thought my period was late because i was sick and when i get sick, my period is normally late. but then i missed this month’s too and it clicked.”

“have you told chris yet?” mary-lou spoke, her voice soft as she rest a reassuring hand on her future daughter in law’s arm as she shook her head.

n“i wanted to tell him before the game, to give him a little motive to play harder but he didn’t want to miss the chant and pep talk so he left before i could say anything about it. i’ve got the test in my pocket and i know it’s not smart to go off just one test so that’s why i’m going to the doctor tomorrow.”

“well i think you should tell him, i think he’ll be happy.”

“that’s what i’m worried about, he wanted to wait until he secured a long term contract. we had this conversation about a month ago.”

“you can’t necessarily control these things. a family comes to be when it’s meant to happen, not when you want it to happen.”

mary-lou’s words stuck deep in y/n’s mind. she knew that chris’ mother was right. y/n had just wished her and chris were a bit more careful that drunken night in the hotel.

FLASHBACK

chris and y/n’s drunken giggles bounced off the walls as they pushed their way into their room. they had gone out for dinner with the team and eventually broke off on their own after swiping two of the complementary bottles of champagne that the teams managers had provided.

they stumbled through the city after hiding in an empty room in the banquet hall, chugging the nasty liquor as quick as they could handle on empty stomachs.

“god baby, you look so pretty in this dress, just wanna tear it off you.” chris rasped, his cheeks flushing and eyes drooping, from the alcohol, or the effect his girlfriend had on him, or maybe even both, she wasn’t quite sure. making him look all the more enticing to y/n.

“do it then.” y/n slurred back, pulling chris into a messy, sloppy, yet incredibly hot, like searingly hot, make out, chris’ hands roamed her body feverishly, unable to stay in one place very long.

as their ministration progressed, so did their desire for one another and the lingering buzz they had from the alcohol left room for a few less than sound decisions. chris drunkenly justified going in raw by saying “just wanna feel as close to you as possible.” and that was all the convincing y/n needed, but she made him promise to pull out in time.

but due to their inebriation, chris wasn’t quick enough but they had long forgotten it by the time morning came.

FLASHBACK OVER

and now she was paying the price for them being reckless. sighing, she made her way back to her seat just as the intermission ended and chris' team made their way back to the home bench, their net switching back to the end they started out on.

it wasn't too far into the third period when the canadiens were getting aggressive, the score was eight to five in favour of boston and montreal was getting mad that they were losing the game, the most awaited game since it was announced boston and montreal would be facing each other to land a bracket in the playoffs.

the fact that it was also playoff season made y/n's stomach twist even tighter, she felt sick. she was so scared she was going to fuck up chris' life plan and she couldn't bear that idea.

but her current worries were thrown on the back burner when she watched a much bigger player from montreal's team check chris, sending him flying back against the ice, his head ricocheting off the ice, leaving chris laying flat on the ice.

chris' coach calls a time-out while paramedics quickly make their way onto the ice, carrying chris off the ice, and before y/n could react, she was pushing her way through the bustling crowd and stomping down the stairs, quickly sprinting to chris' change room.

"i'm sorry ma'am but you can't be in here."

"i'm his fiance." y/n spits, pushing her way into the change room, immediately rushing to chris, raising her hand to play with his hair, pausing momentarily to silently ask for permission which was granted by him leaning into her touch.

"we're okay, if anything happens, we'll call for you." chris rasps, waving away the paramedics, sighing sadly after being told he's not allowed back on the ice for the rest of the game to prevent being knocked around again because he was highly vulnerable to getting a concussion right now.

"tell me something to distract me, baby." chris whispers, pulling y/n into his lap, the bulky padding beneath her feeling foreign as she leans her head on her shoulder.

"i'm not sure what to talk about." she laughs as he rubs his hand back and forth along her thigh.

"your news from earlier."

"oh." she squeaks, her voice almost inaudible as she realizes that it's now or never. sighing, she grabs the test out of her pocket from beneath the spare jersey she wore, placing it into chris' hand with a heartbroken expression and timid voice,

"we're pregnant, chris."

↳ taglist: @dylsdunbar @verosivy @soursturniolo @4sturns @sturnsclutter @spencerstits @meanttomeet @bluesturniolo333 @graciereid @abbie13sworld @ghostofbrock @l9vesick @mylifeisevenstranger @bethsturn @ifilwtmfc @themattgirl @lovingmattysposts @lacysturniolo @freshsturns @forevergirlposts @sturniolo-fav-matt @cupidsword @strawberrysturniolo @lustfulslxt @sturnifyed @carolsturns1 @teapartyprincess4two @mangosrar @querenciasturniolo @pinklittleflower @cutenote @ellie-luvsfics

love a good cliffhanger!! if you want me to make this into a mini-series i am beyond willing to! i have plans for this story tbh<3

383 notes · View notes

vampyrgoff · 8 months

Note

Hey lovely 🖤 Requesting a Nsfw alphabet for my stinky roadkill boyfriend Lester (if you don't mind!).

I swear to God I've read every single Lester centric thing here and I'm STARVED for content. Plus I really enjoyed the way you wrote Vincent's!

NSFW Alphabet: Lester Sinclair

lester sinclair x reader

contains— nsfw!MDNI, semi-pervy Lester?, sub!Lester (sorry to my Dom!Lester loves ppl out there), dom!reader, virgin!Lester, experienced!reader, lil bit of a mommy kink lol, somno👀, foot job? also not proofread lol

requests— open! send anything! check my page for who I write for!

vampyr’s note— IM SO HAPPY! THIS IS MY FIRST REQUEST EVER? I noticed that there is a MAJOR shortage of fics/headcanons/anything really of Lester. i hope this helps that Lester Sinclair thirst be quenched<3 And thanks for liking how I wrote Vincent<3! That makes me so happy that people are enjoying it. AS ALWAYS: REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED <3 Overall thanks for requesting! and I hope you like it<3

(let me know if I should make a taglist and if you'd like to be on a future potential taglist)

gif isn't mine! here's the link to vincent's <3

(HES SO CUTE HERE)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Lester probably is pretty clueless when it comes to aftercare let's be honest. He's probably gonna ask what you need from him and that he'll do whatever you tell him to. But once he gets the hang of things, he's always gonna cuddle you and call you all types of cute names.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He possibly can't choose between what body part of yours is his favorite. He definitely loves every aspect of you, I def think even though in the movie he was staring at Carly's chest, he's an ass man kinda like Bo lol He loves your butt, what can I say.

When you first met, you were on a camping trip with 'friends' or so you thought. They left you and your broken-down car to go see some stupid game of the season. You felt hopeless and wandered around the woods, looking for anyone to help you before stumbling on the roadkill pile. You felt your stomach turn and twist with disgust. The smell was unbearable as you looked at all the deer heads and bodies rotting away in a large pile. The Louisiana heat, already unbearable, made the rotting smell more pungent.

What made you stop in your tracks was, near the gorey pile, you see a smartphone. The screen was cracked and the phone was dirty, but you couldn't help but recognize the phone as one of your friends. You bent over inspecting the phone until you heard an unfamiliar voice from behind you. "Well isn't this a nice view, Jonesy?"

You turned around and were greeted by a cute petite man and his dog. The dog sniffed at your legs and such and the man gave you a warm smile that made you feel a teensy bit better about the situation you were currently in. "Hi! I'm (y/n)! I'm so glad I'm not alone in these woods." you say in relief. The man smiles at you, a cute little cheeky grin. "Name's Lester! And tha's Jonesy. Ya seem lost, sweet pea." His voice was dripped with concern and cute little worried eyes. You had so many questions and you were too tired to even think of any until you remembered the broken smartphone of your friend. You turned your back to Lester and grabbed the phone. While your back was turned to him all he could see was your ass. MAN! He admired the slight peak of your underwear and began blushing a bit. It's been a while since a pretty young thing like you came along, so forgive him for being so pervy.

Ever since that day, Lester knew what his physical fave thing about you was. This man will watch you help Bo at the gas station and his eyes are just watching your ass move.

When you guys cuddle at night, he'll bashfully grab two handfuls of your ass. He'll knead at the skin and kiss your face and neck. He knows how wet you get from such a simple gesture but he loves seeing you squirm under his touch, especially when he does it with such a cute boyish innocence.

His favorite body part on himself is probably his hands aswell. I headcanon (I have a Lester headcanon thing coming up so look out for that<;3) that he's good at carving things in a woodshop way. Vincent is not the only one that has an amazing talent. I think Les' is way more hidden but nonetheless, he loves how he can skin a buck, and carve a beautiful thing out of wood/bone.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

This lovely gentleman is scared to cum in your mouth. He's already a stinky boy but he's scared that he'll taste too bitter for you. He also is scared to cum in your mouth out of respect. He feels as though it's so demeaning but you convince him that it's okay for him to do so. Although it takes him some warming up to do when it comes to shooting loads into your mouth, trust me, when he starts to get comfy with doing it, it's his favorite thing in the entire world. He loves how you look at him through your lashes while you lick every drop of him up.

He loves to feel in control for those little few moments before you eventually put him back into his place by overstimulating his senses. When it comes to you and your cum, he's such a slut for it, yall. He loves seeing you cream all over his cock. He'll look at you in awe when he sees you bouncing on his dick and there's a whole bunch of cum dripping out of you. His adorable eyes will be half-lidded and his hands squeezing and rubbing at your thighs while he whimpers and groans your name a few times. "Oh, sweet pea, I love when 'yer pretty cunt squeezes me like this." He's a messy boy alright, but he loves when you make him a mess.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Les constantly thinks about domming you all the time. Although it seems as though he won't get close to doing that, he thinks about it all the time. He thinks about making you scream for him but he's such a gentleman and a sub to do so. He likes the idea of you taking control so that he doesn't ever do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Another virgin boy. His experience is only with himself. I think this is why he's not into domming you just yet until you guys are together for longer. He's never had to take the lead in anything, he's the baby... and he sure as hell acts like it. The first time you guys do anything remotely sexual, you have to guide him.

This poor baby is so clueless in the bedroom that you had to teach him how to finger you AND eat you out. You had to shape him into the little munch he is today.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

I don't know if you can truly say that this is a position but this man is the best at pussy eating, with that being said... sit on his face <3 He doesn't care about how big or small you are... sit on that mf face.

As a plus-size girl, I get being scared but NOOOO this boy loves your plushy thighs around his head. He grips them so hard and needily, needing your cunt as close as possible, as he laps at your folds and sucks on your clit. He loves tonguing your hole as you pull on his hair every so often.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He can be humorous and giddy. This man lives for cute little moments with you. He'll get really flustered and make joke to lighten things before he becomes so embarrassed and red that he won't be able to speak.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I don't think its a forest down there but I'm sure he trims the hair on his own.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Oh, this lovebug is SO romantic. He kisses your cunt and thanks you for letting him even near your cunt before he devours you. He'll kiss and suck on your thighs when you let him eat you out.

If you've had such a long day of distracting guests and stuff, he'll have you lay down naked on the bed and kiss you all over. He'll kiss your legs and feet, will kiss your thighs, inner thighs, and will kiss your pretty stomach and chest. It definitely gets you going though when he acts this way for foreplay.

While you sit on his cock and bounce, he'll say cute things that egg you on, "Honeydew... my cock-- I think I needa' cum, sweet pea--", "More, please mama!", "yer so pretty, darlin', how'd i get so lucky?"

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

This baby lovesss jerking off. It's the best way for him to get rid of his anger, his horniness and well it helps him relax. I think he's such a sweetheart about being horny a lot. To him, he sees it is quite bothersome to constantly ask for sex, so this'll be his best option. He always says "My momma raised me righ', I will never make you uncomfortable on purpose, sweet pea." so don't expect him to constantly ask you to fuck... cause he will not give in babes, he will very much mind his business and wait for you to come to him. But if you ask, I think he'd tell you that he wants to do things but I don't see him outright saying it.

I think the first time you caught him masturbating was quite interesting...

You caught the cutie in his room jerking off. Your (used) panties stuffed in his mouth so that he wouldn't make any noise at all. You couldn't help but admire him in all his subby glory. You were standing at the door for a long while. He was jerking his cock, nice and slow, the muscles on his tummy contracting as he went over his sensitive head when all of a sudden you spoke up. "Keep going, Les."

His head snapped towards you and you felt your lust growing deep within you. You closed the door from behind you and stepped closer to the bed. Slowly making your way to sit on your knees next to him on the bed. His eyes were still wide with shock when you grabbed your panties from his mouth. "Why'd ya stop, Les?" you said, giving him such a coy and teasing smile.

He bucked his hips up into his hand and played with his tip with the other. He looked clueless on how to really pleasure himself. It was so cute to you though. So you def helped him out, without touching him of course. You instructed him to stroke his cock slowly as he watched you play with your breasts and roll your nipples between your fingers. Watching you made him so feral, and you knew it.

You let him watch you play with your clit through your panties. You also let him watch you toy with your hole through your panties as well. He went soooo crazy over that though, you were staring at his dick while it twitched in excitement.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Collaring: This boy loves being your little lap dog. He loves when you're riding him and pulling on a leash connected to his collar. He gets so loud and whiny. He also likes collaring you babes! But I think he’d go all out for it. It’d say something like “Honeydew” on it or any other name you liked to be called. When you’re collared, his heart swells and he think you look so adorable. He’d even get a tag on the collar that says “Lester Sinclair’s property”

Somno: This boy is such a people pleaser and that doesn't exclude you, he'll wake up horny asf and he'll look over at you in just a t-shirt and he'll feel his heart RACING. He's gonna pull up that t-shirt slowly and get to work at your folds. He starts off with small cute kitten licks at your clit; watching you stir your sleep and shift a bit at the feeling. He'll slowly put your legs on his shoulders and lick up the juices that start to build up. He feels like it's wrong to take advantage of you, with his cheeks pink and rosy with slight embarrassment, but he loves the idea of you waking up and seeing him as such a good needy boy. On the other hand... he doesn't mind if you wake up and feel the need to want him too. He loves the idea of him waking up, already breaking a sweat, and seeing you perched on top of him with his cock deep inside you. DUDEEE he'd love it. He'd be so surprised too, his cheeks all pink and his heart racing. He'd def have these low whines and whimpers that would come out of him.

Breeding: Now... I saw a comment on my Vincent post from @iwhat saying that every Southerner has a breeding kink. AND YOU KNOW WHAT- anyways this baby is very scared of getting you pregnant at first okayyyyy. Like he's terrified. Especially if you've never brought up wanting kids. Like this man will always pull out whenever he can. But once you tell him that you want his cum in you, he's so ready to give you his all. This poor baby LIVES off of praise and your validation so he'll do whatever he can to give you his cum. He wants kids and he wants you to bear them, so when he's bucking his hips up into you while you have your hand resting at his throat, he's gonna slam into that cervix of yours so desperately, almost like his in a trance, almost like he's pussydrunk. He loves the thought of you being pregnant with his offspring and he loves the thought that he's doing WAY better than his brothers too. He's mostly happy that he basically found a spouse before Bo could

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

In his or on his truck. 100%. He'll deep clean the back and add bedding to it. Just so that he could fuck you under the stars. Or for you to dom him under the stars. Whatever works. I'm sure you love watching his heaving chest go up and down as you rub his cock through your folds. He also loves when you guys lure visitors together, cause that means this brave little man is gonna get some rewarding head from you inside the truck.

On a different note, he has a little spot in the woods where he has a hammock set up and a little blanketed area for you guys when you want to get out of town. It has fairy lights and all. It was a gift he brought to you as a "thanks-for-loving-me-and-not-leaving-me-even-though-our-family-is-crazy" gift. After your romantic picnic, when he was cleaning everything up, you told him to leave it. And he sure did. It's your favorite place to go since it takes your mind off of everything.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Oh, this baby probs gets turned on by everything. I think it's your thighs and cleavage. This man could stare at your thighs in the blazing heat all day. He loves when you wear your shorts all around town. When you ride with him to get more buck he'll slyly stare at your thighs and his mouth will JUST water.

He'll rest his calloused hand on your thigh and knead at the supple skin. "Yer' skin's so beautiful, honeydew." He'll say lowly with a small smile on his face, as he leans into you and kisses your cheek. Of course, his hands will never stop groping your thigh, he loves the way it ripples.

Other times, you guys will sit in the house and watch a bit of TV with Jonesy. You'll lay down on the couch with your legs over his and he'll definitely look over and just play with your thighs. How could he not... you're sitting there in his flannel and your little shorts. All he could think is leaving cute love bites all over them. He'll lean his body down to kiss your thighs, earning a cute little giggle from you, and the sound goes straight to his cock, his cock twitching slightly at the fact that you're enjoying his affection. Noticing his hard cock on your legs, your face lights up with joy at the thought of teasing this cutie about his obsession with your thighs.

You look at him and whine about your thighs aching and how you need them soothed. He'll get so excited and will want you to sit on his lap with your legs spread apart so that he could just pay EXTRA attention to your thighs and you'll watch him knead at your skin in admiration. He loves the skin that surrounds your cunt. You stop his hands and snake his cock out of his jeans and let it spring out. You smirk and wrap your thighs around it; ignoring his cute whines, "Fuck my thighs, pretty boy."

This man loves your thighs so much.. don't even question it

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Lester seems like the type where not much bothers him. He’s good with knives and stuff but I don’t think he’d use them on you… at all. like again he’s good at carving stuff out of wood but like if you were to tell him to cut you this man will 100% say no. He also will say no to degrading you. Even if you like it, this man will go out of his way to only praise you. He’s a soft dom <3

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Oh, yall know this baby loves receiving. He just won't admit it. (this doesn't mean he doesn't also love giving) But he's obsessed with getting the life sucked out of him. This cutie is so timid when it's his turn for oral. Once your lips are on him, you'll need to gag this man if you think he can be quiet. His tip is very sensitive so when you tease him with small kitten licks on his red pulsing tip, expect him to be whimpering your name like a prayer...

You pull his jeans down along with his briefs and watch his cock spring and hit his stomach as he lays down, a small groan erupting from the back of his throat, "y/n-sweetheart... please." he'll whine out. And all you can do is smirk and smile at his cute plea. "I haven't touched you yet, Les. Good things come to those who simply... wait," you say while licking a long strip of the underside of his cock, beads of sweat already pricking his hairline. A low groan comes from him and he's already resting his hands on your thighs that are on either side of his torso. "y/n, please... I jus' wanna feel you... and make you feel goo-" His sentence was interrupted by another whine coming from him, this time being that you were kitten licking his pre-cumming tip. "y/n please-"

"ah-ah-ah, address me right, baby..." you say softly yet assertively. Your hand already sliding up to his throat, his bod already tensing. “mommy… please”

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’ll do whatever you tell him. If you’re riding him and tell him to fuck up into you while you swivel your hips on him, he’ll do it in a heartbeat. If you need him to slow down his needy thrusts to tease him, he’ll do it in a heartbeat. He’s your little toy to play with <3

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He likes quickies but he also doesn’t like them. At the end of the day though… this man is a service top and will do whatever he can to keep you happy. Quickies wouldn’t be too often but I think they happen here and there. I can see you pulling him into a nearby closet and just pressing your ass on his crotch. He’d get so flustered, hands already flying to your sides, running low down to your hips and pulling your lower half flush against him. He’s quite easy to turn on so just a little moment like this could get him going completely.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He only would like to experiment if it’s you who brings it up. He’s creative with his hands and can get pretty crafty but when it comes to your guys’ sex life… I think he’s too nervous to even bring anything up. I think he’d love some sex in the forest but he’s never gonna tell you that, because he’s afraid of you thinking he’s weird :(

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Don’t hate me but this baby can’t last too long. He loves edging and loves when you take control and edge his orgasm for a few hours. But don’t expect him to last awhile once he’s inside you. Poor baby could probably cum from just cockwarming.

He gets sensitive after 2 rounds, small traces on the vein of his cock will get him crying. He’ll start begging once you lick all around his tip.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

A small cockring for him. he’s so baby that he’d probably get really jealous of your toys, if you have any. If you’re feeling horny and he’s not around, give him a call instead. He’s totally talk you through an orgasm rather than you use a dildo.

You had to convince him to try out the cockring though. He had NO idea what it is and wtf it’s supposed to stimulate on him. But once he see your pleading eyes, he TRULY can’t say no to you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He isn’t much of a tease, he’s a service top after all. He does things unintentionally that can be seen as teasing though. Like when you guys are on the couch with Jonesy, he’ll trace his calloused fingers along your soft inner thighs. That shit drives you wild though, for sure.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He whimpers idc. This man whimpers and he’s loud. His whimpers have a bit of vocal fry but it’s so cute and charming coming from him <3.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Secretly wants you to peg him. idc you can’t tell me otherwise, if not pegging him he would love to try anal with you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

i think he’s pretty average maybe a bit thicker than average. carpet matches the drapes for sure. his tip is bright pink idc

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He’s always horny and yea touch starved as fuck too. BUT he won’t tell you. You’ll just have to catch him when his bulge is causing him some slight discomfort.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

this baby is so spoiled, once he gets the ass he’s been begging for this mf starts to fall asleep. It’s okay you guys take turns being the pillow prince/princess. he gets all soft and falls asleep near your stomach holding you tightly by your ass. Fondling it as he drifts off. he’s so cute but he falls asleep wayyyy too fast lol.

#slashers #vincent sinclair #house of wax #slashers x reader #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair imagine #vincent sinclair x reader #lester sinclair #lester sinclair x reader #lester sinclair x reader smut #sinclair brothers #slasher smut

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mothwingwritings · 4 months

Text

Frohe Weihnachten

Boyfriend To Death Strade X F! Reader X Ren

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!! By some miracle of the holiday season I have arrived and even wrote something, even if it is random and I struggled to get finished before Christmas. But I did it and now I offer it to you humbly as a lil gift.

This month has unfortunately bad. All the bad had me looking for distractions to keep me from the gloom, and the search for distractions lead me to replaying Boyfriend To Death 1, and replaying BTD made me start Boyfriend to Death 2, and well… Here we are. It’s been one of the few things I could focus on that brought me joy this month (what that says about my mental health we will leave up to interpretation loooooool :)), so I decided to try my hand at writing something for it. It proved to be a fun challenge, and I am hoping to do some more BTD stuff in the future. :3

ANYWAY here is a Strade-centric fic (Ren is there too, though) I churned out amidst the December bs. He’s spoiling you in it which isn’t really a good thing for you. I hope I did him justice. He is a very nuanced guy and I had a lot of fun writing this. I can slowly feel god awful, horrible men becoming my forte , and at this point I am just embracing it.

Please be mindful that BTD and BTD2 are adult games, so even though there is no explicit NSFW in this fic, it is for 18+ only just as its source material is. No one under the age of 18 should be reading this, thank you!

WARNINGS: Torture, stabbing, blood, degradation, forced stripping, pet play, mentions of rape/noncon, Strade is filming a snuff film and though you are a part of it, you are not the one being snuffed (congrats!), severing of body parts, nonconsensual filming and touching, kidnapping, imprisonment, butchered German (my highschool German teacher is crying somewhere) and probs some shoddy editing (sorry for the rush!).

Staring down at the gifts laid out before you, a thin layer of sweat began to coat your body.

It wasn’t so much that the boxes wrapped in vibrant, pretty, paper were that unnatural (it was Christmas day, after all) so much as it was shocking that you had received them at all, given the circumstances.

This was your first Christmas away from home, the first holiday season spent without the company of your friends and family, and their absence felt like a swift punch in the gut. None of the old traditions and celebrations you were accustomed to partaking in were around to bring you comfort this year, the laid back, pleasant atmosphere that typically encapsulated Christmas was nowhere to be found. Any jolly vibe was replaced by discomfort, apprehension, and a festering disquiet that permeated the air, killing any and all fun normal for this day.

Across from the looming assortment of gifts, each wrapped in varying degrees of expertise, sat your captor Strade, and parked next to him was your fellow captive Ren. Both sets of eyes were drinking you in with great interest, the out-of-place youthful enthusiasm reflecting back at you doing little to quell your mounting anxiety. You shifted nervously in your seat, trying your best to remain calm. You had no idea what manner of sick surprise awaited you in those packages, all you knew was that you were dreading opening them, especially with these two watching. Thinking of what the wrong reaction to their presents may illicit was more stress inducing than the gifts themselves, which already made you feel like you were developing a hernia.

“Well, go ahead,” Strade was the first to speak, his lazy drawl and splayed out body contradicting heavily with the frenzied look in his eye, “What are you waiting for?”

Ren nodded beside him eagerly, “Go ahead, (name)! I opened mine earlier because I was too excited to wait,” he chuckled a little, a small, bashful blush illuminating his cheeks, “And um, there’s a few for you in there from me so… I hope you like them.”

Your eyes traveled from the men, down to the presents. You swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by their façade of innocence, violated by their unblinking stares.

“I-I’m sorry, I just um… Wasn’t really expecting… this…”

It wasn’t a lie, the last thing you could have predicted was a present, let alone multiple. You figured maybe Ren would get you something (he had the luxury of internet access, something you were yet to be trusted with), but it wasn’t even within the realm of fantasy that you may receive anything from Strade. The only thing you dared hope for was a small reprieve from the abuse he inflicted daily, but even that seemed too farfetched to hope for.

“Well, I say you deserve it,” Strade spoke, the calm cadence of his voice still clashing with the gleam in his eye, “what’s Christmas without presents, after all? So go ahead, open them.”

You hesitated for a moment before finally reaching a shaky hand towards the closet gift on the table. Your body was moving mechanically, and though your fear was palpable, you forced your demeanor to remain composed as you pulled the small box into your lap. Your fingers carefully tore through the thin paper, dreading revealing the mystery that shiny paper shielded you from.

And as the paper fell away piece by piece, you were shocked to find that the box contained… slippers.

You stared at them for a moment, dumbfounded. Of all the things in the world that could have been waiting inside that box, to receive something so innocuous and normal was beyond perplexing.

And the gifts continued this way. You unwrapped package after package of clothing, perfumes and toiletries, stuffed animals and snacks. Each new item bewildered you just as much as the last, leaving you feeling like all this was just the lead up of a joke, one you felt like you were the punch line for.

As if the gifts themselves weren’t mind boggling enough, the quantity and quality of them were just as shocking. Brand names and fancy, high end packaging stared back at you with nearly each ripped wrapping, a small slap in the face with each revelation.

It left a pit in your stomach. Not even your own parents would gift you some of these things, so why were you being treated this way by a homicidal maniac and his companion? To make matters even worse, most of the gift you actually liked. Definite thought was put into each present, unnerving you most of all. You didn’t want them to know your likes and dislikes, and you certainly didn’t want them to be so familiar with you that they could easily pick out things you may desire. It felt borderline offensive that they were able to peg you so well, like you had been wrenched open and all the hidden parts of yourself you had been hiding had been forced out in the open, secrets uncovered you wished to remain hidden.

Heebie jeebies aside, such normalcy left you scratching your head. You had an intense urge to inspect each and every item to make sure the clothes weren’t secretly lined with razors, or the stuffed animals weren’t just cute ways to conceal knives, but you contained yourself. No use in setting them off when things were going surprisingly well.

You kept yourself neutral as you thanked them, neither over eager or ungrateful as you graciously accepted the offerings. Ren beamed in recognition each time you mentioned him, delighted by the simplest praise. Strade remained nonchalant, leaning back as he leered at you with that unnerving smile he always so proudly donned on his face.

When the present pile had come to an end, an overwhelming sense of relief washed over you. You felt like you had made it out of a vary harrowing journey without so much as a scratch, and felt quite accomplished for doing so.

However, before you could feel the weight truly lifted from your shoulders, any sense of triumph quickly flew out the door as Strade slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His beady eyes drilled holes through you, delighting in the apprehension his subtle shift caused you. Your blood turned to ice as he gave you a lopsided grin, his words coming out drawn out and slow, as if he were speaking to a child.

“Myyy look at that,” he sneered, “so many nice things for our (Name)! She must have some very generous admirers. It’s obvious she’s the favorite, not a single one of those boxes were for you or me, Ren!”

The weight of your situation suddenly crashed down around you. Of course these gifts wouldn’t come without some horrible caveat-you were an idiot for even thinking you would get away with this scot free.

You tried to calm yourself with the fact that Strade most likely wouldn’t go through all the hassle of spending all this money on someone he planned to kill shortly after. What would be the point? But that thought birthed an even worse fear, the expectation of getting something back in return. There wasn’t a chance in hell that you would be able to provide him a physical gift, a fact Strade was intimately aware of. That left you with one option- he was looking for reciprocation through different means.

You swallowed hard, your hands shaking as you clasped them in your lap, struggling with how to word the imminent question you had.

“Do you want… I mean, should I get you something in return?”

You hated how small your voice sounded, dreading the response your words may garner. A shiver rocked you as the smile on Strade’s face spread, his arms spreading out in a dramatic shrug as he shook his head with a laugh.

“No no, please! The only thing I want in return is for you to thoroughly enjoy your gifts, nothing else is needed. Your delight is a gift in and of itself.”

His words did little to help your dwindling nerves. A sudden harsh clap of his hands made your heart skip a beat, his body pivoting to face Ren with a sadistic smile.

“I almost forgot,” he exclaimed, his voice taking a dangerous edge, “we have one more very special surprise for our girl, don’t we?”

Your attention darted to Ren, hoping for a sign of assurance from him. The beatskin started to squirm a bit in his seat, pulling nervously at the hem of his oversized sweater. He looked over at you with lidded eyes, a dangerous gleam in them that you knew was a terrible precursor of the pain to come.

Ren’s breathing had grown unsteady, the blush that had engulfed his face becoming so vibrant you could almost feel its heat from where you sat. While there was nervousness to his demeanor, he couldn’t quite mask the hints of his exhilaration from peeking through. The guileless enthusiasm was hard to face, causing you to avert your gaze, your heart sinking deeper. Ren was no saint himself, but he was all you had in this hell that masqueraded as a normal, middle class home. He was supposed to have your back (and often times did) in moments like these, but it appeared his demons won this round. The thrill radiating from him over your oncoming misery was perceptible. You were on your own with whatever lay ahead.

With a jerk of Strades head, Ren bounded off the couch to another room, the sound of subtle clanging reaching your ears as he dug around out of sight. You careened your body, hoping to maybe get a peek of whatever the hell Ren had ran so jubilantly to acquire, but you immediately stopped once you heard a chuckle rumble from Strade’s chest.

“My my~,” he purred, the sound causing an instinctive shiver, “so eager this morning (name)! I can only hope you keep that up once you see what the surprise actually is, hm?”

Before you had a chance to respond, Ren barreled back into the room, slightly out of breath and clutching some sort of metallic, chain linked contraption in is hand.

“Sorry,” he lightly huffed, handing the item in question to Strade, “I hid it really well so it took a moment to get.”

Once it was in his grasp, Strade turned to you, holding out the item so you could finally view it in all its glory.

It was a new collar-a dog training collar, to be precise. This one however had been modified, the spikes lining the interior of the collar, while typically coated with a thick, squishy plastic to as not to hurt the dog in their training stage, were missing their protection. The metal nubs that the plastic encased were also typically dull and rounded on most training collars, meant to poke and prod instead of maim and hurt. You would not be getting that manner of gentle encouragement it seemed, your body tensing as you stared at each harshly pointed spike. The needle like protrusions glistened so brilliantly in the overhead light it almost appeared as if the collar was made of diamonds.

You sat perfectly still, in a complete daze as Strade approached you and swiftly released the thick electric collar from around your neck. The cool air hit your sweat drenched flesh, giving you a chill. While it was nice to be without the weight of that vile contraption, the freedom was only momentary as he clasped your new chain links into place across your throat. Though it was much more delicate than your previous collar, for some reason it felt much heavier than its bulky electric counterpart.

You winced as he gave the leash a small pull, grinning when a sharp, shocked cry fell past your lips. The needles hadn’t broken the skin yet, but the action did make you become keenly aware of just much damage they could cause with very minimal effort. The delicate nature of your current standing was looking bleaker with each passing second, uncontrollable shivers wracking your body as you eyed Strade fiddling carelessly with your leash. He seemed pleased by the attention his minor ministrations were awarding him, humored by the pain he could bring you with a mere flick of his wrist.

“I-it looks pretty on you, (Name),” Ren stuttered, a nervous smile complimenting the red of his cheeks, “Kind of dainty, like a fancy necklace. It really suits you.”

“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Strade jeered, fingering the chains that hung heavy around your neck, “I considered one for you too Ren, I didn’t want to make you jealous, you know? But then I figured hell, if I get this for (Name) Ren’ll probably enjoy this just as much as I do, so it’s already a two for one deal.”

Giving your cheek a few mild slaps, Strade turned his gaze towards Ren, “I trust that you’ll take good care of (Name) if I’m ever out and about and you want to have some special fun with her. A little pet time for my pet would do him some good, I think.”

The flippant insinuation made bile rise in the back of your throat.

“Now,” Strade pulled tighter on the leash, prompting you to rise to your feet and stand before the men. He lifted the chain above his head, laughing as you rose to tiptoes to avoid gouging your neck, “What do we say after we receive such a nice present, hmmm~?”

“Thank you,” you choked the words through your indignation, the spikes scratching uncomfortably against your skin as you did so. After several seconds of your balancing act, Strade lowered his hand, granting you the ability to stand normally. You released the breath you were holding, thankful that for at least this moment, you escaped agony.

“So ein gutes Mädchen für mich,” he cooed condescendingly, patting your head as if you were an actual dog, “you are really making me proud! But the fun isn’t over yet, in fact, this is just the first part of your special surprise,” his eyes widened at your obvious despair, “Aren’t you lucky?”

Without further ado he stomped past you, leash gripped tightly in his hand as he led your further into the house. While there was more leeway to the leash than anticipated, you still hustled to follow after him, fearful of the barbs encircling your throat. His whistled as he walked, his demeanor so exuberant that for a moment you felt he might start skipping. Ren trailed behind you, following closely in your footsteps.

It didn’t take long for you to catch on to where you were headed. As you came to stop before the thick, iron door that separated the rest of the house from the hell-hole that was the basement, tidal wave of fear washed over you. Strade took a deep breath, relishing all that was too come, immersed in the anticipation he was undoubtedly feeling. He turned to you and smiled, and you fought to keep a grip on your sanity. Feeling feint, your eyes flicked from him, back to the imposing door. Your heart was banging so violently in your chest from the sheer amount of terror that was coursing through your veins that you worried you may pass out.

How many people had met cruel, agonizing fates down those stairs? How many gallons of blood had dripped down the walls, pooled on the floor, snaked through the drains? How many anguished screams had reverberated off those sound proof walls?

You began to panic as Strade opened the door with ease, wasting no time making his way down. You hadn’t been to the basement since Strade had kidnapped you many months ago and you had hoped it would be a place that you never found yourself in again. It relieved you when Strade had forbid you and Ren from stepping foot down there, one of the few orders he gave that you were actually happy to oblige. Strade only took people to the basement for one reason and one reason only, and the fact that he was so pleasantly dragging you down there right now did not bode well for you in the slightest.

“W-wait,” you called out nervously, grabbing at the chain leash in an attempt to stop his descent. “W-why are we going down here?”

“Because it’s where the rest of your present is,” he answered as if it were obvious, a tinge of annoyance in his voice as he shot you a pointed look, “Now come on.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but a gentle touch on your shoulder stopped you.

“It’s ok, (Name),” Ren’s voice sounded softly in your ear. You could tell he was doing his best to sound reassuring. “We are allowed down there today, Strade said we could as a special treat for Christmas. It’s OK, I promise,” he gave your shoulder a small squeeze, before planting a fleeting kiss to your cheek, “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

His words did little to assuage the overwhelming terror you were feeling, sinking its claws deep in your battered soul, holding you in a death grip. You were past the point of a panic attack, now fearing a heart attack may be what does you in. At this point you wondered if that would be a mercy over whatever awaited you down there.

Forced breathes rattled from your lungs, erratic and strained as you stared into Strade’s expectant eyes, knowing his patience was rapidly diminishing. As much as you wanted to get whatever was coming over with, your legs lost the ability to move, your body denying every command your brain was giving to take the first step.

Hesitating a moment too long elicited a brutal tug from Strade, effectively ending your indecision as you were sent tumbling down after him. You whimpered as you felt the barbs of the collar tear into your flesh. Small rivulets of blood snaked from each fresh wound, dripping down your shoulders, back, and chest to strain the collar of your shirt. As a rare act of mercy, Strade caught you, his thick arm acting as a barrier between you and the concrete you were plummeting head first towards. For once you were thankful to be within the monster’s grasp, a sore chest and aching shoulder from where he grabbed you were far better than any injury you would have attained from the fall.

Consumed by a rush of adrenaline from the tumble, you neglected to realize your hands had latched to Strade’s arm like a lifeline. Embarrassment flooded you, quickly prompting you to release your hold on him. He laughed at the flush on your cheeks, your body jostling along with the rumble of his chest. His hand relinquished its grip on your shoulder, leaving behind angry red fingerprints, as if he had seared your flesh with a mere touch. His newly freed hand moved to tangle itself in your hair, eliciting a whimper as his nails dug into your scalp. Each place his body made contact with yours felt like it was burning.

Without warning, he roughly brought the side of your head to his lips, the stubble of his cheeks scratching your skin as he smashed his face against yours, taking in a deep breath. Excited puffs of breath tickled your ear as he spoke.

“Hurry up now,” his voice was gruff, but the words came out in a sing-song manner, “Don’t start misbehaving now, it would be a total bummer if you had to miss out on this, (Name)~”

With a wistful sigh he released his hold, leaving your momentarily reeling as you stumbled back, trying to reclaim your baring’s. Strade didn’t give much of a chance to do so, continuing on his way with another yank of the leash, forcing you to scramble after him once more.

Your body gave an involuntary shiver as your feet touched the chilly concrete floor. Strade flipped the lights, causing you to recoil at the sudden brightness. Your eyes grew watery as they struggled to adjust, but when they finally did you wished more than ever you could have just remained in the dark.

Though you hadn’t been in the basement since the week of your capture, everything was just as you remembered it. Horrible memories flooded your mind as you took in your surroundings, your brain assaulted by flashbacks of months prior. All the same home appliances and tools still lined the back wall, typically innocent devices most people used for repair jobs and building projects that no one would take a second glance at were this a normal basement. In Strades hands however, they became tools of destruction and torment, capable of the vilest atrocities.

You heard the loud whirring of the freezer off to the side before you saw it, the outdated device still valiantly chugging away as it preserved god knows what on its rickety inner shelves. The noise it spewed was so grating you wondered why he didn’t just replace the damn thing, or at least try and fix it. Near it stood the work table that housed his buzzsaw, looming ominously as it waited patiently for its next use (whether that be for flesh or for wood, who was to say?).

Witnessing these normally mundane items again made your chest hurt, a deep, indescribable level of horror spreading through every inch of your body as you struggled to reacclimate yourself. You were sure this place would haunt you as long as you lived, whether you stood in it or not didn’t matter.

Your throat went dry as you stared at the dark stains that littered the floor, remnants of various human’s bodily fluids. Blood, vomit, piss, and everything else that may leak from a human corpse was so continuous and abundant that there was no hope of the marks ever diminishing. Something told you Strade didn’t seem to mind, however. If anything, seeing those stains probably brought him some level of happiness, acting as pleasant little reminders of all the slaughter he had committed, a trophy for the lives he had stolen.

And there, smack dab in the middle of the basement stood the support beam he had tied you to, effectively barring your escape from this place. Witnessing it again was bad enough, but as your eyes locked onto it your heart started racing once more, your terror hitting unprecedented levels at the realization that there was a body there, tied up and trapped just as you once were.

At first you thought maybe you were hallucinating, seeing some phantom version of yourself your mind had conjured under the extreme stress you were facing. But as you continued to stare, noticing the slight rise and fall of their chest, hearing the small wheezes coming from their direction with each motion, it became apparent they were no figment of your imagination. Long hair fell from their slumped head, obscuring your vision of their face, but judging by what you could see of their body they looked to be around your age, similar to your build. You couldn’t help but wonder if you shared other features, had the same eye color, or maybe a similar facial structure.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Strade picked them because they reminded him of you.

Witnessing another human in this state made your stomach turn. It wasn’t so long ago that you were in that exact situation, and seeing them there helpless and oblivious to what lay before them filled you with the distressing urge to try and rescue them. If you could only run to them, untie their bindings and embrace them, let them know you were there for them and that they would be ok… Stupidly wisheful thinking, but maybe a miracle could still happen and that sweet lie would come true…

You shook your head slightly, dispelling the thought. No, it was all a tragic pipe dream, the fact they were here meant they were as good as dead and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stop that.

“Hey!”

Strade barked, breaking you from the spell you were under. You jumped to attention, your wide eyes turning to him to give him your full attention. His scowl lessened at your recognition, “I know it’s all very exciting (Name), but pay attention when I am talking to you, alright?”

“Sorry,” your mouth barely formed the word, spitting it out so fast you wondered if it was even understandable. You were still in shock from being in such a terrible place, your brain lost in a fog as it struggled to comprehend why you were here, what Strade wanted of you, who that person on the floor was, and if you would make it through the day.

He sighed before stepping closer to you, irritation still lingering in his features. You fought every urge telling you to bolt, your body jolting as he gently patted your cheeks. After a few soft pats to garner your attention his strong hands continued to cup your cheeks, cradling your face in his palms. His skin was warm, the sweat from his hand moistening your skin as his thumb traced absentminded circles across scars he had created.

“Strip.”

The command didn’t register at first, making him lose patience. As you stood stock still his brows began to knit, foot tapping a bit as he waited for you to comply. After several seconds of inactivity on your end, he snapped his fingers in realization, his expression relaxing as something donned on him.

“Oh wait, it’s probably hard with the collar, right? Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.”

From an unseen back holster, he brandished an imposing hunting knife, one that you would remember anywhere. It was the same one he tormented you the day he met you, the feel of it on your skin seared into your memory for all eternity. It had done a brilliant job keeping you at bay when he first imprisoned you, serving him well as the main tool that broke you.

Seeing it again was all too overwhelming, all too horribly familiar. Your body quaked, tears starting to flood your eyes, making your vision waver. Your lips moved, your throat struggling to speak, fighting to come up with something, anything that may stop him from using it on you. But ultimately there was nothing you could force out, so you just stood there blankly, flapping your lips in a failed attempt at self-preservation.

“What’s wrong?” Strade pouted, pulling at your collar, forcing you closer to him. You could barely feel the pain through your terror. “If you have something to say, you should say it. Or are you just so thrilled by all this that you can’t form a coherent thought,” he tutted, “Ah, I know the feeling well (Name), but don’t suddenly go mute on me! I want to fully enjoy all of your reactions, so don’t hold back. Think of it as your gift to me.” You shivered as he placed the knife under your shirt, cutting away haphazardly at the thin fabric, uncaring that he was nicking your flesh in the process.

With his body so near, the only sound you could focus on was Strade’s labored, rasping breathes as they rattled from his throat. He blithely ripped what was left of your clothing from your body, leaving it discarded in torn heaps on the ground. Thankfully he spared your underwear, but as his fingers languidly played with the strap of your bra, you wondered if he wouldn’t also reconsider letting you keep what remained of your decency.

“Tonight will be so good, meine Haustier,” his voice sounded hoarse, thick with anticipation as he hovered over you, nuzzling his face into your hair, “… This reminds me a lot of the night I brought you home. Maybe I am just feeling nostalgic, having you down here with me again, but it’s hard not to get wrapped up in such fond memories.”

He chuckled, “I’m thankful I was able to reel myself in back then and keep you, no matter how much I wanted to do otherwise.” He pointed his knife to the unconscious body on the floor, “This one I brought here today won’t be nearly as fun as you were, so I don’t want you to feel jealous, alright? You’re where you are for a reason, just as they are where they are for a reason. Mein Liebchen, I’m so glad I can share this moment with you...”

He pressed in closer to you, an unmistakable bulge in his pants grazing the exposed flesh of your leg as he did so. You both shuddered at the brief contact, though his reaction was for reasons far different than your own.

“This intimacy is nice, don’t you think? Sharing your passions with those close to you is what meaningful relationships are allllll about.”

He pulled away from you slightly, pressing the blade of his knife under your chin. Wincing at the briefest of contact with the blade, you raised your head to avoid slicing of your chin, stopping once you were eye to eye with Strade. Your noses nearly touched as he took in the features of your face, smiling at the sheer horror reflected in your eyes.

“And I want to remind you just how passionate I can be~”

He spun you around, giving you an abrupt shove. Unable to keep your balance you fell forward, your knees colliding with the stony floor. A hiss of pain slipped past your lips at the contact as Strade kneeled down next to you, tangling his fingers once more in your hair. With a sharp yank, he pulled your head up, directing your attention to the far corner of the room.

With his guidance, your gaze landed on something new. A cage you couldn’t recall ever seeing filled your took up a sizable chunk of the side wall, making you wonder how you missed see it to begin with. How he got such an unwieldy contraption down the stairs previously without your notice was also lost on you. The thing looked far too heavy for one person to easily transport, even if it came in pieces.

It looked incredibly sturdy, each side comprised of thick, imposing iron bars. The cage was moderately sized- large enough for people to sit in, but not so large that it would be a comfortable arrangement. At a glance, it seemed to be made for a dog, but the girth of the bars and thick padlock on the door were completely unnecessary features for a canine, even the largest and most aggressive dog breeds wouldn’t need something so robust to keep them contained. Strade must have had it special made, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who it was made for. You clenched your fists, fighting the queasiness that this new facet of the day brought to the table. You knew the cage shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did, but you couldn’t help but be a bit addled by it. You briefly wondered if there was a limit to how much he would spend to fuel his sick intentions.

The cage sat off to the side, out of the way of the main walkway and slightly hidden behind the stairs so that it wasn’t immediately noticeable, but it was still close enough to the rest of the rooms fixtures that anyone trapped inside would have a clear view or what was happening around them. Which you figured was the point. What better seat for an unwilling audience?

“I originally bought this for Ren, but he was much easier to house train then you were.” Strade laughed, removing his hand from your hair to clap you on the shoulder. He turned his gaze to Ren who stood by the cage expectantly, waiting to fulfill his role in the nights unfolding misery. “Why don’t you show her inside, Ren? Get yourselves all comfy for the show.”

With a quick nod, Ren scampered in before you, giving you just enough room to squeeze in beside him. Nestling in, he turned to you with a strange mix of fear and anticipation in his eyes, patting the area next to you with a small smile on his lips.

“Come in, (Name),” he looked up at you through his lashes, bashful despite the situation he willingly crawled into, “There’s plenty of room.”

Strade gave you no opportunity to refute his invitation, dragging you along the floor by the collar until you arrived at the cages entrance. You gagged as the spikes dug into your flesh, your fingers attempting to find purchase and pull them out. But your grip kept slipping, the blood that coated each metallic link making it impossible to pry away.

At the entrance, Strade quickly unlatched your adjoining leash, pushing the side of his foot against your ass to shove you into the cage, treating you much the same way you would a misbehaving dog. He slammed the door behind you the moment your limbs were barely through the door, preventing you from backtracking. He hastily secured the huge padlock after he did so, effectively trapping you and Ren inside.

“I know you’ll watch, but I can’t trust her,” Strade spoke to Ren, kneeling down so that he was eye level with the two of you, “Latch her collar to the top bar, I want her focused.”

Ren was quick to follow orders, contorting himself around you so he could bind you to the cage. Part of you hoped he would show mercy, sneakily attaching the collar to a lower bar on the cage to give you more breathing room. As you felt the spikes dig farther into your skin that dream dashed from your mind. You choked back a sob as you heard the clasp click into place behind you, Ren planting a fleeting kiss to the top of your head as he did so, his way of begging forgiveness for the pain he was helping inflict

Sitting with your back completely straight, you kept your legs tucked under you, the full weight of your body supported by your knees. The slightest bit of slouching, leaning, or turning your head would plunge the spikes into your already torn up neck, amplifying your suffering. Locked into place, you were left with no choice but to sit at attention.

Maybe you could have unclasped the collar yourself for a bit of reprieve, you were sure after some blind fumbling you could figure out how to free yourself. But stuck behind a formidable lock with Strade on the other side, what would be the point? There was no place for you to run to, and if you disobeyed Strade at this point you were a sitting duck. A heavy sense of resignation settled in your soul. You no longer fought the tears that came to your eyes, letting them freely dribble down your checks to land in soft drops on your lap.

With no hope of escape, that left you with one option to get through this-endure.

“Überraschung,” Strade exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air as he stared down at you with wild, manic eyes. “What a sight this is! I must say (Name), even though your overall your obedience has improved, you still have quite the rebellious streak, don’t you?” He leaned down to get a better view of you, breathing deeply as his face began turning red from excitement, “Not that I don’t like when you get feisty, training and domesticating wild animals is something I take great pleasure in after all. But I have to say, seeing you like this?” He released an elongated, low whistle. “Schön. Keeping you has been worth it for moments like this. You really are a treat, behavioral issues and all.”

He exhaled as he slowly rose to his feet, his eyes never once leaving yours. “This is good, natural even. You belong here, (Name). Chained up like that… You’re right where you are supposed to be.”

His words were shaky, his composure slipping as his tongue trailed his bottom lip. The flush of his cheeks was now also creeping down his neck, ardent lust seeping from his expression. You shivered. Were it not for these bars separating you, you loathed to think what atrocities he would commit against you in this amped up state.

You bit back the retort that threatened to spill from your quivering jaw, biting so hard on your bottom lip you tasted blood. You hated him, loathed him with your entirety, but you also understood that one misspoken word was all it would take for you to be swapped with whatever unfortunate soul was tied to that pole. Despite it all, you still wanted to live. Clinging to the hope that someday you would get the chance to leave this place behind and return to the life that was stolen from you.

Making your freedom a reality was your daily affirmation you repeated to yourself, the one thing that truly kept you going. You made a promise to yourself that Strade would someday turn into nothing more than a horrible nightmare, a dirty smear in your past, and you very much intended to keep that promise. You would someday live out the rest of your life happy and safe, surrounded by friends and family, people you loved and who would love you in turn. Maybe you would even get married, have a kid or two.

Part of you knew thinking that way was foolish, and it usually caused you more despair than bringing you any true peace. But even if it was a silly dream, it was all you had. Strade has already stolen everything else, so you clung to your dream as your only salvation, relying on it as a means of survival.

You had to make it through this, you had to get away and rebuild yourself from the shattered pieces Strade had broken you into. Not just for yourself, but for everyone he had ever murdered and brutalized. It was the only way you could beat him. It was the only way you could win.

“Well, no point in making any of us wait any longer,” Strade announced as he turned on his heel, making his way over to the slumped form in the center of the room. Your heart went out to them as he directed his full attention their way, staring down at them with a crazed, bloodthirsty smile. “This is pretty new for me too, ya know? Usually this is ‘me’ time, moments I can work and enjoy myself with the new friends I bring in in peace. But having a live audience? That’s sure gonna add some thrill to this.”

He turned his attention back towards you and Ren, his face glowing in excitement. “And I figured what the hell! It’s Christmas, right? Why be greedy when I can share in the celebration! Ren already loves watching my little home movies, so I thought, ‘why not do a special live performance for my two favorite individuals?’”

Your body lurched in horror as Strade abruptly kicked his hostage square in the stomach, the force of it waking them with an agonized groan. You gasped as they coughed in pain, spit and blood sputtering from their mouth as slowly they came to. You watched on in morbid silence, a frown spreading across your lips when as you noticed the dawning horror that came over them. They were no longer in an ignorant fog of sleep, fully aware now that something truly dreadful was about to happen to them.

Terrified recognition filled their eyes when they landed on Strade. Instantly they started to cry, whimper and plead, leaving you to wonder just how badly things went down between the two of them before you all ended up down here.

Trembles wracked your body, each quiver faintly clanging the metal of your collar against the cage. How you yearned to deafen your ears, gouge out your eyes, or will yourself away from what was unfolding before you. The mere thought of witnessing the oncoming torture, reliving your own capture through this doomed sod… it was all too much. If given the opportunity, you would have done anything to flee and hide.

But there was no running from this. You couldn’t turn away. You couldn’t do anything at all.

“Hey buddy, calm down!” Strade spoke in a light hearted manner, invading the captive’s personal space as he crouched down in front of them. “Don’t you know it’s Christmas? Since you were looking so sad all alone at that bar last night I decided to play the role of Santa and give you a little gift! I took you in out of the goodness of my heart, because no one deserves to be alone on the holiday, right? And look,” He roughly grabbed their chin, forcing their tear stained face towards your cage, “I even brought friends to assure you wouldn’t be lonely! Pretty thoughtful of me, huh?”

You averted your stare as soon as they made eye contact, unable to stand the sheer hopelessness reflected in their forlorn gaze. Their whimpering and pleading continued, unfettered by the dialogue Strade was droning on. The desperation in their voice as they tried to reason with the most unreasonable man on the planet was making your skin crawl, irritation setting your face into a scowl. Couldn’t they see how amped up Strade was? Were they really so deluded to think their incessant begging would do them any favors? Did they not realize their cries were just exciting him more?

Eventually, you squeezed your eyes closed, wanting a break from it all even for a few seconds. Their naivety was driving you insane- a cruel reminder of the person you once were.

Suddenly, an ear splitting scream pieced the air, causing your eyes to fly open. The blood in your veins turned to ice as you saw Strade’s signature knife protruding from the captive’s leg, his hand still wrapped firmly around the handle, wriggling it further into their meat. The blade was buried deep, deep enough to cause true damage, and the blood that gushed from the new wound quickly gathered in a morbid puddle beneath their legs. If left unattended, you were sure they may bleed out, dying in slow agony.

“Oops, maybe I went a bit too deep there,” Strade nonchalantly spoke, pulling the knife carelessly from their leg. They released another sharp cry at the blades exit, squirming in pain and misery as blood sputtered from the gash. Strade continued to speak, unfettered by the gore that splashed against his leg, “But you weren’t listening very well when I was trying to talk earlier, so hopefully that’ll help you focus. I’ll try and be more mindful though, don’t wanna do too much too soon. You’re the star of the show today buddy, can’t have you dipping out on us before we even get started.”

Strade cut a piece of fabric from their victim’s shirt, tying it sloppily around the gaping wound he inflicted. It wasn’t placed as a means to help them so much as a way to help staunch the bleeding to keep them lucid for as long as possible. If there was one thing Strade hated, it was his fun being prematurely cut short.

“Well,” Strade slapped his knees, lifting himself up to his full height, “Usually I like to get to know you a little better before we get to this point, but what with my special guests and all, we don’t have as much time as I would have liked to become acquainted.”

Your eyes trailed Strade as he walked over to a tripod sitting off to the side. Your eyes widened as he reached for it, setting it up with skilled expertise as he had done so many times before. His captive stared blankly at the camera, clearly confused as to what awaited them. You couldn’t decide if their ignorance was a tragedy or a godsend. If they knew this was their final moment of relative peace before their violent end… Would they try an appreciate it, or would that just bring them more dismay?

After the main camera was set up to his liking, he made his way towards you and Ren. You stiffened at he approached, a new spike of anxiety rising within you as he fiddled with something in his pocket. It was your turn for confusion now, staring in perplexion as he pulled out another small camera, setting it up so that it faced your cage. After some finagling to get it just right, the small red light on it turned green.

“There we go,” Strade smiled, tying his signature bandana around his mouth after he completed his setup, his wide eyes gleaming with cruel intent, “Figured the viewers at home deserved a little special something, too. Smile for the camera you two!”

Shame flushed your exposed body as you did all you could to avoid looking into the camera’s nebulous, black lens. You curled yourself up as much as physically possible, revolted by the realization that other sickos were tuning in, getting off to an impending murder and your humiliation. How many people were on the other side of that small orb, desperately waiting for Strade to begin so they could scratch their fucked up itch? How many pairs of eyes were roving over your barely clothed, bloody body right now, pleased for such an enticing appetizer before they dug into the main course? You didn’t know what disgusted you more, Strade himself or the fact that he had enough ‘fans’ out there that were of a similar mindset, who avidly watched and supported him enough that he could live comfortably off live-streaming his slaughters.

After some brief adjustments (apparently your camera wasn’t focused enough, the ‘fans’ were complaining about not having a clear shot of ‘the bitch’s stupid, sniveling face’), Strade eventually made his way back over to the main camera, flicking it on and checking the feed on a nearby laptop to make sure everything was looking as it should. Once he was satisfied, he hopped in front of the camera, the jovial smile on his face noticeable even behind his mask.

“Frohe Weihnachten an alle! Oh wait,” he fished around in a drawer beneath his laptop, eventually yielding a slightly wrinkled Santa’s hat that he plopped gleefully upon his head. “That’s better! How is everyone doing this fine, festive holiday?”

Strade’s eyes scanned over the chat, laughing here and there as he read peoples responses. “I see you all noticed the new edition to the party. Ren, (Name), why don’t you give the nice people watching at home a smile?”

Refusing to acknowledge his deluded request, you kept your eyes to the floor, focusing on anything else but the situation you were in. Your legs ached from your balancing act, the impression of the cold cage bars long since deeply engraved in your skin. You grimaced when you tried to reposition them, the bastard could have at least thrown a towel in here for you.

Strade responded to a few more ‘questions’ before releasing a low whistle. “Hey now,” he chided, his voice holding a warning edge to it “I’m happy to share my cute pets with you, but some things only I get to see, yeah? Get your minds out of the gutter, the requests for the day aren’t for them, they’re for our latest catch.”

Strade scratched the back of his head, looking towards you with an amused twinkle in his eye. “I think you two may be a bigger hit then our new friend! A little rude to our guest, but I can’t say I blame the masses.” He gave an exaggerated shrug, laughing a bit as he shook his head. “But enough talk. Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

He made his way over to his tool wall, his finger trailing the varying allotment of devices he owned. He stopped briefly, looking back towards the camera with lidded eyes. “So what are you guys feeling? Should we bust out our old friend the drill, or maybe something a bit more colorful, like the new handsaw I purchased the other day?”

The captive began to struggle with renewed intensity against their binds, thrashing about in a final attempt of escape. Their cries for help turned into wailing screeches, screaming and cursing as loud as they could muster in the hope that someone would magically hear them and come to their rescue. You hissed under your breath angrily, wishing they had never been caught, wishing they could spend Christmas with their family, wishing they would just shut up, wishing this would all end.

“Ohhh, we got a lively one~” Strade purred, grabbing a tomahawk off a nearby hook as he eyed chat, “and I agree with the majority here, it’s best to start off slow. Let’s begin with some little stuff and work up to the main event, really taking our time to enjoy this wonderful moment together.” He eyed the tool in his hand, picking at a remainder of a price tag that stuck stubbornly to the handle. “You may not believe me, but I only purchased this little guy to help with some pesky overgrowth in my yard, not to use on my company. Guess it can’t hurt to test out its sharpness and strength beforehand though, can it?”

Your heart palpitated as Strade stalked his way over to his cornered victim, mutely praying that some act of god would occur that would keep them from being decimated. He towered over them, thoughtfully musing on where he wanted to begin, what part of their body he wanted to mutilate first. He absent mindedly tossed the tomahawk from one hand to the next as he considered his plan of attack, sizing up his prey as if they were nothing more than a slab of meat. You struggled briefly against your binding in last ditch effort to shield yourself you from the ‘show’. But like a cruel child jabbing their fingers into you when you weren’t paying them enough attention to them, the spikes gave you a torturous reminder of the position you had been assigned to play in this performance.

Oddly enough, the stab of the protrusions didn’t hurt nearly as much as they did before. Maybe your body was adapting to the cruelties Strade subjugated it to, or maybe you were finally becoming desensitized to everything you had been forced to experience. Maybe someday it would get to the point where you could be completely unfeeling, like a robot just going through the motions as Strade lived out his wicked life, you forcefully in tow. It was almost a comforting thought, whatever adjustments your body and soul had to make to assure your continued survival, so be it.

However, if the pit forming in your stomach and sweat drenching your brow as you watched Strade inch closure and closure to his victim was any indicator, you were sure something inside of you would always hold on to amity, reminding you just how painfully human you were, heart-breaking empathy and all.

‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,’ you chanted in your head, fresh tears carving slick trails down your cheeks when Strade kick their leg, digging the heel of their boot harshly into their stab wound. Bright red bloomed around the fabric covering the wound, their screams growing gravelly the longer they strained their vocal cords. You did your best to hold back the worst of your sobs, rogue sniffles and hiccups escaping despite your best efforts. If there was an afterlife, you hoped that theirs was full of nothing but warmth, peace, and all the things they love. It was the least they deserved for this.

You were vaguely aware of Ren repositioning himself next to you, his head nestling against your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you, shielding you slightly in an almost protective manner. Pressed so close, you could feel that he was shivering, his heart beating a mile a minute as it thrummed against your skin. Whether it was from fear, excitement, or both, you were unable to say.

Strade turned around, giving you one last mirthful glance as he readied his tomahawk over the toes of his captive’s right foot. Though they squirmed intensely, he held a death grip on the limb, keeping them from breaking free. “Make sure to pay close attention now,” desire radiated from his demeanor, voice husky as narrowed eyes briefly roved your restrained form “and don’t feel too neglected over there, I’ll make sure to save some of the fun juuust for you once I finish with our pal over here.”

His eyes darted to the camera, shooting it a look of mock sympathy “For my eyes only of course, you all understand right? Thank you for being here friends, and Frohe Weihnachten für mich!~”

He slammed the blade down. A blood curdling scream erupted from the center of the room as their toes disconnected from the rest of their foot, signaling the beginning of their end.

And you sat like a statue, cold and rigid as your unwilling eyes bore witness to each act of savagery.

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cactikiki · 4 months

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Howdy! And merry crisler!

....okay, yes, it's two days away. But I wanted to post this as soon as I could because I can't WAIT to do so!

As part of the @radioroxx gift exchange, I have a very important surprise for the lovely @pipsqueak216! I've been working on this on and off in an attempt to get it as perfect as possible, and well... writing it jerked some tears. So it should be sweet enough that it does the same to you >:]

You're really cool, Pip. Thanks for sticking around and being one of my greatest friends, I love ya <3

Your gift is this; a Cassie-centric Christmas fic, with many surprises included to boot! Just read the author notes :]c

I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it!

And thank you Pluto for the opportunity to do this. The fact I matched with Pip by chance ended up being so perfect anskhdjfj this was truly the best opportunity to say thank you and also gift something really nice to show my appreciation :]

#radioroxx gift exchange #radioroxx gift exchange 2023 #(in case you ever do another haha)#fnaf #fnaf fic #glitchfics #aftermath #whttb #cassie #gregory #vanessa #tony becker #ellis #3 star fam #superstar duo #superstar fam #they mean the world to me and it really shows in this fic

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hanlimz · 1 year

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synopsis: you always have room for yang jungwon. pairing: jungwon x gn!reader genre/warnings: best friends to lovers!!! / self-indulgent fluff! ig maybe angst if you squint, won compares himself to others, reader talks abt being in pain but it's not real (?), mayhaps this fic is a bit incoherent T_T i wrote this in one sitting that ended at 3am so quality may be a little iffy (sorry :,( , mayb i'll rewrite in the future!) wc: 1.4k a/n: cass write for someone that isn't yang jungwon challenge : FAILED ! nah but fr tho, this pic has a Grip on me n i was possessed to write. but in all srsness, i Am working on other non-won centric fics n they should be out.......soon (?)

[8:36PM] through the lens of your grandfather's old polaroid camera, the sun seems to cradle jungwon's face in her array of rich oranges and deep reds. she places her bright lips on the crown of his head and bathes him in a warm, summer light; her golden fingers reach down to smooth out a few stray strands of his hair while moving slowly to caress the sharp angles of his silhouette. however, the glow he radiates almost manages to outshine her as the peach hues of the sky only serve to accentuate his natural beauty. his cheeks are full and round after a (near) five course meal at your grandparents' cottage, his lips are a delicate pink that matches the swath of tulips outside of your old elementary school, and his eyes sparkle in a manner that mirrors the ocean behind him. and, in mere seconds, you decide that this vacation is one of the best ideas you've ever had.

two hearts healing together as one, each enveloping the other in blanket after blanket of pure, unadulterated adoration. with a gleeful flicker in his gaze that you weren't able to place, jungwon had agreed to accompany you—biking around your hometown while reliving old memories and chronicling stories of youthful grandeur. the tranquility had grown steadily, like the dawn of a new day or the promise of a new beginning, and the certainty of his presence came to be all-consuming and ever-existing.

perhaps, you dare to let yourself believe, jungwon had become your sun. since the fifth grade, he has been the one constant in your life. he was the young boy who led you on a tour of your new school after packing up and leaving the place you called home, and he was the kind stranger who helped you catch up on the topics you missed out on. jungwon was the hesitant acquaintance turned best friend, and he is the one person you want to be with after oblivion plagues the earth. but, drawing too close is dangerous—his heat could scorch your skin while his love turns you to ash. for a moment, you ponder that particular track of thought and allow the train to run its course. perhaps, you correct yourself, jungwon has always been your sun.

"[y/n]!" he calls, beckoning you forth from the daydream you found yourself trapped in, "did you get the picture?" no matter the timbre, his voice is melodic, hypnotizing—it is the perfect addition to the evening's quiet sonata. he sings alongside the croaking frogs and the chirping crickets, welcoming the moon as it takes its place in the night sky.

you reply, trying to push down the sudden panic rising in your throat, "not yet, won—stay just like that!"

the camera clicks as it snaps a photo of the masterpiece before your eyes. upon hearing the sound, jungwon leaps from his position on the rocks and bounds over to watch the film develop. with a gentle tug, he pulls the picture from your grasp; jungwon shakes it and blows on it before resigning himself to the painful reality of waiting. the nerves that were crashing like angry waves against the walls of your stomach become a tsunami as he settles with his shoulder brushing against yours. his touch hurts—his presence, though ineffably beautiful, singes the hairs on your arms and ignites a column of blue flame around your heart. a tumultuous contradiction begins to swell inside of you; the peace jungwon imbues in you fights tooth and nail with the doubt your brain conjures up.

don't get too close.

don't let his fire catch.

don't let yourself be caught.

as the colors turn vibrant and jungwon's form becomes clearer, you attempt to hold everything in—every thought, every feeling, every wish, every dream. but, the walls you've kept up for so long start to break and something is forced to give. unable to will your mouth shut any longer, words spill out before you can shove them back down. "you're gorgeous—i mean, it's gorgeous! the picture, that is. i really love you—no, wait. i really love the way you look in the photo ... the sun was really pretty, the sky was perfect, everything was—"

jungwon's laughter stuns you to silence; he clutches his belly while doubling over at your jumbled mess of a confession. his eyes are closed, and you're almost positive his voice will be hoarse tomorrow with the volume at which he's expressing his amusement. the blue flame has been reduced to embers, but another influx of agony washes over you, cutting deeper than before.

"jungwon ..." you say, voice thick with impending tears, "this isn't f—"

a soft hand is pressed to your cheek. the gesture is tender and loving, conveying more than words ever could. his expression is firm, and all traces of humor have dissipated in an attempt to communicate his true feelings with you. "i love you, too," jungwon replies, rubbing his thumb over the apex of your cheekbone. "i love you, too."

"you do?" you ask, fear prickling like thousands of tiny needles under your skin.

"of course, i do." his answer makes everything seem so simple.

"no—but, i'm saying that i love you, love you. i love you in the sense that i want to spend every waking minute next to you, but i don't want to fuck anything up or make anything weird. i love you so much that my future plans always include you—no matter the way, shape, or form. the house i want to live in always has a room for you—i always have room for you." raw emotion overtakes the usual tone of your voice as the reality of this beachside argument about love and clarity and blurred lines sets in. you want him to understand. you need him to understand.

jungwon pauses for a moment. he takes a step closer to your body; the sweet aromas of blood oranges and limes permeate the air shared between the two of you while hints of vanilla and spice mingle with the citrus. never in the eight years that you've known him has jungwon ever been this forward, but as he gazes at you with two umber oceans—you can't bring yourself to care. "i get it. i swear i get [y/n]—and, i'm saying that i love you, love you, too," he giggles, diffusing the tension in the blink of an eye. "i think i always have, [y/n], but deep down, i'm still just that little fifth grade scaredy cat.

our friendship is one of the most important things in the world to me. i honestly think losing you would kill me. and, i know, i'm not the greatest with words if i'm not reading them from a script. i'm nothing special. i'm not good at things right away like heeseung, and i'm not a romantic like jay or jake. i don't have sunghoon's allure or sunoo's charm or riki's magnetism. i'm just me—good enough to be your friend, but not good enough be anything more."

the anger and hurt have been washed away by the soothing rays of jungwon's light, and you speak softly, "isn't that for me to decide?"

he reluctantly agrees, shuffling his feet as though he wants to pull away. rocks clack against one another, and the cacophony of noise foretells a future in which you let him walk away. so, your body moves on its own, and your hand shoots out to grab jungwon's wrist. surprise is evident in his stare as his eyes flick between your face and where the two of you are connected. with a newfound sense of courage, you pull him infinitely closer to you while relishing in the way his frame seems to fit perfectly against yours.

"you're good enough for me, yang jungwon," you declare. "you've always been good enough for me, and you always will be."

as high tide begins to roll in with the moon, a gentle quietude falls upon the beach. the polaroid photo has long since been forgotten, lost to the rocky shore and the sands of time. the sun has disappeared and her palette of colors has faded along with her, but you are still warm. jungwon cards his fingers through your hair while you find solace in the constant beat of his heart; fire still licks at your skin, cinders still smolder in the pit of your stomach, but there is no room for pain in his arms.

jungwon is your sun, and this time—you let yourself burn.

#enhypen fluff #enhypen headcanons #enhypen reactions #jungwon fluff #jungwon headcanons #jungwon reactions #enhypen #enha fluff #enha headcanons #enha reactions #jungwon imagines #enhypen imagines #enha imagines #enhypen x reader #jungwon x reader #jungwon x y/n #enhypen jungwon

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silverzoomies · 7 months

Text

Monster Mash

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: shameless smut, smut, kissing, porn with plot, halloween, zombies, biting, undead, undead!reader, gender neutral reader, zombie kink

word count: 11,996

a/n: first of three peter-centric halloween fics!! hopefully i'll get them all posted before the month ends!! timeline here is extremely fuzzy, and might not fall in line with canon. it's kind of super ambiguous.

the usual apologies: clunky writing, potentially ooc peter/other characters, inconsistencies, ending's super meh, etc etc etc. idk if peter would realistically be down to bang a cute, zombified reader. but hey, it's fiction. why the heck not!

tag list (i remembered this time!!): @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @icannot3 @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz @scene-and-dandylover @quickandsilvers @luttic @billielourdslays

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October. Just a week before Halloween.

Peter didn’t celebrate the holiday too often these days. Not like he used to. Ever since he took up teaching at the X-mansion, he only participated in a handful of Halloween activities. The staple being - playing escort for mutant kiddos on trick-or-treating ventures. An activity he enjoyed a lot, since the kiddos referred to “Mr. Maximoff” as “the school's most awesome trick-or-treat buddy.” Which had nothing to do with Peter swiping a little extra candy - for the kids, of course - when the other teachers weren’t looking. Swear on his life.

Another Halloween festivity he loved? The school's annual, X-family Halloween party. The team generally left Peter in charge of decorations, considering it took him no time at all to set them up. Professor Chuck himself - legendary baldy - always played host at those parties. As per tradition - after the party died down - Peter cozied up in the living room with the team. They’d gather together to watch everyone’s favorite horror flicks on VHS.

He really couldn’t wait for this year’s festivities. Peter looked forward to those after-party, horror movie marathons every year. Movie nights with the team? Pretty freakin’ awesome. If only for two reasons: The abundance of sugary garbage to snack on. And the way Ororo loooooooved snuggling up with him on the couch. Being so hot natured helped. Living life in the fast lane - operating like a human furnace - sure had its perks sometimes. ‘Ro’s cuddling made an excellent distraction from Peter’s unbridled loneliness. Haha...

C-...Consider that a topic for another day. Moving on.

On horror movie night, Peter inevitably saw the jumpscares coming leagues before anyone else. It never failed. He’d call them seconds ahead of time. With ‘Ro lying at his side, and his arm wrapped around her waist. Peter would exclaim, “Jumpscare!”, breaking the tension heavy silence amongst the group. Spoiling whatever movie played. Everyone hated it, of course. Kurt growled at him. Animalistic, but nowhere near intimidating. Jubilee pelted Peter with popcorn.

Peter just couldn’t help himself. Those scares were so predictable and boring sometimes. Sure, he liked horror movies enough. With all the gnarly gore and twisted kills. But they never freaked him out, since he didn’t spook easily. His incomprehensible reaction time made terror a tough game.

All that being said...

Even with his totally outrageous bravery streak, Peter - guilty as charged - sure had his candy-ass moments.

This current mission proved, without a doubt, one of the spookiest situations he’d ever landed himself in. He could feel it in the air tonight. And not in the groovy, Phil Collins way either. An ominous sense of uneasiness crawled across his skin. Eerie vibes sent chills creeping up his spine like spiders through a web. Peter wished he could fast forward to Halloween night on the couch with ‘Ro. Heck, he'd even take decorating duty over this any day of the week. At least he could go all out, and have his own fun with it.

For an October’s night, the weather seemed uncannily coincidental. Drops of rain showered from a mass of black clouds. A sharp crack of lightning struck the ground, with a roar of thunder following in succession. It rattled the very foundation of the abandoned lab Peter found himself exploring. As part of a last minute, late night mission.

Below his feet, tiled floors laid in disrepair. Dirtying the mismatched laces of his untied sneakers. Peter snuck his way through murky hallways, his heightened senses buzzing on edge. Fight or flight kicked into high gear, making him all the more sensitive to any outside stimuli. Another echoing roar rumbled through the building, threatening to topple its cracking walls. Peter worried the ceiling might cave in at any moment.

A terrifying thought. But it happened to be the exact reason Hank chose Peter for this mission to begin with. Should shit hit the fan, Peter could skedaddle at the speed of light unscathed. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Unlike his other team members, who might risk being flattened like a pancake. Under the weight of, not one, but two floors above.

…Speaking of pancakes. Peter should definitely drop by a mom ‘n pop diner before heading back to base. He could really go for a fresh stack of late night hotcakes right about now. Warm and soft. With chocolate chips melting on the inside. Caked in sticky syrup and slathered with butter. Oooooh! And a little bacon on the side. Not too crispy, not too flop-

His mouth watered, and Peter blinked. Wiping his jacket sleeve across his lips, he redirected his attention to the task at hand. Focus, Quickie. He had a job to do, and he didn’t wanna be stuck doing said job all night.

The lab sat nestled off the coast of some island with a foreign name. Super hard to pronounce. Peter couldn’t remember it off the top of his head. Prior to this assignment, he’d never even heard of the place. But apparently, neither had anyone else. Hank sent Peter in search of what he dubbed leads on a mystery project. Something to do with scientific documents.

If he found any, he’d read their info over to Scott. Who would then relay that same intel back to Hank. Like an insanely boring game of telephone. Why Peter couldn’t speak to Hank directly was anybody’s guess. Too busy with his super secret project thingy-majig, possibly?

Hanging from Peter’s stereo belt alongside his old Walkman, a walkie screeched with a shrill chirp. A shock of alarm shot straight through Peter’s veins, making him jump. Scott’s voice crackled from the speakers.

“Any updates, Pete?” Scott asked, “Tell me anything you got. Even if it seems boring. Just hit me with it. It’s gotta be better than waiting around here in the lab, doing nothing.”

Peter held a compact flashlight in one hand, searching the lab’s pitch black halls. Most of the rooms he passed looked desolate. Barren and dusty. Save for the odd desk or empty cabinet. Peter wondered if they’d all been ransacked when the place closed down. The ceiling leaked rain from the floors above, dripping onto Peter’s bomber jacket. At the edge of his vision, he caught a rat scurrying by. But otherwise, not much else.

Pulling the walkie from his belt, he brought it up to his lips, “Uh. It’s dark and kinda spooky here. Saw a rat. Storm’s not gettin’ any better. It keeps shakin’ the whole place.” Peter shook his head, “If it doesn’t let up, I’m gonna have to split. Don’t wanna wait around to see what happens next, y’know? Over."

On the other end of the line, Scott breathed an annoyed sigh. Even through low-quality speaker fuzz, Peter could tell the sigh lacked any real spite.

“Peter. We’ve been over this. We aren’t using decades old, two-way radio communication. You really don’t have to say over. ”

Peter drummed his free hand on an empty desk. Following the beat of Sweet Poison by Naked Eyes, as it played from the only earbud he wore. He wanted to keep one ear open, just to hear Scott clearly. And mayhaps because he felt the teensy weensiest bit paranoid by his lonesome in the lab.

“Copy that. Over.” He grinned to himself.

The further Peter explored the lab’s halls, thick layers of mucky green seemed to take over. If he had to guess, he assumed Hank didn’t consider masses of moss “key intel.” Every few feet Peter stepped, he tore his way through another wall of cobwebs. Lots and lots of creepy cobwebs. Reduced to undying boredom, Peter took to karate chopping them. Might as well have fun in the face of ennui.

Half second flickers of lightning cast the lab in gleaming flashes. Bringing Peter’s attention to more rooms he missed. He wandered through some old offices. Or what he thought were offices, anyway. The trashed state of the rooms made it hard to tell. Nothing within them had withstood the test of time. Peter even tried poking around with some clunky computers. No luck. Dead as doornails.

“Found some computers. C64’s, I think. Haven’t seen one ‘a these bad boys since forever ago. But they’re totally busted.” Peter reported into the walkie, banging a fist onto one of the computers, “Yep. Busted. Over.”

Before leaving the room, Peter fucked around. Knocking over a computer monitor for no reason at all. He snatched a few, grubby pens from a lone desk. As well as a cracked coffee mug that read “I try to tell chemistry jokes, but there’s no reaction.” Just for the heck of it. Why not swipe some keepsakes, eh?

After what felt like a geological age of scouring, Peter eventually stumbled upon more filing cabinets. Stuffed to the brim with research documents and science-y records. Sighing, he pulled each drawer open one by one. Peter read the dusty files, sharing intel with Scott over the walkie. For every document Scott dismissed, Peter tossed them carelessly aside over his shoulder.

Antsy to wrap the mission up, grab some pancakes, and race home for a game of GoldenEye; Peter rushed through the last few folders. In hopes of finding whatever specific file Hank needed. But upon the last one, Scott broke some totally bogus news.

“Sorry about this.” Scott sighed, “Those files? Yeah. Hank says they’re all duds. No dice. You think it’s safe to keep looking? You might have to check the second floor.” He mentioned, to Peter’s dismay.

Peter bumped his head into the filing cabinet, groaning aloud. With a kick of his foot, he closed the last drawer and trudged onward. Oh well. The speedster could totally manage. At least he brought mix-tapes to keep his mind occupied. Along with extra tapes stashed in his belt pockets for good measure. Without music, he’d be so outrageously miserable on a mission like this.

Shining the dinky flashlight, he scanned the first floor area one more time. Just to be sure. The flashlight’s glow passed a set of double doors, leading to-

Wait. Back it up a sec. Double doors? Quietly singing New Order’s Blue Monday to himself, Peter moonwalked backwards to observe the doors again. Knitting his brows, he blinked. Stumped.

“Yo. Scotty. Got another room on the first floor. Gonna check it out real quick. Over.” Peter reported, clicking the walkie into place on his belt.

Another echo of thunder rattled through the lab, shaking the floors above. Lightning illuminated the halls in temporary flickers of white. Peter stared at the large set of doors, totally bamboozled. He couldn’t comprehend how he missed them before. When he knew for a fact he checked every nook and cranny. Inching closer, he eyed a sign pasted on one of the doors. In a rough scratch of permanent marker, the sign read:

Reanimation experiments in progress. Do not disturb!!

Reanimation? What, like…of the dead? Pfffbt. No way! Could this spooky place get any spookier? Peter swallowed an uncomfortable wedge in his throat. Shaking off any chills threatening to overtake him, he shined his flashlight through one of the door’s windows. Peter scanned the area for anything useful.

Inside, he clocked an operating table. Close to that, a lone cart cluttered with rusty, surgical tools. Cracked computer screens lined one of the walls, more advanced than they should’ve been. At least for the era they originated. Tangled cables ran along the floor, leading to something in the shadows. Peter couldn’t make it out.

He arched a brow, finally locking his sights on - Aha! Jackpot! More filing cabinets. Hopefully, they held his ticket out of this creepy place. Fingers crossed. Peter burst into the room in a flash, kicking up dust in his wake. Tearing through another wall of cobwebs, he surveyed the area again. Making a mental note of every cabinet he could see. Enough to keep him busy for the next hour, he guessed. Peter slumped his shoulders, huffing an aggravated groan.

Talking to Scott through the entire process made it more bearable. Being so no nonsense and straight forward, Scott had no problem retaining the info Peter shared from every file. Which saved the speedster any hassle of repeating himself, or having to explain things he didn’t understand. Science? Not really Peter's area of expertise. He thought himself more of a tech, or music guy.

Luckily enough, Peter found whatever documents Hank sent him after. A deep dive into every folder, in every drawer, in about a dozen different cabinets were all it took. Had Peter aged another thirty years? He sure as hell felt like it. No sweat! Mission accomplished. Time to bid the old lab goodbye.

Peter flew through the rest of the cabinets in less than a second’s time. Triple checking for any intel Hank might find compelling. He skimmed some records documenting the “reanimation of dead tissue.” Hm. Actually, blue beastie might potentially find that fascinating. “Reanimation” of the dead didn’t exactly sound too commonplace in modern science, did it?

In a folder, Peter discovered a file. Clipped with a photograph of - hellllllllooooo there! Someone…kinda cute. Very cute. Peter whistled, piercing the quiet thrum of distant rain. He read on.

Oh. The cute someone. They died. Tragically perished. Hit by a car back in the 80’s. What a bummer. One of the scientist's brought them to the lab as a test subject. Used for some twisted experiment in reanimation. The kicker? They proved to be the lab’s first and only successful trial run. Of around fifty different, reanimation trials. Yikes. That's...a lotta dead bodies.

These scientists successfully revived the dead? Peter doubted it. Over a decade had passed since then, and no one ever used the technology mentioned in the files. This lab's research couldn’t be as successful as they documented. Or something must've gone wrong, for them to give up and shut down the lab's operation completely.

Yeah. Treating human corpses like science fair projects for school? Super warped. Hank, wacky in his science ventures, totally found macabre shit like that interesting. Shrugging, Peter tucked the manilla folders he gathered under an arm. He grabbed his walkie, and reported to Scott.

“I got somethin’ else Hank might be into. It's totally messed up, he'll love it. But-uh…if that’s all he needed? I’m gonna jet now, ‘kay? I can’t take another minute in this scary ass place. Over and out.”

Before making his leave, Peter glanced around the room one last time. He appeared near the operating table in a picosecond, his brown eyes scanning the cart next to it. Curiously, Peter picked through some rusty, surgical tools.

Upon finding a scalpel in fairly okay condition, he swiped the tool and slipped it inside his back pocket. Whistling to Oingo Boingo's No One Lives Forever - in hindsight, kind of ironic - playing from his Walkman, Peter raised a foot to kick the cart. Watching it roll away into a nearby wall. Hasta la vista.

As Peter steered away from the operating table, a monstrous shadow loomed at the edge of his vision. His heart rampantly pounded in his chest, his senses still high strung. Jumping back with a terrified gasp, Peter climbed halfway onto the operating table. He fumbled for his flashlight, pointing the glow at the massive bundle of darkness. The light shook in Peter’s trembling hand.

But it-...oh. Phew! Nothing to be afraid of. Hah. What the heck was Peter gettin’ riled up for?

Like something straight out of science fiction, Peter’s shadowy monster proved nothing more than a giant pod. He squinted, moving towards it until close enough to observe it more clearly. The tech appeared big enough to hold a person of his size. Or, hell, maybe even someone of Beast’s size. Peter ran a hand along the surface of the pod, gathering a layer of dust on his fingertips. Scowling, he shuddered, wiping the dust on his jeans. “ EUGH! Eck-” Peter exclaimed to no one, “What’s up with this dusty, old thing??” Glass encased the outer layer of the large machine. It might've been see-through, if not for the unsanitary grime blanketing the entire thing. Years upon years of soot build up. Peter tried wiping the dust away with his elbow, to no avail. He couldn’t see inside, even with the aid of his flashlight.

Puzzled, Peter darted around the room in a silver blur, searching for clues. A switch of some kind? A secret code? He tampered with everything from the cracked monitors on the wall, to the colorful cables lining the floor. Peter even tried prying the pod open with a rusty hammer he found. Still, it refused to budge. Even with the power of speedster strength. Was it made of adamantium or something?

Sighing, defeated, Peter tossed the hammer away. It crashed into one of the screens hanging against the wall. Shattering the crystal display upon impact. Whoops. Oh well. How much more damage could be done to the place? Not like anyone would be making renovations anytime soon. Not in the middle of buttfuck nowhere island.

Making an accidental misstep, Peter slipped on his untied shoelaces. His ankle entangled itself in a circle of cables on the floor, and he lost his balance. Tripping, Peter stumbled backwards into some busted machinery, knocking his head. His back collided with the hard, metal surface behind him.

“ Auuugh. Shit.” Peter muttered. He didn’t understand how he could be so goddamn clumsy all the time, given - what the professor called - his mutant gift, “Ow. Dammit.”

He must have triggered a switch when he tripped. Suddenly, a loud hiss seethed through the air like a bus braking to a stop. A slow moving cloud of smoke rose from inside the pod. As it spread, filling the room, the fumes turned radioactive neon in color. It swarmed Peter’s nostrils, overflowing his senses with an earthy scent.

“Uhhh…uh oh.” He mumbled, “Is that supposed to happen?” Acting in haste, Peter scrambled to free his ankle from the cable’s tight grip.

A corpse reanimation research lab.

Nope. Noooope. He’d seen Return of the Living Dead enough times to know - whatever the hell’s happening now? Bad news. Couldn’t be good. Peter suppressed the urge to scream like a frightened child. A buzzing voice chimed from his walkie, startling him further. Dammit all, Scotty! He almost sent Peter into cardiac arrest for a hot second.

“Peter? Hey-uh, are you there? You alright? You didn’t stop somewhere for pancakes again, did you?” Scott crackled through the walkie, but Peter didn’t respond, “Better bring enough back for the whole class.” He joked, sarcastic.

Peter gawked at the sight before him in a mix of horror and confusion. Completely petrified, as Oingo Boingo played through his ear. The neon smoke emitted from the pod began to clear, revealing a body inside. A dead body.

Your dead body, to be specific.

Somehow, Peter recognized you. But that didn’t make any sense at all. He knew for a freakin’ fact he’d never seen or met you a day in his life. Unless… oh. Oh, holy shit. He hurriedly grabbed the extra folder he’d taken and opened it, just to glance between you, and the photo inside. And sure enough… The first and only successful trial run in reanimation.

Oh. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Peter’s eyes blew open wide. His stomach dropped twenty thousand feet through the ground, plummeting to the Earth’s core. Swallowing thickly, he observed your slumbering body from his position on the dirty floor.

Your skin appeared ashier than it naturally should be. Y’know, on account of being dead and all. It more closely resembled a subdued, greenish color. Kinda Frankenstein-esc. Stitches lined each and every one of your limbs. As if some psycho nut job took you apart and sewed you back together again. Judging by the info in your file, they probably did. Embedded into your neck, were two bolts on either side. Also very Frankenstein-esc. You reminded him of a wax dummy on the set of some low-budget, horror flick. It’d be kinda funny, if he didn’t feel seconds away from screaming in horror.

You could be a dummy, if Peter had any luck. Yeah. This mission? Surely just a super elaborate prank set up by the team. Like a haunted house tour, made to scare the silver pants off him. Those sly dogs think they’re so slick, huh? ...R-Right?

Peter took a deep breath, keeping his terrified gaze fixed on you. In his ear, the funky tune came to an end. The lab fell into a deafening silence. Only broken by the faintest pitter patter of rain, and a quiet clamor of thunder now echoing at a distance. Signaling the passing of the storm. One less thing to worry about.

Though, he’d much rather agonize over a building’s foundation crumbling. He could handle a weather-related disaster wayyy better than a zombie coming to life, to - potentially - gorge on his flesh.

Raising his flashlight, he pointed the glow at your lifeless body. Again, Peter breathed a long sigh to ease his panic stricken nerves. An interference of crackling static ripped through the walkie then. Loud, and shrill enough to cut glass. At that very moment, your eyes - once locked in eternal slumber - popped open freakishly wide.

Oh. Oh hellllll no. Fuck that. Fuuuuck that.

Peter’s hunch proved totally right. You weren’t just dead. You were undead.

“ Mmmmmm nope.” Peter mumbled to himself, swiftly shaking his head, “Nuh uh. Nope.”

Shaking with adrenaline, he glanced between your dead-eyed gaze, and his trapped foot. Okay! No problem-o! Not a problem at all. For an X-Man, zombies made an easy foe, right? Peter could totally just-...

Just vamoose! Make a break for it! Right now!

Like, now.

Peter hadn’t run away yet. Why hadn’t he run away? Hellllloooo? Ground control to Quickie! Time to make a quick exit, and head for the hills. Lest he become zombie chow.

Stunned, Peter remained petrified. In an uncannily slow movement, you rose from the pod like Nosferatu out of a coffin. Peter cursed under his breath, willing his terror to take a one way ticket outta there. He needed to come to his senses, and fast. Even as Peter tried to move, his paralyzed state caused him to fumble again. His movements lacked their natural fluidity, and his blood ran cold.

Like a total doofus, in his failed attempt to escape, Peter tangled his foot even deeper through the cables. Sometime in the last thirty seconds or so, he dropped his flashlight. Within the inky darkness, he could barely make out your shape as you moved. You groaned a long, croaky sound. Guttural, like an eldritch abomination.

Another crash of lightning showered your living corpse in a white luster. Peter made direct eye contact with you. A gaze between life and death.

A yell vibrated through his lungs and bounced off the walls of the room, as Peter finally screamed. Your slow moving, zombified body climbed from the pod much like a spider. Stumbling at first, you connected your bare feet with the dirty, tiled floor. Once you found your balance, a cracking sound erupted from your limbs. Your bones clicked and popped audibly into place. Peter scowled, physically cringing.

Another scream tore from the depths of his chest, “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!” He shouted.

You dragged your feet in a limp, moving towards Peter with a slow gait. Stitched arms reached out for him in an unhurried motion, “ Luhhhhhhhh- ” You choked on a groggy gurgle.

Fuck. Fucking shit fuck. You definitely wanted to feast on his juicy brains and smooth flesh. No denying that. It had been, like, a decade since you last ate anything. And Peter probably looked like one hell of a snack right about now. Not even in a totally kinky way.

“WOAH, WOAH, WOAH! Hold yer horses there, baby! Yer gettin’ a liiiitttle too close fer comfort now! C’mon, huh? Do you really think I’m on the menu? ‘Cuz trust me. If yer gonna eat somebody? I shouldn’t be yer first choice! I really don’t taste all that great!” Peter yelled, throwing a hand out momentarily before returning to the tangled cables. He huffed an uneasy laugh, “SHIT! Yer not listening, are you? Ahaha! Yer gonna eat me. Totally gonna eat me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-”

Peter tore at the cables wrapped around his foot. Acting as quickly as his petrified state would allow, he pulled the scalpel from his back pocket. But the dull razor’s edge refused to cut through the wires. Dropping the useless tool, he ripped into the cables one more time using all his strength. Only to free himself a millisecond too late. Always late. You lurched forward, making grabby hands.

Quicksilver vs. an actual, real life zombie. If he made it out alive, that’d make one helluva story.

But-

Wait a damn minute. Hold the freakin’ phone. Why were you…looking at him like that?

The glazed over eyes of a living corpse opened up, all big and doe-like. Gazing at Peter in - no mistaking it - infatuated fondness. Your supple lips parted with a wide smile of pure delight. Like sunshine peeking through hazardous, storm clouds. You leapt forward unexpectedly, squeaking a raspy squeal. Burrowing your face into the warmth of Peter’s chest, you linked your arms around his neck. Holding onto him tight.

“What the-” He whispered, looking down at your messy head of hair.

Uh. Okay. So, that just happened. Weird. Why weren’t you feasting on his flesh? Wasn’t he supposed to be your first meal since zombie hibernation, or something? Didn’t you wanna go chomp chomp chomp, and turn his guts into mush?

Peter realized, looking at you up close, you appeared perfectly clean and preserved. You didn’t reek like a dead body. The earthy scent on your cold skin wasn’t too unpleasant either. It smelled herbal. Floral, even. Your smooth skin lacked any signs of rot. Aside from one or two lesions revealing rib or arm bones. Kinda...freakishly cool. The surface of your skin looked see-through, with veins weaving underneath like intricate wiring.

A little spooky, sure. But not all that scary to look at, surprisingly enough. Not like Peter expected, anyway. As you snuggled closer into Peter’s body, he began to realize how oddly affectionate you were. Very out of character, for a zombie. You squeaked an unintelligible noise, attempting to communicate. But you just couldn’t form the words. Maybe your speech capabilities fizzled out after years and years of unending silence.

Peter creased his brows, lowering his defenses and calming himself down. Another thirty seconds passed. His brains remained intact, and you hadn’t made him your next meal. He pulled the earbud from his ear, hooking them around his neck and pressing pause on the Walkman. Craning your neck back, your glassy eyes met Peter’s own. You grinned so big and joyful, gleaming the innocence of a pure-of-heart, golden retriever. Despite being totally bizarre, Peter found your sweetness...sorta...weirdly cute.

“Uhmmm…hi? Hey. Uh-why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” He laughed, a little uneasy.

Maybe your affection stemmed from something simple. If Peter were locked up in a cramped pod for so many years, he’d be ecstatic if someone finally freed him. You were probably just uber thankful he’d broken you outta that pod thingy. And you showed gratitude through touching, since you couldn’t exactly flurry him with thank yous. He could accept that. Sure. For now.

The walkie hanging from his belt droned a buzz, and Scott’s voice called out. Peter finally reached for it, maneuvering between his body and yours. Your arms stayed around his neck, your body hanging like a stubborn monkey’s from a tree.

“Peter? Do you copy? Peter, are you there, man? Talk to us. Please. Should we send someone over to assist?” Scott asked, his voice itching with alarm. “Yeah! Yeah, nah. Uh-hey, Scotty! Hey, I’m here. I’m oka-...dude, it’s fine. Nothin’ to worry about. Seriously. But…I do kinda have a situation here? Over.” Peter replied.

Scott exhaled a relieved sigh on the other end of the line. In the crackling background of the walkie, Peter heard Jean’s voice. She asked, “Did he say over ?” Followed by a series of hushed chuckles. Peter smirked to himself.

“Oh! Oh my god. Thank goodness, Pete. We were all getting pretty worried about you over here. What’s going on? Are you still at the lab? You said there was a situation. What kind of situation? Did that old place finally cave in?” Scott asked. Many, many questions.

Peter heard even more frantic, muffled conversations in the background. While he couldn’t understand them, he recognized the voices. The entire team had gathered, just to make sure he made it out alive. Awww. How sweet. They were worried about lil ol’ him? If Peter hadn’t had the bejesus scared out of him not even five minutes ago, his heart would’ve melted.

“Heyyyy, guys! Uhhhh…soooo…I might’ve found, like, a zombie? No joke. Like, a real zombie. But it’s not tryna kill me. It’s-” Peter paused, raising a brow. You fluttered your lashes, giving him a coquettish look, “Bro, I think it’s makin’ eyes at me. Legit. Kinda weird, right? Definitely not what I was expecting. But it’s totally fine. I got it all under control now. Over.”

A long silence fell amongst the walkie’s noise. Until Scott finally responded in monotone.

“Did we hear you wrong, or did you just say you found a zombie?” He asked, his tone carrying a hint of disbelief. As if expecting Peter to say - Psych! Fooled ya!

Peter parted his lips to confirm. But the abrupt tickle of a chilly kiss on his neck silenced him. You stood up on your bare toes, giggling sweetly. Across his hot skin, you peppered your chapped lips. Instantly, Peter froze in place again. Shudders rang through his body. He reached for one of your arms, tugging you to try and pull you off him.

“Uhm. Y’know what? It’s no big deal. B-But yeah, it’s a zombie fer sure.” Peter tugged your arm with more insistence, urging you to let go. But you persisted, giggling into the crook of his neck, “Like I said. No worries here. It’s not like I’m in da- haaah okayokayokay-”

Your feather light kisses became soft, kitten licks. Flicking Peter’s flesh with your slimy tongue, you squealed, tickled pink. Peter jolted, shivers sizzling down his spine. He tilted his neck to the side, wincing. Over the walkie, he heard Hank’s gruff voice.

“Peter! It’s Hank-” The blue beast said, as if Peter couldn’t already tell based on his growly tone, “Are you a hundred percent sure the undead creature isn’t dangerous?” He asked, buzzing through a scratch of interference.

Coldness slathered and swirled Peter’s neck in slow circles. Fluttering his eyes closed, he replied, “N-Not dangerous. Ohhhh. Definitely not dangerous. No danger here. All good. Over.” Again, he tried to pull you off.

Your discolored arms tightened their hold around his neck and over his shoulders. Cooing noises dripped from your tongue like honey, so sugary sweet. You swiped his skin with your tongue, nuzzling your cold nose into the heated crevice of his neck. Pressing your body closer into his, you squirmed, littering him with zombie kisses.

Peter tensed, apprehensive of your affections. He didn’t want to be too harsh or aggressive towards you. Worried that any sign of conflict might make you snap. For all he knew, you might go bonkers and brain hungry. Really, he should’ve gotten it over with and pushed you away. Before you took things a little too far. And you did. Your teeth sank into his neck, lightly nibbling his flesh. As you pressed yourself even closer into his proximity, your breasts - covered only by a ragged crop top - met the swell of his broad chest. WOOOOOAH! Talk about twisted! Sure, okay, maybe your bites turned him on, like, a little. Flooding his body with a pleasant, all-over shudder of pleasure. But he couldn’t just fold for a zombie, could he? That’d be disgusting!

It’d be gross, right?

A subconscious desire in the recesses of his lonesome mind told him he wanted - no, needed - the attention. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone like this since the pogs fad. Easy, now, Peter! Down, boy.

But…shit. As much as he wanted to give in, he couldn’t. Not for a monster. A living corpse, left cooking in a secluded pod for a decade. Cloaked in discoloration and held together by expertly crafted stitching. Not entirely mindless, but so dense, you hadn’t the forethought to ask - “What happened? Where am I? Who are you?” No. Instead, you went after him the moment you saw him, showering him in bubbly, zombie lovin’.

He…shouldn’t find that hot. His fingers shouldn’t be tightening around the walkie, and his groin shouldn’t feel as scorching as it does. Oh, man. Could Peter be any more doomed? He’d have to be mad desperate - way out of his mind - to reciprocate your affection. Raising the walkie again, he cleared his throat.

“Hiya, Beastie. A-Acutally, I think they-...the zombie really, really likes me.” Peter added for no reason at all. You nibbled him a little harder, and he winced again.

“Well, now! That’s good then, isn’t it? Better than the alternative, I’d say! If at all possible, Peter, you should bring the creature with you. I’d like to look it over. Maybe run some tests. Figure out what brought it to life! This could be the secret to reversing brain death!” Hank chimed, excited.

Peter rolled his eyes. Of course Hank wanted to poke and prod at you like some little, lab rat. He opened his mouth to respond, but choked before he could get a word in. Your dull teeth clamped roughly into his neck. Peter braced a free hand on your hip, his thumb digging into the cool, exposed flesh there. Now, suspicion began to dawn on him.

You could be a clever, little zombie. Capable of luring Peter in with flirtatious wiles and sweet touches. Once he let his guard down, what if you planned on tearing into his guts? Well played, smarty pants zombie. Well played. But Peter caught onto your little game. You couldn’t get anything past him.

Instead of slurping his blood like a 7-Eleven slushie, or ripping your nails into his taut muscles; you suckled his skin lovingly. Pulling tiny hickies into his neck. Squealing and giggling in that girlish fashion, playful with every nibble. Peter gulped, biting his lip between his teeth. No way in hell he allowed a zombie to give him hickies.

…Except he did. So what? No harm in it, right?

“Y-Yeah. Sure. I’m good. Great. Just hangin’ out with my new zombie buddy. It’s totally not gonna eat my brains. Like, zero percent chance I’m gonna die an ugly, zombie death. So, y’know, Beastie, don’t lose any sleep over it.” Peter responded, before following it up with a condescending, “Over.”

On the walkie line, Peter heard a series of groans and faint giggles. Followed by Hank’s voice, as he passed the walkie back to Scott. The X-Men’s laser eyed leader sighed, his tone unamused.

“Whatever, Peter. Just…just hurry up, will you? And bring those documents over for Hank. Thanks.”

Peter tried, and failed to keep his composure. A cutie pie zombie kept macking on him like a lovesick puppy, and he had no clue what to make of it. You sucked more sloppy, violet marks into his neck. Tugging his skin with your teeth and nibbling like you couldn’t get enough of him. Peter’s skin flared up in cold creeps, as you trailed your chilly lips to his shoulder. Pulling his jacket and the collar of his shirt aside, you spoiled him in more undead affection.

“Gotcha. Copy that. Ov- mmm -” Peter whispered a moan, replying with a rushed, “Overandout.”

He clipped the walkie back onto his belt. Attempting once more to pry you off him, Peter gave your arm a strong tug. A little more forceful this time around. As you finally dislodged yourself from his neck, Peter took a few steps back. Avoiding any stray cables on the floor.

Now, with some distance between the two of you, he cleared his throat. Peter brought a hand to his neck, grazing fingers over the love bites you left behind. Tiny splotches of purple pooled with offsets of scarlet. Faint teeth marks left grooves in his skin. He hissed.

Giving you the freedom to pepper him with hickies might not have been the smartest idea. Hopefully, you didn’t infect him with some sick, zombie disease. One with the potential to end humanity as he knew it. He couldn’t cope with the weight of that responsibility on his shoulders.

You gawked up at him with those big, adoring eyes. Excitedly, you squealed, hopping towards him with your eager arms outstretched. Hoping to pull Peter into another close hug, just so you could litter him in more nibbly, love bites. He raised an abrupt hand, maintaining distance. Peter cleared his throat again. His cheeks burned hot, doused in bright pink.

Totally not fair, the way an overly affectionate zombie got him blushing.

“L-Listen. Uh. Yer sweet, but-” Peter started. Subconsciously, his gaze drifted down your body. He observed the stitches sewn into your neck and limbs. His dark chocolate eyes followed the rips and tears in your skimpy shirt. The flimsy garment revealed a tiny peek of your - admittedly pretty - breasts. And Peter swallowed, his throat running dry, “Uhhh…you can’t keep doin’ this, okay? The-” He wiggled his long fingers, gesturing to his neck, “The hickie thing. If yer gonna come with me, we gotta lay down some ground rules. Alright? You get me, babe?”

You tilted your head to the side, blinking slowly. Gazing at Peter with a look that told him you didn’t understand. But you didn’t seem to give a shit either way. You reached for one of his hands, a dazzled smile curling into your lips. Purring a candied noise of affection, you brought his hand to your cheek and nuzzled his palm. Your lips gently kissed each fingertip. Peter pulled a face, knitting his silver brows.

“Why’re you so damn-” He shook his head, “Whatever. Listen. Can you, like, chill out? No biting, you understand?” Peter paused to make a chomping gesture, clicking his teeth. But this only made you giggle. Which, unfortunately, he found super infectious.

Peter chuckled, scoffing playfully, “Stop that! I’m totally serious! No biting. No licking. No kissing. Like this. You see this?” He gestured to the hickies on his neck, their trail leading under his shirt, “No more ‘a that, you feel me? I dunno how I’m gonna explain this to the crew back home. They’re gonna think we got, like, freaky ‘er somethin’. Yeah. Can you imagine that? Like I’d ever fool around with-”

Fluttering your off colored lashes, you tilted your head to the other side. You parted your chapped lips, squealing as you edged his fingertips into your mouth. Pressing the salty pads to your bitter tongue.

“Oh! EUCK! Gross! Don’t-” Peter scowled, jerking his hand from you in less than a millisecond. With a horrified look, he observed his fingers as if they were germ-infested specimens, “Yer a real weird one, babe.”

His guard fell. While Peter kept his perplexed eyes on his fingers, you leapt forward. Burying your face deep into the fabric of his shirt, you squealed. Gleeful and bubbly. Peter groaned, only half-annoyed. He made a move to push you off him again. But your precious, little purring noises changed his mind. Peter couldn’t find it in himself to put his foot down.

Turns out he had a weakness. Cute, overly affectionate zombies. Who woulda thought?

Whatever. Peter had wayyy more important things on his plate. He knew he should gather up those folders he dropped, along with anything else he lost during his freak out session. Once he did, he needed to get the two of you out of this dingy, old lab asap.

“ Mmmmm …n-need…” You hummed your first word, before squealing, “Loooooove~!” Your voice strained, rattling like you’d been pounding down cigarettes by the plenty.

Peter’s eyes widened, and he let his sizeable hands fall to your hips, “Di-...wait a sec, did you just talk? Holy shit! You can talk?” Peter asked, dumbfounded, “Woah! Wow. Uh…so…you got a name? Can you at least tell me yer name?”

Your case file hadn’t listed your name, leaving you reduced to a number. Pretty messed up, if anyone were to ask Peter. Either you still didn’t understand him, or you couldn’t remember your own name. Instead of giving him an answer, you nuzzled your face in his chest. You tittered, so soft and smitten, your ragged voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Cold, tiny zombie hands tickled the back of his neck, raking gentle nails down his torso.

Standing on your toes, you connected your cool lips with his neck all over again. You kissed your previous love bites, as if doing so would heal them entirely. Ashamed of himself for letting it happen, Peter stifled a groan.

"Y-...You don't remember yer name, do you?" He mumbled. Peter's strong arms wrapped around your back, pulling you in, "That is...a seriously messed up situation. But, hey, I'm here fer you. Don't worry, 'kay? We'll get you to a safe place, and you can start over there. Sound good?" His caring nature shined through. But male horniness abruptly overshadowed it, as your wet tongue tickled his skin.

A guilty part of him, overrun with sympathy, felt bad for you. Those scientists hadn’t treated you like the victim of an unfortunate accident. More like a toy. Meant to be ripped apart, played with, and abandoned. It seemed wrong to perceive you in a frisky light. But then again…you wanted love. You may as well have been begging for it.

Love. One of the first words you spoke since your undead coma. Not that much of a surprise, if he thought about it. As a science experiment, loneliness probably consumed you. Even before your decade-long slumber. In a way, Peter understood. He too felt haunted by a longing for affection for far, far too long. In his mind, that made the two of you kindred spirits.

Ahhhh …dammit. Peter just couldn’t resist you and your sweet wiles anymore. His self control steadily slipped from his weakened grasp.

“ Mmmmm! Wa-....waaaant…love~! Neeeed… mmm …lo-....love~!” You squeaked, your cold tongue curling over a fresh, purple mark.

“C’mon, baby. We can’t-...you really have to stop this. We gotta head back to base, like, now. Everyone’s waitin’ on me, and I-” Peter muttered, and you pulled back. Gazing at him with that mystified, doe eyed look. Like you saw the beauty of the cosmos in him, and him alone. Your lips sparkled, wet from your lovin’. Peter clutched your hips firmly. His jeans seemed...somehow tighter all of a sudden, “Would ya stop lookin’ at me like that?”

“Looooooove~?” You cooed, your voice taking on a lustrous, but groggy tone.

“Yeah. I know. But…” Peter sighed, letting his hands feel up and down your curvy sides, “Yer gonna get me in soooo much trouble. But, fine. You win, okay? What kinda love are we talkin’ 'bout here, babe? You wanna hug? Want me to-uhm…to plant one on you? Is that it?”

You perked up then. Peter took it as a sign you understood him, more than you let on before. He arched a brow. At this point, why even hold back? Because you were dead? So what! Who ever said zombies couldn’t be smokin’ hot?

If he messed around with you just a little, no one would ever know. Which…made the concept even more enticing. You could be his little secret. An affectionate secret he’d forever bury in the ground. In place of the grave those scientists never gave you.

Peter fluttered his eyes closed, finally giving in to your closeness entirely. Lowering his big hands, he grabbed your ass. His palms squeezed over the torn, booty shorts you wore. Never did he imagine - upon exploring some horror movie, science lab - he’d feel up a cutie pie corpse’s plump bottom by the end. What a way to end a mission. Life worked in some wildly bizarre ways sometimes.

Kissing a zombie? Not as gross as he thought it’d be.

Okay. Maybe for, like, half a second. But the earthy taste on Peter’s lips didn’t faze him much. Once he pushed past the initial ick, he embraced you fully. Peter decided he didn’t give a flying fuck how unsanitary zombie smooches might be. Uncoordinated lip motions lured him in further. Pinkish teeth grazing his bottom lip between kisses. Soon enough, they turned sloppy, and Peter found himself frenching the living dead.

Zombie make out session. An experience he hadn’t planned to check off his bucket list. But now, he could.

One of his hands gripped your ass. While his other held your face and pulled you in for more tongue action. In the midst of swapping spit, you sought every opportune moment to nibble him. Peter couldn’t help but be super into it. You mewled softly, giggling when he gave your booty a hard squeeze. Chuckling, he parted from your lips to look over your greenish face. Your eyes bulged so big and wide, pupils an off-grey color and impossibly huge. Wonderstruck by his very existence. Darting down to capture your lips again, Peter stumbled forward. He guided your body towards the operating table, knocking you into it. Your hips collided with the edge, causing a loud, vibrating clang. The rough motion worried him enough, he stopped sucking face just to confirm you were alright. Peter feverishly kissed your cold lips, his hands exploring your body. Feeling stitched skin under his fingers.

You pulled from him with a joyous squeal, but Peter followed. Confused as to why you stopped, until you dove for the untarnished side of his neck. Dull flats of your teeth chomped straight into his flesh, grinding a little too roughly for comfort. Peter winced with a start, ceasing his love on your bootylicious bottom.

“N-No! Noooo! Hey, baby, look at me.” Peter snapped his fingers to get your attention. Not that he wanted to be so demanding. But you needed to understand his boundaries, before you tore into his flesh and guzzled his blood. Instantly, you reacted, retracting your teeth from his neck. You moved to make eye contact, and Peter fixed you with a soft gaze, “What’d I tell you, huh? Look, it’s not that I can’t appreciate some neckin’. 'Cuz I totally can. And I really dig it. Like, a lot. But you can’t be munchin’ on me! Really freaks me out when you do that.”

You angled your head again, curious. Doe eyes gaped at him with fluttering lashes, innocently confused, “ Mmm. Giv-....Giiiiive…love?” You croaked, pawing at Peter’s chest over his shirt, acting so needy.

He couldn’t begin to understand what you meant, or what you imagined love to be in your head. Were you really so desperate to bite him? Or, were you asking for something else? Wanton, bedroom eyes dawned your pretty face. Plush, ashy lips parting. You pawed his chest again, your blunt nails scraping across his shirt. In your desperation to communicate your-uhm…needs, you jutted your hips forward into his jeans. “L-L…Lo-” You started, throaty voice oozing innocence. Though, the look in your lidded eyes betrayed said innocence, “Loooooove. Need. P-Please?”

Peter’s eyes popped open, as realization dawned on him. Oh. You meant you needed-... Ah. He understood now. The unreasonably cute, living corpse he found - dormant in a pod for, like, a decade - wanted to bump uglies. Great. Awesome. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? Fulfill your unbridled desire? C’monnnn. Didn’t boning undead cuties come with any moral implications? If he took you to pound town, would that make him a necrophiliac? Peter really didn’t wanna be labeled a necrophiliac.

But hypothetically, what if he admitted his own desperation to himself? He always fumbled every time he tried to step up his game and woo the ladies. Not like he had any game to begin with. And tonight, there you were. Practically begging for him to take you. He should acknowledge the fact that, yeah - no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise - he found you very hot. So, ludicrously hot. Zombie traits and all.

And regardless of how many times he second guessed himself - at the end of the day - his dick didn’t have any qualms about zombie hanky panky.

Peter’s hand traveled up, thumbs curiously tracing the rough lining of your neck stitches. Before toying with the rusted bolts an inch or two above. Testing if you could even feel it. You didn’t react, and Peter wondered if scientists used those bolts to revive you. Did they awaken you Frankenstein style, with sharp surges of electricity? Or did you come to life by other means? A glowing, reagent liquid, maybe?

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, Peter tugged the front of your loose top down. A pair of off-green, zombie melons jiggled freely. Stitches circled each breast, and Peter may or may not have thought they looked hot as fuck like that. Call him inhumane, but he really dug your whole monstrous babe aesthetic.

His hands kneaded the softest pair of undead knockers he ever felt, making you squirm under his touch. Peter grinned, pleased with every choked squeak leaping off your lips. He flitted his dark gaze up to your face, then back down to your breasts; back and forth, back and forth. Admiring the delicate expressions you made, your precious face scrunched in pleasure.

“Damn. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are? ‘Specially like this.” Peter chuckled, pinching and twisting your perky nipples, “Bet those bad guys never did. Sucks fer them. Yer a total babe. And sooo fuckin’ cute. Makes me want you all fer myself.”

Sooooo…about your…cooch situation. Yeah. Uh…Peter might’ve been somewhat worried about that. Taking your condition into consideration, he felt himself overcome with hesitance. Fearful that your-uh…flower, so to speak, may have withered away after a decade of darkness.

What about diseases? The thought made Peter squeamish. Even though you appeared and smelled relatively clean, you still hadn’t showered in a long freakin’ time. Then again, protection existed. Not to mention, you were so, so needy and cute. Your body looked undeniably amazing, and felt so soft. Fuck it. With some reluctance, Peter willed himself to test the waters. For your sake, but also for his own. Just to make up for the years he spent wishing he could get laid again.

A win-win for you both.

Tugging your tiny shorts down your smooth thighs - finding a little struggle along the way, since the meat of your thighs proved an obstacle - Peter snuck his fingers under the hem of your worn panties. The millisecond before his fingers met the supple curtains of your pussy, he second guessed himself for the zillionth time. Peter’s subconscious doubt pestered him enough, he almost withdrew his hand completely.

But the precious whimper you made gave him enough encouragement to keep going. His thick digits cautiously braved forbidden, undead territory. Finding an overabundance of cool, silky wetness between your lips. Peter swallowed hard, knitting his brows as he scoured for your clit.

“Jesus, baby.” He muttered. Judging by your bubbly squeak of delight, Peter assumed he found what he’d been venturing for. Leaning slightly forward into your proximity, Peter circled your stiff, little nub, “You want it bad, don’t you?”

“G-...G-....Gooooood! Mo-....More? More!” You mewled, clenching fists into his shirt. Mindlessly, you canted your hips, seeking his crotch. “Hey, it’s whatever you want, pretty.” He mused with a smirk, voice tender, “Relaaaax. I gotcha. I gotcha. ”

His fingers drew downwards, teasing for a beat before cruising into your silken entrance. Lush, deathly cold walls welcomed his digits in a loving hug. Beckoning Peter to sink them in deeper. You held his shirt like a lifeline, moaning an angelic, rattle of a noise. Pulling you closer into his warm body, Peter lowered his head to your shoulder. Thin strands of silver hair tickled your cheek. His thick fingers curled, hooking into a cushiony spot inside you. Your near-empty eyes saw hot flashes of light.

“L-LOOOVE~!” You whimpered through hitched cries.

“Mhm?” Peter laughed, impishly nibbling his lip, “Feel that lovin’? Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?”

Keeping you distracted for a temporary moment, Peter dotted your neck in warm kisses. Subtly easing his fingers in and out of your velvet pussy at a quicker pace. Your knees buckled, trembling the faster he moved. Until his motions became brutal. With a perfect curl, speedy digits rammed repeatedly into that spongy spot you loved. Your sugary sweet, unintelligible whines rose in volume, as your sticky, little, zombie cunt quivered.

You gnawed powerful bites as you came, your teeth digging into Peter’s neck. But this time, he allowed it. He forced himself to muscle through the pain, holding your shuddering body close, “ Shhhh. Shhh. It’s cool, baby. It’s - ahh - it’s cool. That's it.” He cooed with a careful tone, stroking the back of your head and threading fingers through your ragged hair.

Easing his fingers from your cunt, he double checked the digits, making sure nothing seemed off. Your release felt thicker and stickier than any living person’s, but didn’t have much of a scent. While usually he looooved to taste the aftermath of a total cutie’s orgasm, Peter opted not to. Sure, your wetness didn’t appear radioactive or hazardous. But the thought of guzzling zombie honey put him off a little bit.

“G-....Goood?” You ogled Peter with half-lidded, glassy eyes, your lips parting in an irresistible giggle.

Peter bit his tongue. Alright. Maybe he…could give it a shot. Just this once. Zombie love liquor couldn’t be deadly or anything, could it? Disease-ridden, maybe. But Peter knew a hyper-intelligent doctor who could whip up a cure for most ailments. Guess it didn’t matter anymore. By the time Peter second guessed himself yet again, he’d already sucked his fingers clean. A bitter thickness lingered on his taste buds. Peter salivated at the thought of drinking down more.

“ Mmmm … mhm …not bad.” He chuckled, lips humming around his fingers, "I'd go fer seconds." He added with a wink, making you laugh.

Yikes. If Hank only knew how reckless Peter acted in the presence of some zombified cutie. He’d lock him up in the infirmary and run a thousand tests on him. Just to make damn sure Peter hadn’t contracted anything lethal.

Politely pushing you off him, Peter turned his head. He double checked the perimeter for any signs of life, despite the lab being totally desolate. Hopefully Summers hadn’t sent anyone after him, since the speedster took way too long returning to base. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulled his hard length from the fly. Almost immediately, you gasped in elation. Tickled squeals danced on your discolored tongue. Thick, and flushed a dark scarlet, Peter’s cock throbbed in his hand.

"I'm guessin' you like what you see?" He snickered, giving his dick a firm stroke, "I like what I'm seein' too...if you couldn't tell." Every word Peter said, every charming smile he gave, seemed to attract you considerably. Drawing more kittenish giggles from you.

With your freezing, zombie mitts, you ungracefully reached for him. Cold fingers squeezed his cock, stroking in a clumsy motion. Peter drew in a sharp breath, the cool sensation of your hands arousing his nerves. Even if your hand to gland combat lacked any skill, it felt damn awesome to be touched like this again. He stepped forward, his giant hands grabbing your hips. You played with him as much as your little, unbeating heart desired. Tugging his burning hardness with an overzealous grip.

You tried lowering yourself to the floor, your mouth falling open, tongue gliding over your lip. But Peter instinctively stopped you. His hands darted to your shoulders, pulling you into a standing position. He preferred if you didn’t take your biting addiction downstairs. Visitations of the oral variety were closed to any undead visitors. At least, for right now.

“Y’know, I don’t usually like goin’ all the way on the first date.” He spoke, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, “Like, call me an old soul 'er whatever.” Peter worked quickly, pulling a condom out of his wallet. He slipped the latex over his length, “But I can make an exception. Just fer you, cutie. But this stays between us, yeah?”

You nodded, pushing yourself up onto the dusty, operating table. Peter cringed, curling his lip out of concern for you. This couldn’t be sanitary. Dragging his attention from the filth under your bottom, you parted your knees. With your body angled backwards, you pointed eagerly at your panty-clad pussy. Soaked and dripping under the thin fabric. Peter’s breath hitched.

“Looooooove~? M-Ma…make?” You cooed, scooting a little off the edge of the table. As if tempting him to give in and fuck you already, you wiggled your ass. Like a beautiful, monstrous display of stitches and postmortem skin. All for the speedster's taking.

"I-I mean-uh...sure. If you really want me to. What kinda guy would I be to turn you down?" He awkwardly joked, fighting his nerves.

Peter pushed a strong hand against your inner thigh. Warm on your deathly cold flesh. He pulled your thin panties to the side, teasing your glossy slit with the head of his cock. You whimpered, cute noises bubbling in the back of your throat. Edging you for a beat more, he slid the teary eyed tip over your clit. Before sinking his length through your walls. Inch by pulsating inch, he bottomed out in a flash, tip kissing your cervix.

“ Wohhhhh, fuck.” He groaned. A new kind of coolness enveloped his cock, plushy and soft. Hooking your stitched legs over Peter’s shoulders, you tilted your body. Inviting him to submerge as deeply as your tight cunt would allow, “Oh, baby…yer so-...ah, fuuuuck. ”

"G……..Goo-......Gooood~!" You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut. Your strangled voice erupted in a mantra of lustful squeals.

By some act of divine intervention, Peter could feel the swollen, unyielding lusciousness of your pussy. Walls wringing his cock, like you wanted to suck him dry of everything he had. He swiftly rutted into your cunt, hard enough to make you bounce against the table. Peter’s sluggish eyes followed your breasts as they bobbed. Titties jiggling with such a soft, sexy whirl; He felt his cock twitch inside you.

Leaning down, Peter loomed over you, the rough fabrics of his clothes sliding along your bare skin. He kissed you tenderly, a little heedless. In the midst of fondling your precious, stitched breasts, Peter's hot palm curiously pressed against your chest. Feeling...nothing. No heartbeat, no blood flow. A little spooked, he refocused his attention. Playing with your bouncing, zombie titties again.

"Feels so-...you feel so good, holy fuck -" He moaned, his voice catching in his throat, "So pretty. L- ah ...love how tight you are." Playfully, Peter lost himself in the moment. He pulled a nipple between his teeth, suckling one of your Frankenstein tits, "Loooove these zombie boobies. Hah -oooohhh, shit-"

Lying in slumber for a decade must have left you majorly sensitive. In just a few more, aggressive, bunny humps; you came again. Hypnotic delight burst through your core, pushing you to the point of tears. Your pussy fluttered, sticky wetness gushing around his cock. Reaching up to link your arms around his neck, you clawed little etchings into his skin.

“M-Mmmmmooore~! More, mmm- ...more~!!” You pleaded, coaxing Peter to drill you with all the energy he carried. Not to toot his own horn, but - little did you know - he harbored enough energy for a hundred men. And then some.

"You w- fuck -want more? Want more, baby? God, yer gonna make me-" His voice wavered between moans, "G-Gonna make me lose it-"

Peter’s mischievous eyes met yours, as you gave him that doe eyed look he couldn’t fucking resist. Sharp jabs of his cock sped to a blur, slamming into your cunt in a brutal display of his strength. Keeping himself balanced, hands pressed to the table on either side of you; Peter showed no mercy. Abusing your precious, syrupy walls with a ruthless pace. But not fast enough that he’d tear his means of protection. A harsh surge of heavenly pain flared up inside you, as he tore into your pussy and bashed your cervix.

"LOOOOOVE~! Ah~! Peeeetur~!" In a moment of post orgasmic clarity, you called his name. Slurred, and barely recognizable. How'd you even know? Had you picked it up from his walkie conversations? Damn, his zombie buddy's more perceptive than he thought. Peter snickered, finding your pronunciation ridiculous. But the cute, needy sound of his name on your lips triggered something.

" ’Mgonnacum- ” Peter whined, his brutal pace more inconsistent and sloppy, “Gonna-...feels too good o h fuck oh fuCK -”

A pearly white burst of thick heat stuffed the latex of the condom full, threatening to make it pop. Burying his nose deep in the crook of your neck, Peter moaned. Guttural whines ripped from his chest, drying his throat. Panting - not from exhaustion, but overstimulation - Peter loosened his muscles. In mellow, post nut bliss, he almost overlooked the sizzle of static buzzing from his walkie.

“Peter? Peter, answer me right now. So help me god. Everyone’s worried sick about you! Do you read me? Peter, I said, do you read me? Please!” Scott pleaded through a mix of agitation and genuine distress.

Peter drew out a long, hard groan. Pushing himself up a little, he fumbled lazily for his walkie. A sluggish grin curled into his dimples, as he nibbled his lip and winked down at you. His eyes half lidded and hanging heavy.

“Mmmm…’M fine. ‘M fine. ‘M fine.” He chuckled, overcompensating for himself. He knew he’d be in mega trouble with the crew by this point, “It’s all-uh…all good. Jeez, Summers. Did ya think I was dead ‘er somethin’? Haha…” Peter drolled, his tone slower than usual. He withdrew his softening cock from inside you, watching while you squirmed. On your back, you appeared a blissful, fucked out mess. Ultimately satisfied. Mission accomplished, “Don’t worry so much, bro. I was only takin’ my new, zombie buddy out to-uh…tooooooo…an arcade. Yeah. An arcade.”

On the other end of the line, a silence fell. Peter filled it with an, “O-Over.” to compensate again.

“...You took the zombie…to an arcade?” Scott responded, an edge of irritated disbelief in his tone, “Peter, are you out of your damn mind? Do you not realize how much of a risk that is? I can’t even-...your priority for this mission was to retrieve those documents for Hank. Doesn’t it seem irresponsible to be dragging an unknown, undead creature around a public place? I can’t even believe you!” He heard Scott scoff, “Now, will you please return already with those documents? We’re all waiting on you. Bring the zombie too.”

“Uhhh…yeah. Sorry ‘bout that. Dunno what came over me. Sure. Okie dokes. Lemme, uh-” Peter spoke, playfully fighting you off. You reached for his neck, trying to pull him back down for post-sex cuddles, “Lemme grab ‘em. They’re goin’ hog wild with skee-ball right now. Crazy, right? They scored, like, sooooo many points. You should see all the tickets we got, man. We could totally get one ‘a those jumbo prizes. Say, Scotty, do you want, like, a giant Mighty Mouse?”

“Maximoff.” Scott replied sternly, without a beat of hesitation. His frustration oozed through the speakers, and Peter could feel guilt itching at his conscience.

In the background, Peter overheard someone - though he couldn’t guess who - mutter a, “Is Mighty Mouse even a thing anymore?” Oh. Once Peter returned, he’d be in for it. Royally fucked. Figuratively, and, thankfully, literally. In the short, momentary instance of silence between walkie communication; Peter disposed of the condom and straightened himself out. He disappeared for a millisecond, snatching a fresh towel from some luxury bath shop all the way in Paris. Dousing the cloth in warm water, he wiped you clean upon his ultra speedy arrival. Before helping you redress, making you look…somewhat presentable.

“Fine. I totally get it, okay? Look, man. I’m sorry. But can ya really blame me fer wantin' to hang after the experience I just had? Doesn’t matter. Be there in a flash. M-Maybe don’t tell Hank, though. If you can hel-” Peter rambled sheepishly, slinging the towel over his shoulder. He stepped backwards, extending a hand for you to take.

“Pietro Maximoff, I am beside myself with you!” Hank started, clearly agitated, cutting Peter off.

Peter groaned, mumbling quietly to himself as you took his hand, “He told Hank. He did it. He fuckin’ told him. Shit. I’m so fucked. I’m so, so fucked.” In a motion to guide you off the operating table, Peter pulled you forward by your hand.

“I have several questions. Why would you bring an undead creature to an arcade? What were your motivations behind taking the creature out, on a recreational activity? The potential danger or damage to the arcade and its patrons is far too high. And, furthermore, Peter, is there any scientific value to observing a zombie around arcade equipment? I understand you have this insatiable need to act out, but this is ridiculous! It is our duty, as members of the X-Men, to protect humanity from all threats. Including potential zombie related incidents at public arcades. Now then, please return the specimen immediately for further observation.” Hank ranted on and on and on and on-

A noise, like fabric tearing, cut uncomfortably through the air. Weak stitching around your elbow ripped loose, and Peter pulled your forearm clean off. Hank’s tirade met an abrupt end, as a blood curdling scream rocked the entire room. “Peter? Peter?? What’s happened? Peter, are you alright?” Hank panicked over the walkie.

Past the edge of terrified, shocked to the point of nearly pissing himself; Peter screamed. He wiggled his hand, trying to let go of your lone arm. But your hand held his tightly, your grip refusing to ease up. Once he finally freed himself, he expected your arm to drop to the floor. But your little fingers moved, crawling like spider legs. A zombie’s dislodged arm creeped up Peter’s shoulder over his jacket. Some real, Evil Dead kinda shit. He smacked at it, shouting like a housewife frightened by a mere mouse.

“YEAH!I’mfineI’mgreatI’mawesomesorryit’snothing.” Peter responded, rushed and unclear, “O-Over?” He cringed, scowling as you hopped off the operating table to retrieve your missing arm.

“...Pardon?” Hank asked, tone puzzled. Peter swallowed, shuddering while you pulled your freakish, deadite arm off his shoulder, “Are you…sure you’re alright, Peter? What’s going on? You’ve been acting awful strange tonight. Is there something on your mind?”

A lot. Peter had so much on his mind. Like, the totally real fact that he boned an undead, Frankenstein babe, for one.

“Uhm. It’s-...it’s nothing. Seriously, don’t even worry, Beastie. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Just-uhm…lab’s still-...there was some thunder, and the building-uh-” Peter nervously rambled, struggling to find his words, “Over.”

Another pause drew out long enough for Peter to realize his mistake. He cursed, smacking himself on the side of the head. How could he be scatterbrained, to forget his own lies in a matter of seconds? He had a feeling, deep in his gut; Hank would rip him a new one tonight once he got back. “...The lab? Peter…didn’t you just tell us you were at an arcade?” Hank asked, reasonably suspicious.

Peter’s voice broke as he replied, “I mEAN-” He cleared his throat, “Uhhh-...heh. I-I ran back! Forgot-uh...there was somethin’ I forgot. Like I said, doesn’t matter. I’m totally fine! I’m juuust peachy! Hang tight. I’ll be right there. Over and out.” Peter took a second to collect himself, clipping his walkie to his belt. He silenced the device, ignoring any further questions from Hank. Subconsciously, Peter took a step back as you reached for him again. His veins vibrated with a buzz of adrenaline. With your arm dismembered, you moved abruptly forward. Nuzzling your face into Peter’s chest, the same way you had all night. Still just as smitten with him. Groggy purrs rumbled in your throat.

Rolling his eyes, Peter patted your head, smoothing out your ragged, messy hair, “What am I gonna do with you? Yer nothin’ but trouble, y’know that?” He teased, pinching one of your cold cheeks, “Whaddya say we get outta here already? But I gotta make a couple ‘a pit stops. And you gotta behave yerself. Don’t get any funny ideas about eatin’ anybody.” Peter wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you close. Pointing at you with an accusatory finger.

You tilted your head, confused again. Peter really couldn’t get enough of that cute, clueless look. Hank and Scott had no idea what they were talkin’ about. His zombie buddy? Totally harmless. You’d never even hurt a fly.

Okay. First order of business. Find a Mighty Mouse plush, just to really sell his arcade story. After that, he planned on snatching you some nicer clothes. Anything to protect your modesty. Thirdly, Peter wanted to teach himself some gnarly makeup tricks. Cover up his hickies. Yeah. No sweat! He could do all that in a flash.

Oh. And late night pancakes. Peter refused to skimp out on those. He’d been craving them all night, and his body desperately needed to replenish its energy. Surely, the gang back home wouldn’t mind. After everything, they totally wouldn’t be supremely pissed and fed up with Peter’s bullshit. And the waitress serving at whatever diner he picked? She wouldn’t bat an eye at some undead, zombified customer, would she?

Why's he even kidding himself?

Gathering Hank’s files, Peter tucked them under his arm. He zipped around in search of whatever other knick-knacks he lost, including his fallen flashlight. Stepping towards you, Peter brought his earbuds to your ears. He exchanged the tape in his Walkman for another, aiming to keep you entertained with music while he traveled at superspeed. As soon as the tune graced your ears, you leapt in place. Squeaking a surprise chirp. Your shoulders bunched, and you darted your hazy eyes around.

“Hey, easy, easy-” Peter reassured, cranking the volume down low so you could still hear him, “It’s just music, baby. It’s nice, right? You like it? You like-uh…you like the Monster Mash? Crypt Kickers? Bobby Pickett?” He gestured with his hands, suggestively raising his brows, “We had a graveyard smash, didn't we, eh?” You simply stared at him, clueless as usual. Huffing, Peter pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Seriously. What am I gonna do with you?”

You clutched your dislodged arm tight, cradling the appendage close. Throwing a quick glance your way, Peter shook his head. He pulled his goggles over his eyes, and braced a warm hand at the back of your neck. The few seconds before he took off, he leaned in close. Hearing that Halloween melody playing from the earphones you wore, he quietly sang along.

As much as he liked cuddling ‘Ro on Halloween, horror movie nights; A new idea crossed his mind. He might just snuggle up on the couch with someone special this year.

#peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x reader #txt

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saintsenara · 8 months

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are you still doing ur asks abt the ships? if u are what r ur thoughts on wolfstar? if not have a very good day!

thank you very much for the ask anon - and thank you in particular for leading me into danger...

my answer to this is going to be - and wolfstar shippers keep calm please - similar to my jegulus one, which means the tldr is: write what you want, but i’m unlikely to read it, especially if you don’t acknowledge the difference between canon and fanon.

i have no aversion to wolfstar coming up as a background ship (let them be happy while harry/anyone are having drama, i’m all for it) but i generally don’t search out fics in which wolfstar is (one of) the central pairing(s) and tend only to read wolfstar-centric stuff if it’s written or recommended by someone whose opinion i trust.

this isn’t because i think the pairing is unfeasible (the canonical sirius and remus very much have the vibes of people who have enjoyed each other’s bodies…) but because the community which has built up around wolfstar, both among ‘original wolfstar, y’know, like in canon’ fans and their sworn enemies ‘marauders fandom, canon who?’ fans, largely expects certain tropes and characterisations which divorce the characters from what i personally think is interesting about them.

the most egregious of these tropes, in my opinion, is the fact that wolfstar which purports to be canon-compliant or which follows the canon timeline deals so infrequently with the fact that both remus and sirius have such little trust in each other that they believed utterly sincerely that the other was a death eater.

it’s crucial that we understand the profundity of this suspicion and - therefore - what it says about the fragility of the loyalty between them prior to 1980-81. this is not a brief flash of distrust in a high-pressure couple of days at the end of october. the evidence of canon is that we’re talking about a period of months - if not a full year - in which remus and sirius not only think it justifiable to doubt the other’s loyalties, but also seem to be acting on that doubt to try to get the other in trouble.

harry is born in july 1980, at a point when voldemort has all but won the war. severus snape defects to the order at some point relatively soon after this, when voldemort decides that the potters are the family referred to in the prophecy. peter pettigrew then defects to the death eaters in the autumn of 1980 (sirius says in prisoner of azkaban that he was spying for a full year before voldemort’s fall).

snape then evidently tells dumbledore that there is a spy in the order - although he clearly doesn’t, despite a common accusation levelled against him, know this is pettigrew, since the voldemort of the first war has apparently heard of operational security, unlike his resurrected counterpart - and this leads dumbledore to demand a restriction on james and lily’s movements until - by august 1981 (the plausible date of lily’s letter to sirius) - they are basically under house arrest. the implication of canon is that, by this summer at the very latest, james and lily are aware they’re being spied on, from which i think it’s reasonable to infer three things: that dumbledore has begun to suspect that sirius is the spy over the opening half of 1981; that remus, who canonically always trusts dumbledore’s judgements, uses this to confirm his own suspicions about sirius; and that sirius, whose canonical relationship with dumbledore has an undercurrent of unease, especially in order of the phoenix, picks up on this and assumes remus is briefing dumbledore against him. i think it’s also reasonable to infer that the only person convinced there isn’t a spy among his close friends is james.

peter visits the potters’ safe-house and is aware of its address, so we can assume remus and sirius are the same. by october 1981, however, there are clearly concerns that james and lily’s whereabouts are known to the death eaters - perhaps also accompanied by information from snape that voldemort, who loves a bit of symbolism, has selected halloween as the day he will strike - which trigger dumbledore’s advice that they perform the fidelius charm. dumbledore’s unease when james picks sirius as secret keeper is confirmation that he had identified sirius as the spy. that remus is never suggested as a potential candidate is confirmation that sirius believes him to be the spy - and possibly also that james is beginning to think his best friend might be onto something (i always wonder if remus’ bitterness when accusing james of being too trusting in deathly hallows is a flash of self-loathing about the fact that james didn’t trust him). sirius then persuades james to use peter and, within a week of the charm being performed, james and lily are dead, peter has disappeared, and sirius is in azkaban.

[as an aside here, i don’t love the amount of dumbledore bashing in wolfstar, and i think it’s worth doing some dumbledore defence: sirius’ internment in azkaban without trial - a reference to an actual historical event, if you were thinking it sounded far-fetched - is not dumbledore’s fault. the wizengamot acts on dumbledore’s credible belief that sirius was the secret keeper, while sirius - who is cackling his head off the whole time - refuses to speak in his own defence. similarly, dumbledore does not deny sirius access to harry (via hagrid) when he arrives, distraught, in godric’s hollow because he’s contrived a machiavellian plan to keep harry alone and unloved with the dursleys instead of with his true family, but because all the evidence he has available to him is that harry’s life is in danger at sirius’ hands.]

so sirius spends the next twelve years in azkaban, with remus clearly nowhere near his mind. that he stays in prison, and only escapes when he has an unimpeachable chance to get his revenge and protect harry, is because he - like his narrative mirror, snape - is so haunted by his role (indirect, but he canonically thinks that he essentially cast the killing curse himself) in the death of someone he fiercely loved that he considers azkaban a punishment he deserves.

this links to the next issue i have with a lot of wolfstar: that the defining force in both remus and sirius’ lives is james, not each other. the dynamic of the marauders is frequently reduced to the following: wolfstar, who are best friends and lovers it would take the heat-death of the universe to pull apart; james and whatever romantic partner the story wishes to pair him with, who are the same; and peter, who is either there and completely futile, or is replaced with a fanonised female character (dorcas, marlene, alice etc. - none of whom, may i say, it makes sense to have in the same school year as the marauders, dumbledore is not actually running the order as a gang of child soldiers) or a woobiefied death eater (regulus black, barty crouch jr., evan rosier etc.).

but in canon, a different dynamic is clear. james is the lynchpin of the marauders’ world, the anchoring point to all their sense of self; and the moment he is out of the picture no bonds of loyalty remain among the other three. (it’s tempting to think that remus always harbours a belief that sirius is innocent, but i think that this would be less due to an unconditional affection for his friend and more due to the fact that his own self-loathing needs to believe that he couldn’t have stopped james and lily dying; which he should have done if sirius really was the culprit, since he clearly suspected he was a death eater).

if you asked remus, sirius, and peter, clearly each of them would describe james as their best friend (even though james’ eyes are only for sirius - he only has one best man, and harry only has one godfather), but their relationships with each other outside of james are less clearly defined, at least before sirius and remus are the only two left.

this doesn’t prevent pre-1981 (or james lives au) wolfstar - your boyfriend and your best friend being different people is fine, obviously - but it is going to change the dynamic between them in ways i think are significant and which i would like to see explored more, particularly in ways which acknowledge that - for remus and sirius - this dynamic might not lead to the healthiest relationship…

for example, during their schooldays, wolfstar are likely to talk to each other through james, rather than james being surplus to the flirtatious dynamic between them; remus is likely to feel awkward or insecure about the fact that sirius - whose personality is closer to james’ than his - is so happy and gregarious in james’ company; sirius is likely to resent remus’ tendency to stay out of the action, since the fact that he and james mutually encourage each other in their exploits is key to their relationship; remus is likely to resent the fact that sirius is treated by the potters as a second son, while he isn’t, and so on.

during the first war, even if we remove the fact they suspect each other of spying from the equation, they will clash over how to protect james, and remus will undoubtedly take this to mean that sirius cares more for james than for him. during the second war, the long shadow of james - so painful that remus can still barely talk about him, while sirius wants to do nothing but - will hover over everything.

and this leads on to the third reason i generally don’t enjoy wolfstar: that the complicated threads of their canon personalities are removed or reduced to irrelevance to make them fit fanon which has no basis in the books.

now, i’m not going to get into appearance discourse here, although yes, i prefer a tall sirius who tends to wear wizarding clothing and has never heard a single cool piece of muggle music in his life, and i prefer a hollowed and world-weary remus who doesn’t have visible scars. i think background discourse is slightly more important: a great deal of sirius is lost if he is turned into someone who likes being pureblood, who feels more comfortable around his ‘own kind’, or who aspires to sit on the hereditary wizengamot; a great deal of remus is lost if he is turned into someone who didn’t grow up in a loving home with parents who did their best, but whose inability to give him the childhood he really deserved in the face of the prejudice against werewolves in the wizarding world encouraged his absurd gratitude towards anyone who made even a half-hearted effort to act in his interests.

all of my preferred aspects of characterisation are canon-compliant. but deviating from total canon compliance is not a moral failing. the term is more flexible than some of its defenders acknowledge, and people are at perfect liberty to imagine that characters look, identify, or behave differently than they do in the canon narrative without that automatically bringing accusations of writing them out-of-character (after all, it’s clear in the books that both harry and hermione are white, but art and fics which portray them as a different race can still meaningfully be described as canon-compliant if that's an aim they're written to have).

similarly, rejecting canon compliance entirely is just as fine - i think you should indicate to your readers if you’re doing that, but i’m capable of using the back button and moving on with my life if you don’t.

the only hard and fast rule is don’t seek out people who do things differently to you and insult them directly, although i would also suggest that it’s worthwhile to spend a bit of time in introspection about how lots of popular wolfstar and the fandom around it - like the fandom around all slash ships - portrays queerness in ways which are heteronormative (i.e. exclusively equating bottoming with femininity) and portrays women in ways which are misogynistic (i.e. how tonks is often treated in wolfstar discourse).

however, with this said, i think there is a difference between rejecting canon compliance and yet still writing the characters in ways which feel connected in interesting ways to their complex canon selves, and just writing original characters named sirius black and remus lupin.

because i just cannot get on board with a remus who is written as the cleverest one of the four, as assertive and direct instead of avoidant and passive-aggressive, as anything other than incredibly selfish, as anything other than an extreme people-pleaser, as being soft and sensitive (his mild manner hides the fact that he is incredibly cold and calculating - this is a man who is prepared to execute wormtail in front of three children mere minutes after learning he’s still alive), as majorly regretting the snape-versus-werewolf incident (he loves it! snape is terrified of him! he downplays it constantly!), or as functioning as the moral heart of the marauders (when sirius says in order of the phoenix that remus tried to restrain their bullying of snape, he is doing it to make remus - who is incapable of self-criticism - feel better in the face of harry’s anger) when he is in fact quite morally cowardly.

and i cannot get on board with a sirius who is written as a goofy himbo, as a constant flirt and womaniser (more grey-ace sirius, i would like to see it), as the world’s wokest king (a man who’s upset his slave isn’t sufficiently deferential to him isn’t someone who’s going to speak in queer theory buzzwords - this, of course, doesn’t prevent sirius being written as queer, non-binary, trans, femme, and so on, it just means that authors have to deal with the fact that sirius’ way of existing as any of these things will be human, rather than perfect), as a small bean unable to take care of himself (he escapes from prison and swims across the north sea! he charges into danger at the drop of a hat!), as anything other than incandescently loyal to james and harry, as - after james’ death - anything other than completely wrecked by guilt over the fact he caused it, as best friends with his brother and his gang of slytherins, or as lacking the fundamental arrogance and cruelty which make him so interesting.

and wolfstar can work, absolutely, when these things are taken into account. i find the idea of second war remus and sirius, stuck in grimmauld place together, buying harry a joint christmas present, the last survivors in a generation completely hollowed out by loss, incredibly moving. remus' choice to self-destruct in half-blood prince - having lost sirius so soon after having found him again - does, i think, justifiably indicate a change in their relationship during order of the phoenix which can be seen as romantic. i find the idea of first war remus and sirius, each in love with a man they think is a spy, wonderfully bittersweet. i find the idea of school-aged remus pining desperately for a friend who is head-over-heels in love with james to be, quite frankly, canon.

and i also think that two original characters called sirius black and remus lupin can do whatever they want - i’ll just be closing my eyes, pretending i cannot see, and leaving them to it.

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #wolfstar #i am once again in danger

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