#or haven’t been in the field to know enough

[machveil]

hey, brief apology, I sent an ask about a monster!Konig blurb that got a dirty and then realised you dont write that kind of thing so im rewording it

monster!Konig being initially very shy and not liking when m!reader touches his tentacles, but he grows to appreciate the touch over time as he starts getting used to m!reader, to the point of holding his hand with a tentacle gently

oh!! hi anon! I saw that ask - don’t worry, I do write for nsfw and nsfw adjacent(?) content. I just haven’t written anything for it yet haha, but no sweat! I just don’t write for these, your other ask is totally good<3

it’s known around base that Monster!König has an… unusual physique. he kept it hidden for as long as he could, but it was bound to be found out when you’re constantly surrounded by soldiers and snoopy people - stupid rookies that like touching things that aren’t theirs. that’s how König’s tentacles came to light, one stupid rookie dared to snag the behemoth’s mask

Monster!König, while a feared and respected Colonel, held some insecurities around his tentacles. who wouldn’t be be terrified of a 6’10”/~208cm man, let alone a man with writhing, eldritch tentacles? he’s either scared off fellow soldiers or had others try to mock him - the latter not ending in their favor

but when you come up to him? wide eyed and awed? Monster!König is weary, a man like yourself should know better than to get close to him… or if this is a ploy to make a fool out of him? you’d be a brave example to anyone else trying to play with him, “You better run back to your friends, kleiner Mann.”, voice low as he walks past you

but does that deter you? of course not, a brave little thing. your efforts start small - an attempt to break past Monster!König’s walls. knee bumping against his when you sit down in the mess hall, fleeting touches when your fingertips graze his. his gaze is always cast down towards you when it happens, a silent look asking what you’re doing

it’s slow, almost painfully slow trying to befriend him, let alone touch him. but the voice in the back of your head eggs you on, “He’ll open up. He’ll trust you eventually.”. the little game you started changes; those brief touches start to hold more meaning. yes, you want to feel his tentacles against your hand… but you also want him. for him to trust you enough that he seeks out your touch, is okay with it

so when Monster!König pats your back after a day of training, casts his gaze down on you again, it sparks hope. “Nice work, kleiner Mann.”, voice letting go of any malice, replaced with… you can’t say, but it’s friendly. when he pulls his hand away, how long had it been there? a warmth spreads in your chest

it’s a couple days before anything significant happens, but it was something that had your heart racing and palms a little clammy. it had been raining out, a storm sweeping through before the sky was clear and sunny again. soldiers shouldn’t be deterred by a little water, so training was held outside - maybe it was just your shoes against the wet grass, maybe it was kismet?

running laps with the group after hitting the gym for a few hours last night had left you with wobbly legs, trailing behind the others on the field. eyes half lidded, nodding off a little, it’s only when your heel slips and you’re falling backwards do you fully wake up. already bracing for the impact of the ground, you’re caught off guard - and quite literally - when you feel an arm under back, a hand on the nape of your neck

“Careful, Kleine.”, accent a little thick as he holds you, icy blue eyes looking down at you. you’d meet his gaze if it weren’t for the angle - you could see up his hood from here. a mess of tentacles wrapped securely around the Austrian’s neck, catching little reflections of light. you blink and suddenly you’re standing upright, his hand still on the back of your neck. a gentle squeeze, barely any pressure, then his hand is pulled back, “Try not to fall again, ja?”

after that? it only amped up - suddenly you were on the receiving end of featherlight touches. walking side by side, the heat in your cheeks is only fanned when König’s rough hand eases against yours. for such a broad, brutish man, König’s touch is delicate, careful. turning a corner, his grip tightens ever so slightly, stopping in his tracks

as you look up at him, gaze meeting his, your eyebrows knit slightly, “König? What—“. words dying on your tongue as he kneels down, he looks up at you, gaze smitten. and only when he squeezes your hand do you feel a new sensation around your bicep - poking out from under his mask, a tentacle had wrapped around the muscles of your arm, “You’re a patient man, ist es das, was Sie sehen möchten?“

it’s suddenly hard to breathe as it moves down your forearm, replacing his hand with the appendage, “Ah— König.”, you choke out

[red-ruth]

So like…. could Marc actually win this?

Short Answer: I mean…… yeahhhhhh????

Long Answer: *incomprehensible screaming* …… and in this essay I will-

Because I genuinely don’t know what to think of Marc’s mindset rn. The whole gresini team + Marc seem hesitant to announce the championship challenge.

When Frankie did the interview post Misano 1 w TNT sports he identified their weakness as Friday, which is true. Winning the title means he needs to sort out his fucking qualifying. The tracks where he’s falling behind, he pushes more to find the limit and make the difference, but the other side of that line is him binning it and sending him down the grid. He has the speed to be on the front row pretty much every track now, even the ones where the gp24s are in a championship of their own. He can’t keep recovering from several places back every weekend, only to get up to the podium by half way through the race, at which point Pecco and Jorge have fucked off into the distance. He needs to be up there terrorising them.

However, the amount of tracks left that DO favour Marc are significant.

To start with, the counter clockwise circuits. Phillip Island and Valencia. We could very well see a performance there like we saw at Aragon and what was hinted at in Germany (Sachsenring 2024 what could’ve been, always in our hearts). I wouldn’t say we can guarantee wins, I’m aware of how powerful jinxes are, and Aragon did have an abysmal lack of grip, but they’re tracks where his performance is expected to be the best. We can’t necessarily say the same for the rest of the tracks, but what we can say about them is that they’re a complete fucking lottery.

Thailand, Indonesia, Japan, Malaysia, Australia = anything could fucking happen. It’s no doubt that if it were actively raining (could be likely) Marc would come out on top, as we’d seen in misano 1. But what we also learnt from that race is that Marc only really needs a slightly damp track to beat the pace of the gp24s. He got up to the front because it started pissing down for half a lap yeah, but if he sorts out qualifying, he’d be up at the front in the first place, and a damp track would then allow him to keep up and extend a potential lead. More than that, you’ll see more riders coming through on an even playing field to take points out of Martin and Pecco. Exactly like Aragon. The Asian leg, in the past, has always been a bit of a gamble, and that’s where Marc will thrive.

Realistically, Valencia being the final race means that if Marc came in to that final round near equal on points, he could win the title. It would require a perfect weekend from him, Valencia being dusty plus counter clockwise would be good for that, like Aragon.

In order to be close enough going into it though he’d definitely have to be on the podium every round from here on out. Probably more 2nd’s than 3rds so that he’s scoring more than either Jorge or Pecco. Aswell as a handful more wins.

He’d also have to bargain on Jorge and Pecco fighting amongst themselves, taking points off each other. And the both of them having a few more dnfs/bottles like Pecco in Barcelona/Aragon (Peccos horrific starts not his crash w Alex) or Jorge in Sachsenring/Misano 1.

Another factor I haven’t seen people talk about, THE BEAST. For one, he is not far behind Marc, which could be a threat to him, of course. But if we imagine a situation like silverstone happening at more circuits where the gp24 could hold a massive advantage, that’s taking significant points off Pecco and Jorge, drawing the entire fight closer together. To then alternate to tracks where the playing field is more even, then we have Marc coming out on top, and Enea realistically falling behind so he can’t really make an advantage stick (like how we’re seeing him drop away again despite his dominant silverstone performance)

But I’m gonna be real….. I know I’ve just written multiple paragraphs about how Marc could win this, I don’t actually think Marc is trying to win the championship. I think he could, I honestly really, really do. I think if he had something to prove, we’d be having a completely different conversation. But in my mind, he’s already proven himself. We all know that next year, Marc is going to be alongside Pecco. There are less ducatis on the grid, and a lot of the riders on the remaining bikes, have never been Ducati riders before. If we can count on Ducati taking another massive step forward in development (fuck even any step at all at this rate) it’s clear that this is going to be a Pecco v Marc showdown. He’s staked his claim in that.

Marc doesn’t need the 2024 title. He’s saying he’s spending the rest of the year figuring out the bike in combination with his riding style. He’s doing this because he’s achieved all his goals already, get on the podium, win a race, get that seat, enjoy racing again. Tick, tick, tick, tick. He’s done, he’s checked out. He’s being realistic about his performance. As he was saying about the sprint yesterday, “If we start 7th, I finish 4th. If I start 1st I finish 4th.” And you can see the fucking BALL of a time Marc is having at Gresini, (oh my god what an incredible team I might write a whole post on my thoughts on them later). He’s enjoying racing again, and he’s relishing in that feeling coming back. I’m sure Marc is honestly satisfied in sitting back and having fun in a low pressure environment before he moves to Ducati Corse and locks the fuck in.

HOWEVER, he also has absolutely nothing to lose. For someone like Jorge who’s going to a less competitive team next year, or Pecco who’s gonna have an 8 times world champion in the box, they both are conscious of the fact this could really be their last chance at a title. Marc could come 4th, 3rd, 2nd or 1st this year and it means literally nothing because next year is where the real fight is.

In Misano 1 Marc took the risk during the rain to get up to p1 because he could afford to crash, and Pecco couldn’t. Which got him the win. If he’s planning on riding like that for the rest of the season he really could win it. But need I remind you, Pecco didn’t fight him because he wasnt Jorge Martin. Maybe Marc and the team are trying to put out the fires the media are lighting and they don’t want to draw attention to the fact that Marc very well could win this. If his strategy in those situations is fuck around now, find out later, in which the “finding out” is “win or we crash”. He’d be bargaining on Martin and Bagnaia disregarding him as a real contender. His best bet is laying low and striking when they don’t expect him too.

Am I seeing mind games where there aren’t any? Maybe. Is this delusional hope? Of course! And I also don’t think it’s something that Marc is gunning for. Like I genuinely believe the title is only gonna happen if it… falls into his hands, you know? It relies so much on luck. Getting race conditions he prefers, Pecco and Jorge bottling. Enea preforming only when it’s convenient. Not Crashing In Quali For Fucks Sake Marc. And I think Marc knows that too. This title is something that’s almost completely out of his control. He doesn’t have the bike to simply be the better rider, the only thing he can do is maximise the chances he gets in the next few rounds. If he wins or loses this, it’s not because of his skills as a rider, it’s because he was dealt the hand he needed.

But if this happens, if he is dealt this hand and he rounds the final turn of the final lap in Valencia in P1, his ninth championship secured, if I can allow us all to dream scandalously for a second, this season will go down in fucking history. In a career of incredible championship fights, controversies and highs and lows, nothing will beat whatever happens in the coming months…..

…

cut to marc in the gravel in a few hours time

[sirenscriptures]

i never like to say that i hate people, but i most definitely hate people who still think women aren’t meant for STEM jobs.

[esoteric-altruism]

uggggggh i don’t wanna do woooork 😭 checking service notes is so boring why can’t these people just write the correct shit down like it’s really not that hard

[macabrity]

god I feel like I’m skating around the edge of a nervous breakdown and it’s like. while I don’t want that to happen, I kinda feel like I’d rather it did to just be done with this pointless circling -_-

[emmyrosee]

Geto doesn’t know how to respond to pet names.

It took him a long enough time to become used to the traditional “baby” and “love,” it was just recently when you started busting out these absurd nicknames for whatever thing you could be subjecting him too.

You were cooking once, and you called him “scnhookums” and asked him to pass the peppers. He dropped the tray.

Driving, you told your “stinky man” to take a left. He slammed on his brakes.

You’d been painting his nails and got some on his cuticle, and you asked your “little poop” to pass you some acetone. He just took his hands away.

It’s not that he doesn’t… like them, they’re just not quite what he expects. They’re so extreme, so left field that in a way, he feels as if you’re mocking him, making fun of him.

He doesn’t like that feeling.

But what he hates even more, is when you pause on giving him disgustingly sweet pet names. This, makes him feel like you no longer care, no longer wanting to take the time to come up with the gushy names that keep him in a shy state.

And you haven’t given him one in days.

He hasn’t been able to sleep. Nothing major, nightmares plaguing the dreams he thinks should be pleasant, 

“Shhh,” you soothe. “Stay asleep. I’ve got you.”

He merely nods and lets his head bury back into the pillows, your lips press against his temple before he lets his breathing even out once again.

As if your kiss soothed the monsters that dance, he’s able to sleep a few more hours, waking up disgustingly late and pouting to find your side of the bed cold.

He’s not proud of the pout okay, you’re just really good at scratching the affectionate itch that digs his brain. all he wants is his ‘pooky bear’ to cuddle their little ‘chickadee’ and let him fall back asleep in their arms.

He’s sure those names aren’t far in your arsenal of names.

When he finally does come to search you out, he’s not completely surprised to see you, stretched out on the couch and in a state of relaxation he finds envy in.

“What’re you watching?” He asks, shuffling into the living room. You smile up at him and say nothing, but instead pat your lap as an invitation for him to come and curl against you.

With a nod, he does just that, letting himself lay down on the couch with you, his head nestled in your thighs. Your fingers instantly start their magic on carding his loose hair, and his eyes slack slightly at the tingly feeling.

“Feel better?” You ask, and he hums contently. “I told you more sleep would help. You just never listen to me.”

He says nothing, merely letting his fingers gently trace the lines on your kneecap.

There’s a whirl of silence in the room, and he feels his eyes grow tired from your loving touch, the post warmth of his shower, and the cat that’s curled on his feet, keeping them warm under her rhythmic breathing.

“My handsome man,” you mumble, bending down to plant a kiss at his temple. his eyes widen as he cranes his head up to look at you, curved in surprise and a glimmer of love in his dark pools. “So pretty it hurts… my handsome, pretty man.”

That. That, he could get used to.

He smiles dopily and turns his head to nuzzle into your thigh, trying to hide the heating of his cheeks from you and your potential teasing by keeping his face buried.

But you don’t pick on him. Instead, you click your tongue adoringly and press another kiss to his temple. He feels your nose taking deep breaths of his scent, and your thumb strokes his cheek lovingly.

“Shut up”, Suguru says happily, as an acceptance, letting his sleepy eyes close and allowing your affections to swallow him whole.

Yes, he thinks to himself. It’s the fluttery feeling everyone talks about. The air filling his lungs and his head skipping beats just by the tone of which you call him handsome.

You call him your man.

Maybe pet names don’t always have to be sticky and sweet; but it just makes the most meaningful ones penetrate his heart that much more.

And this pet name, he hopes you decide to keep.

[rafesgfs]

leaked nudes — two

pt. 1

pairings: aaron hotchner x reader

summary: you just wanted penelope’s feedback on your nudes. its hard for her to do so when you send them to your boss instead.

word count: 2k (another short one)

warnings: the word panties, stealing of shirts, reader checking out aaron’s ass, a mention of leonado dicaprio, mentions of suicidal thoughts

The next few days for him is torture.

Every time he looks at you, or even in your general vicinity, he’s reminded of the images he can never forget. Not that he’s been able to stop thinking about them, in the shower, in his bed, in his office, in the field—it was consuming him and he didn’t mind.

Aaron had resorted to wearing his darker suits, hoping they’d conceal his raging boner (an instance that only happened around you or when he thinks of you or when anyone even speaks your name). Unfortunately for exhausted cock, you noticed the change and complimented him on it, leaving him to lock himself in his hotel room and rub out a quick one.

After another unsuccessful day, Aaron sends the team back to the hotel, following them a few minutes afterward. He groans inwardly as he sees you coming out of the bathroom, knowing well enough he’d have to drive you to the hotel as the team had taken two of the SUVs back. He didn’t think he could stand another second alone with you without wanting to pin you against the wall and fuck you until the whole city knew his name.

You smiled at him as he opened the door for you, and he thinks he may develop heart palpitations with the number of times you make his heart stop—Aaron is certain one of these days his heart won’t continue and you may literally kill him with your smile.

Despite his cock stirring in his pants, the drive back to the hotel was lovely, though he can confidently say any time with you is divine. Though, he does rear-end the car in front of them when you unbutton your top, showing a white tank top under. Even worse when the seat belt tightens around you when he steps on the brake hard, causing it to accentuate your breasts, stuffed between them. He thinks he’s finally gone insane, being jealous over a seatbelt.

He opens the door for you once again, getting out of the car and the doors to the hotel. Aaron wonders if you can hear his heart beating wildly out of his chest when you link your arm through his, leaning slightly against him as you walk to the elevators.

Once you get to your room, you sigh loudly, taking off your tank top and throwing it on the unmade bed. You were feeling the effects of being unable to solve the case and being in Kansas City was like being stuck in an elevator running out of air.

After taking a shower, you realize your go bag was running out of clothes as you’ve been here for nearly a week. You were too tired to do laundry in the hotel’s laundry room and you knew Spencer was sleeping by now so you quickly wrapped a towel around your body and walked next door to Aaron’s room.

Knocking, you secured the towel around you, chuckling at the thought of flashing your boss. When he opens the door, he’s met with the sight of you in just the towel, nearly slamming the door close at the thought.

Smiling sheepishly at him, you said. “Hey, can I borrow another shirt? I don’t really want to wear another dirty one and I haven’t done laundry yet.”

It takes him a few seconds to answer, his eyes never leaving your face. Aaron nods, opening his door further. “Um, yeah, of course. Let me just see what I have.”

You step a foot inside his room as he gets a shirt from his duffel bag, checking out his ass as he had taken his blazer off, your view now unconstructed. You wanted nothing more than to have his belt wrapped around your hands instead of his pants.

Aaron gets a shirt from his bag, handing it to you. It’s blue and the material is rather thin from its usage. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah, thanks again, Hotch.” you flash him a grin, walking out of the room. “I promise not to steal this one like the others.”

He chuckles, waving it off. “You can steal as many of my shirts as you want.”

You laugh, opening your door. Truthfully, you liked his shirts better than any of yours. Most of them were faded but they still smelled like him and you often slept in one of them after stealing the first one. You preferred them to the clothing you’ve stolen from Spencer or Derek, though Emily’s hoodie was a game changer.

Thankfully, you didn't have to share rooms so you got dressed in Aaron’s large t-shirt and put on a pair of pink panties. Like the rest, the hem of the shirt fell down just below your ass, leaving you mostly covered.

Your phone buzzes as you get into bed, Penelope’s message causing you to chuckle.

Pen

I’ve been waiting not-so-patiently for these sexy pics.

Before joining the BAU, you had regularly sent nudes to the men on your roster, wanting nothing more than fun and compliments to boost your confidence. During a girl’s night, and after four shots of vodka, you admitted to Penelope you liked getting feedback on the pictures you took and in both your drunk stage, she had agreed to be one of your critics.

And while you slowly decreased your roster, Penelope was always the first person you sent them to, and she’d give you feedback based on how the picture was taken and what you were wearing. Multiple times she had asked where you’d gotten your lingerie.

So it wasn’t uncommon for you to send her nudes before you sent them to anyone. Not that you had anyone in mind to send this particular set of pictures to, but it was nice to get compliments from a friend after a long day. She was like your agent if you were famous, steering you in the right way.

Texting her you’d send them in a few minutes, you got ready to take several photos. Some included the bathroom mirror, some included you in Aaron’s shirt and two showed you completely naked. Inappropriate use of your boss’ t-shirt made the pictures hotter to you, though no one but you would know. You giggled at the thought of Aaron seeing you use his shirts in your nudes—that would be mortifying.

As if he could read your mind, your phone buzzed again, Aaron’s name popping up in the text notification. Clicking on the message, you saw he wanted to see pictures you had taken from the coroner of the most recent victim.

You’re about to send them to him when Penelope’s text pops up on the top of your screen, reminding you once again to send them. Grinning, you click on your naked images and send them before responding back to Aaron’s message about the dead body. As you click send, you put your phone on the bedside table and pick up the tv remote, putting on whatever the first show you came across.

Normally, Penelope would take about a minute to “study” the photos you’ve sent her but just as you turned the tv on, your phone buzzed, her text lighting up the screen. Frowning, you unlock your phone, confused by her text.

Pen

Ewww, why’d you send me the vic’s dead body???

Heart pounding, you tap on your messages with the blonde, heart dropping when you realize you sent her the pictures from the coroners instead of the promised nudes. You don’t bother to apologize to her when you see you’ve sent Aaron Hotchner six pictures.

And if you didn’t send Penelope your nudes …

Hands shaking you clicked on Aaron’s name, throwing your phone across the room after seeing a photo of your bare cunt in the message you sent him. It hits the wall, denting it slightly as you stare in its general direction, absolutely mortified.

What the actual fuck.

You rush towards your fallen phone, calling Penelope, face red and hands shaking. “Shit, shit, shit. Answer the phone.”

“Hey, when I mean send pictures–”

“I accidentally sent my nudes to Hotch.” you blurt out, plopping back on your bed.

“WHAT?”

Groaning, you banged your head on the mattress, wanting nothing more than to switch places with the corpse you took a picture of. “I meant to send them to you but I guess I switched you up by mistake—I don’t know, I’m really tired and I sent our boss pictures of my tits and pussy, Penelope!”

Silence meets your confession, and you only hear her breathing for a few seconds. “It’s … I don’t … What … I mean, it's not as bad as you’re thinking. Has he seen them yet?”

“How would I know?” you hissed. Pacing back and forth in your room, you bit your lip, worried. “Oh, my God. He’s so going to fire me, or worse: he’s going to want to talk to me about it instead of just ignoring it. OH, MY FUCK.”

Penelope chuckled quietly. “To be fair, they’re probably good pictures.”

“PENELOPE GARCIA.” you whisper-shouted, fidgeting with the hem of your—Aaron’s—shirt. Oh, how you wanted to crumble on your knees and die. “This isn’t like I accidentally sent them to Spence or Derek, I sent them to Aaron Hotchner. It’s like the worst-case scenario. I’d rather send my pussy to Rossi than Hotch.”

“Really? You’d rather send them to Rossi?” she questioned, amused and almost as mortified at the situation, though for different reasons.

“I’d rather send nudes to Rossi than Derek,” you confessed, running a hand through your hair. “At least with Rossi we can laugh it off but Derek would probably tease me about it until I do something more embarrassing. Oh, God, I’m so going to get fired. I might as well shoot my brains out before he tells me to come to his room to talk.”

“Or … you could go to his room and … you know,” Penelope replied, her tone flirty.

“Leonardo Dicaprio would date a woman over twenty-five years old before that happens, Pen.” you groaned, looking longly at the gun on your bedside table—not that you would actually consider it but, oh to be dead. “I’m actually going to die of embarrassment.”

Before she can reply, someone knocks on your door and you have a suspicion about who it is. You hurriedly say goodbye to the tech analysis, heart heavy as you walk to the door. You think about breaking the hotel window and jumping off from the fourth story but he knocks again, leaving you no choice but to open the door.

Aaron Hotchner stands on the other side, eyes crazed and shirt unbuttoned. You open your mouth to apologize, to make up an excuse, to do some damage control but it seems as if he has other ideas.

He takes a step forward, hands encasing your face as he kisses you. You freeze in shock, and he takes the opportunity to back you against the wall, a hand tilting your jaw and the other tangling in your hair. He bit your lip and you squeal quietly in surprise, his tongue slipping between your lips.

After a few seconds of trying to wrap your head around your boss kissing you, you kiss him back, closing your eyes as you enjoy his lips on yours. His hands drift down your back, squeezing your ass briefly before reaching the hem of your–his–shirt, pulling it up and exposing the pink panties you wore.

He pulls away, both of you breathing hard. Aaron glances down, smirking at the color of your thong before looking back at you, taking a step away and reluctantly taking his hands off of you. You don’t realize you’re whimpering, objecting.

“Do you want this?” he asks, eyes piercing and panting. He still wore his suit, but his shirt was half unbuttoned. You could see his chest peeking from them.

You nodded, taking a step closer to him, bringing you to his touch. “Yes.”

Aaron’s hands are immediately on you again, lips on yours as he whispered. “Good. Tonight, you’ll be filming my cock fucking your needy cunt instead of your fingers.”

a/n: i wanted to write smut but i gotta save my smut juices (ew) for bad ideas 2. also thank u to @callm3c0nfus3d and @gublersgibson for convincing me to do pt 2 :))))

[sideeve]

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀( living with Mike Schmidt )

— ★ Abby is his heart and soul. he knows if you’re a winner if she feels comfortable showing you her drawings.

— ★ i feel like American Idiot by Green Day is him and Abby getting ready for work/school. it’s a routine they built and can’t break out of it. so when you stay the night, you were shocked to see how quick they get out the house since Mike is always late to work.

— ★ if you can cook, you brought more meals on the menu and Mike can’t thank you enough. now, he doesn’t have to cook up some Chef Boyardee or order pizza. you were the only one they trusted in the kitchen.

— ★ weekly movie night was implemented on friday nights. you saw how much Abby and Mike were drifting away from each other so you took it upon yourself to make a movie night on fridays. the only problem is their choices. Abby would want to watch Coraline and Mike wanted to watch Megamind.

— ★ your first date was…something. Mike couldn’t really afford to go somewhere special so he found a recipe in one of the local libraries (the movie was set in like the 80s…) and cooked it up decent enough for it to be considered edible. (i’m joking, it was delicious) everything was good until—

“mike!” Abby yells from her bedroom. he was just in the middle of explaining something important to you, something he was passionate about. you could tell by the way he tried to hide his smile. but his sister comes first before anything. “Abby,” he whispers loud enough for only her to hear. “i thought i told you to keep quiet a bit. i have a date, remember?” she crosses her arms, “my tooth fell out.” “so? put it under your pillow and the tooth fairy will get it.” “that’s the thing! you told me that last time and i haven’t gotten five bucks! the tooth is still here!” shittttt. Mike sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “i’ll give you five plus more if you just keep quiet, okay?” Abby nods. “okay, good.” Mike starts to walk off before coming back. “how do i look?” he adjusts his collars. “like a million bucks.” Abby giggles, smiling, showing off her missing tooth. “sorry about that.” Mike clears his throat, sitting back at the dinner table. “no, no. that was actually cute.” you smile, you heart warmed by the brothers-sister relationship they had.

— ★ you help him sleep. now, he doesn’t need that bland nebraska poster, or that tape with nature sounds, or sleeping pills. he has you. and even the nights that you aren’t there, he would spray your favorite perfume on your pillow, hugging it close to you as if he were hugging you.

NSFW headcanons

— ★ he’s a switch. 50/50. i think his sex drive is normal if not low. he values romantic gestures than sexual gestures. but in the sex field, he’s both a giver and receiver.

— ★ let’s start with dom!mike. you’d mainly see dom!mike if it was a bad day at work or a long one. scenario; abby had been knocked out in her bed around bedtime. you technically had the house to yourself as you waited for mike to get home. finally, you hear a car pull in and the engine turn off. you could sense that it was him. you were expected a cuddle session until you both fell asleep. not you being bent over the couch, his fingers in your mouth to hush the moans escaping from your lips, fucking you like a rabid dog.

— ★ on the sub aspect, you have a whiny baby on your hands. begging and whining for you to let him cum. he pinky swears he’ll be a good boy. he whines, groans, begs. all of that. he begs so much that you have to put a hand on his mouth so he won’t wake up abby sometimes. if he’s pissed you off, you’d punish him by riding him but not letting him touch you and edging him so much that tears form at the waterline.

— ★ munch. munch! MUNCH!!! when he’s stuffed in between your thighs, he humps the edge of the bed, cumming in his pants. he’s too ashamed to let you know. he thinks it’s sick. he’s getting off by the taste of you, your sounds, and your juices dripping down his chin.

taglist ;; @worldsgreatestsinner

[heartthrobin]

the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

-

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

-

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

-

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

-

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle. 

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports. 

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge. 

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner. 

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers. 

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor. 

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed. 

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish. 

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster. 

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge. 

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you. 

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone. 

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move. 

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face. 

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches. 

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.” 

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again. 

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“ 

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.” 

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor. 

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick. 

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.” 

He’s brushing past you. 

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“ 

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded. 

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable. 

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?” 

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked. 

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone. 

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him. 

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration. 

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him. 

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.” 

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle. 

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own. 

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.” 

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness. 

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms. 

It’s quiet. 

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks. 

“Why’re you out here alone?” 

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him. 

Why do you care? 

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters. 

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.” 

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t. 

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches. 

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something. 

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent. 

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room. 

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.” 

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

-

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours. 

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!” 

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch. 

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow. 

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction. 

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way. 

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it. 

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets. 

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

-

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

-

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

-

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

-

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[togrowoldinv]

The Clubhouse

WandaNat x Female Reader

When the richest members of the country club approach you about joining their relationship, you can’t say no to them.

Warnings: Smut! 18+ please! Kissing, cursing, oral (N and R receiving), strap on sex (R and W receiving), essentially sugar mommies

Note: Enjoy!

WandaNat Masterlist, Main Masterlist

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Natasha’s raspy voice asks.

You barely hear her over the sound of your own heart beating. She is so close to you. Her hand is on your thigh, just a little too high to be friendly. Her nose presses against your neck.

“Yeah. It’s just- this is coming out of nowhere,” you say.

“Is it?” Wanda asks. Her tone is a bit condescending. You can’t help but press your thighs together at the way it makes you feel.

“We’ve been flirting with you for months now,” Natasha says. “You haven’t noticed?”

You shake your head. Wanda grabs your chin a little roughly to force you to look into her eyes. This is way too intimate for a public area of the clubhouse. A corner booth doesn’t offer much privacy.

Wanda and Natasha frequent this bar area often after their visits to the course. You never knew that they paid any attention to you working.

“Use your words, baby,” Wanda instructs.

“No, I didn’t notice,” you reply.

“That’s a shame,” Wanda says. “We thought about you every night. Didn’t we, Natasha?”

“Mhm, we did,” Natasha agrees. She moves her mouth to your neck and leaves a few opened mouth kisses. “Every night as I buried my face in my wife’s pussy I thought about what yours might taste like.”

You bite your lip and can’t help but close your eyes at the feeling of her lips, and her words make you feel unspeakable things.

Wanda presses her lips to the other side your neck, following the same delicate pattern that Natasha did.

“And when I rode her strap, I thought about how good you’d look doing the same. Being so good for us,” Wanda says.

“What did you say, baby? Will you join us?” Natasha asks.

You almost nod without speaking, but you remember Wanda said to use your words.

“Yes,” you breathe out. You’re not really sure why you agree, but you know that you want to see where this goes. “I- um- I don’t get off until 8.”

“I can fix that,” Natasha says. She gets up from beside you. You miss her warmth already.

“Let’s go to the car,” Wanda says. She holds your hand and walks with you to the door. Natasha meets you there.

“You’re free to leave,” Nat says. She places a hand on your back to lead you out of the clubhouse. “And don’t worry, this will be better than any tip you’ll get from these men.”

Outside, there is a car waiting for Wanda and Nat. They help you into the backseat with them. Their thighs press against yours as they sit close. Natasha fields a few calls on the car ride to their house.

When you arrive, the driver opens the door to reveal the absolute mansion Wanda and Nat live in. The two women walk you inside. They share a nod and Wanda walks to the other room. Natasha ushers you into the living room.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Natasha says. She gestures to the couch. You sit and watch as she makes a drink. “Would you like one?”

“I’m okay,” you reply.

“Y/n,” she says as she walks to the couch. She is wearing a fur coat that reveals enough of her chest that you want to see more. Her blonde hair is styled perfectly. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” you say too quickly. “Intimidated by you is actually it.”

“Ah, okay,” Natasha says. “And Wanda?”

“Same thing,” you tell her.

“We’re just people, you know.”

Wanda enters the room. She shed her blazer and is now wearing dress pants and a white blouse. Her brown hair cascades over the material.

“I made you a drink,” Natasha says to Wanda.

“Thank you, my love,” Wanda replies. She takes her drink from the table and sits on the couch on the other side of you. “So, what did I miss?”

“Oh nothing,” Nat replies.

“Did you tell her what we want?” Wanda asks as if you aren’t there. Nat shakes her head. “Well, then I will. Y/n, we are very attracted to you. And we wanted to ask you to join us. No strings attached. Just sex. What do you think?”

“I- um-”

“Wanda, don’t scare her,” Natasha jumps in. Her hand rubs your back. “We can take it slow. For example, can I kiss you?”

“Okay,” you agree.

Natasha’s hand comes to your neck as she pulls you in for a kiss. Her plump lips brush against yours softly. You feel your entire body burning with pleasure. She doesn’t deepen the kiss, but it was enough to make you think you’d say yes to anything she asked.

“How was that?” Natasha asks.

“Wow,” you say seriously. The blonde chuckles.

“Wanda, why don’t you try,” Nat tells her wife.

Wanda pulls you her way and kisses your lips much in the same way that Natasha did. She tastes different though. Her kiss is hungrier. You get the feeling this was her idea and Nat is doing it to make her happy. Not that she minds.

When Wanda stops kissing you, Natasha is quick to bring her in for a kiss. The two of them kiss in front of you. The sight of their tongues mingling alone is enough to get you off.

“You like that?” Natasha asks you. She noticed the way you were staring.

You nod. Wanda suddenly leans forward and bites your neck. It hurts but not more than it feels good.

“Words, detka. Words,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

Wanda seemingly forgives you as she kisses your lips again. Nat moves her deft fingers over your button up. It seems she is magic as she unbuttons all of them by the time Wanda moves her attention to your chest.

The brunette uses her hands to push open your shirt. Your bra falls to the side. You assume Natasha also took that off you when Wanda was distracting you with her intoxicating lips.

“So beautiful,” Wanda breathes out. “I have imagined this.”

Natasha stands from the couch. She opens her coat to reveal she is completely naked aside from a red strap connected to her hips. Your eyes go wide at the sight. Wanda grins. She takes your nipple into her mouth while she takes the other with her fingers.

“Do you want to ride my strap, baby?” Natasha asks you.

“Yes please,” you say.

“Good girl,” Natasha says.

She sits on the couch next to you, pulling you onto her lap. She moves the tip of the strap over your folds. Wanda sits up higher on the couch and takes her wife’s breast into her mouth. Natasha slips the strap into you. You press your forehead against hers as she fills you up.

“Fuck, I knew she could take your cock so well,” Wanda says.

“I know, sweetheart. She is so fucking wet and tight,” Natasha says.

“I can’t wait to taste her for myself,” Wanda says. “To make her feel so good.”

Natasha’s hands move your hips back and forth as she pounds the strap into you. She hits the sweet spot over and over again. You feel yourself losing control.

“Come for me, y/n,” Nat instructs you.

You come hard against her strap, slowing your movements until you fall against her. She kisses your head softly. A stark contrast of how she was just pounding into you. The two women give you a moment to catch your breath.

Nat helps you slip off her strap. Wanda kneels on the floor in front of the couch. She spreads your legs open again before burying her face between them. Nat situates herself behind Wanda. She pulls her pants down her legs enough to gain access to her. Nat presses her strap into her wife.

Wanda groans as she feels Nat bury herself deep into her. The taste of you gets her high quickly. You squirm under her tongue and that spurs her on further.

“So fucking good,” Natasha says, accentuating each word with the movement of her hips.

“Fuck,” you mumble. You won’t last much longer.

You see Natasha smirk as she feels Wanda coming against her. Her pleasure is enough to finish you off. Coming hard against Wanda’s tongue, you fall apart.

The two women stop their ministrations and catch their breath. Wanda takes the strap off of Natasha’s hips. She kisses the woman before directing her to sit on the couch.

“I want to see you eat her out,” Wanda says to you.

“Yes ma’am.”

You stand from the couch and kneel before Natasha. Her strong hands direct you exactly where she wants you. Natasha smirks at how in heaven you look between her legs. Wanda moves her fingers over Nat’s pussy lips to work in tandem with your tongue.

“That’s it, baby. Make her feel so good,” Wanda says. She lifts your head to kiss you before pushing you back to Natasha’s clit. You suck her until her hips stutter beneath you.

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” Natasha says.

Wanda removes her hand to let you have the moment when Natasha comes to yourself. She is so beautiful falling apart underneath you. Once she comes down from her high, she pulls you up into her lap. You rest your head on Natasha’s shoulder.

Wanda sits next to you and the three of you recover together.

“How do you feel, y/n?” Wanda asks.

“I’m good,” you say. And you really are.

“I think this is going to work out just fine,” Natasha says.

After that day, Natasha and Wanda continue to see you at the clubhouse. Whenever they ask you to leave with them, you never turn them down. Why would you? They are absolutely perfect.

[rebeliz7]

Ride

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Request: 28, 37 & 64 with Wan? R is in love with Wanda but Wanda is between R and Vision and every time R tries to talk to her about it Wanda just gives excuses and R feels like Wanda just like her for the sex but Wan realizes she's in love too.

Word Count: 2815

28. “I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore.”

37. “You’re n-not ,um, w-wearing anything under that, are you..?”

…

Vision is - a good guy. He’s the kind of guy that any woman could date and be certain that he’d never hurt them. He’s reliable and polite, and nice to talk to. He’s a good friend, and even a better partner to have in the field. 

He’s been in love with Wanda for the entirety of his existence. You don’t think he even knew what love was when he fell for her, and still. 

They make a good looking couple, and Wanda seems to fit in his arms. Especially when they’re dancing like they’re currently doing. 

There’s a part of you that wants to desperately go over there and ask him to remove his hands from Wanda’s waist, but she’s not your girlfriend and you’re not generally a jealous person. 

Still, jealousy beats underneath your skin and you don’t like it. You don’t like it at all. 

Before Wanda, and before you got tangled in this situation, you used to despise jealous people and the feeling as a whole. You didn’t quite understand it either, and you often thought that jealousy was just a response to insecurity. 

There is no room for insecurities with Wanda, you know exactly where you’re standing with her. You two are not in a relationship, and you hate to feel possessive of her but you also can’t help it. Just looking at Vision touching her, as innocent as he does now -as he always does-, is enough to drive you mad. 

You turn in your seat, trying to spare yourself from the visuals any longer.

Usually you’d be enjoying a night like tonight. You like to dress up, put on some make up, do you hair and pick a nice outfit to wear. You should be mingling, trying to befriend whatever new person Tony is trying to impress, because that’s what these little parties serve for after all. 

Tonight you sit by the bar by yourself, nursing a drink and although dressed to the nines, you don’t feel like talking to anyone. 

“Can I get some water?” You haven’t even noticed the music changing, even less so Wanda approaching the bar. 

She looks radiant, of course. Her cheeks are flushed the slightest bit, you guess from all that dancing, and she’s smiling widely when she meets your eyes and you’re pulled into her orb immediately. 

“Hi.” You smile and her smile twists into something else, something more meaningful and private. 

“Hi.” She husks out, her voice dropping lower as she walks closer to you and takes the glass of whiskey from your hands to take a drink, her eyes never leaving yours. 

“Thirsty?” You ask as she gently gives the glass back and takes a discrete step backwards. 

She very openly checks you out, her eyes traveling from your face and taking every inch of you where you sit before she meets your stare again. You don’t shy away from her, but you do have - other reactions. 

“Very.” She nods with a sly grin that does inexplicable things to you. 

You breathe in deeply, perhaps in a weak attempt to get a grip of yourself, and you take the opportunity to really look at her too. 

She’s wearing a casual loose black mini dress that looks ridiculously good on her, and that does nothing to conceal the curves you know are under it. Her high heels make her legs look longer than usual, and her hair is down in soft meticulous waves that mixed with that smile, give her an angelic yet sensual appearance altogether. 

“You look amazing.” You smile when you meet her eyes, and she raises an eyebrow in amusement. 

“I feel like you’re talking to my legs.” She says with humor, and you become incredibly desperate to kiss that smile off her lips. 

“Well, obviously.” You reach out as she laughs and you take her hand to pull her closer to you. She wraps one arm around your shoulders and even kisses your cheek, all normal things that can be taken as two friends interacting and nothing more. 

“You look really hot with this.” She whispers, close to your ear, and her hand running down the front of your blazer. 

You swallow with difficulty as she steps backwards again, this time to take the water the waiter has finally brought her. 

She drinks her water and you become entranced with the movement of her throat, and the way her lips stay wet after she puts the glass down. 

Your stomach begins to ache when you can’t control the desire you feel for her, and all that ache slowly travels southwards and you don’t think you can wait another minute to have her. 

“Come on.” You take her hand and you don’t wait to hear an answer, although she’s laughing as she practically jogs behind you to keep up as you pull her out of the suite and towards the elevators. 

The moment the doors of the elevator slide closed you’re kissing her. She’s about to tell you something when you do, and you catch her open mouth in a delicious and drowning kiss. 

She moans softly as she wraps her arms around your shoulders, and you push her against the metal wall. 

You kiss her fully, your hands on her waist as the taste of her cherry lip gloss invades your senses. Even more so when you let your hands travel further down her body and you don’t feel any other fabric under her dress. 

“You’re n-not ,um, w-wearing anything under this, are you..?” You ask against her lips, your throat now dry while you think about her walking and dancing all night long like this. 

“Why don’t you find out.” She husks, her lips gracing yours as she speaks and you feel your knees go weak. 

You swallow with difficulty as your brain short circuits. Your stomach is tied in knots and you’re pretty sure that you’ve never felt as turned on as you feel right now. 

“We need to get to my room.” You tell her with urgency, and she smiles provocatively. 

“You’re taking me to bed?” She asks with an innocent smile that doesn’t fool you at all. 

“Who said anything about a bed?” You retort as you run your hands down her legs, scratching her skin lightly as she combs your hair back with her fingers and you kiss her again. 

You kiss her until the doors slide open, and she’s pushing you lightly with a beautiful smile on her raw kissed lips.

…

You remove her dress as soon as your bedroom door falls shut behind you, and she laughs at your impatience. You, on the other hand, are not laughing at all because she hasn’t been wearing a thing beneath that dress and the realization makes your skin prickle. 

“You’re such a bad girl.” You tell her as you guide her towards your bed. 

“Only because I know you love it.” She teases you, licking your lips and your jaw before she steps backwards and lays on your bed willingly. “Well? Are you gonna make me beg?”

You stare at her and you can’t believe her audacity. A few minutes ago she was dancing with a man who she knows is in love with her, and now she’s here, wet and ready for you to do whatever you want with her. 

You don’t make her beg. You could never. No, you live to give her whatever she wants. You yearn to make her cum as many times as she can resist. 

Your face between her legs and your lips wrapped around her clit, you have the pleasure of making her cum and hearing her moan your name, over and over again. 

While she catches her breath you get rid of your clothes, and then you immediately lay on top of her, wanting to feel her body against yours and desperate for a little release yourself. 

“Baby.” She whispers against your ear as she wraps you in her arms, and accommodates your thigh between her legs while pushing hers against your wet heat. “You’re so wet. I love it.” 

Her easy laughter makes your chest flutter, and you kiss her cheek as you try to find a rhythm with your hips. 

“Of course you do.” You smile and she gasps when you push your hips particularly hard. 

“I want to taste you.” She rolls on top of you, and kisses you needly before she kisses down your body wantonly. 

She doesn’t make you beg either, and the visual of her between your thighs, eyes locked with yours as she eats you out without holding back in the slightest, is enough to push you towards the edge. 

You’re laughing when you come back to your senses, and she’s already peppering your face with sweet kisses and a wide grin on her lips. 

“Wanna put on the strap for me?” She asks mischievously, biting her bottom lip as she waits for an answer. 

“What are you thinking?” You ask as you roll the two of you in bed again. Your lips kissing her cheeks, her jaw, her lips.

“I’m thinking - ” she cups your face, a devilish smile on her lips. “You look really well under me and I really want to ride you.”

You swallow thickly, and the next second you’re promptly getting the strap. 

The process of getting it on catches you both in a fit of laughter, but is comfortable and familiar, and you’re caught thinking that you’ve never had this feeling of belonging with anyone before. 

“Lay down and do nothing.” She instructs you when you’re ready, and you swiftly follow her orders.

You watch her take the toy in her hands as she sits on her heels beside you, that smile never leaving her lips as she strokes the fake dick and sends shots of pleasure directly to your clit each time she moves. 

“You want me to suck you?” She asks and you laugh as she moves to sit on your thighs, her hands never stilling. 

“I kinda do.” You nod and she leans forward to plant a sweet kiss on your lips before she crawls down the bed. 

To say that watching her give you a blowjob is the most bizarre thing you’ve ever seen, would be a poor understatement. Not that you don’t use the strap often, you do, whenever you feel like it. But she’s never offered to suck you before, and you think you might have been missing out. 

There’s something about her and her lips as she bobs her head up and down, her eyes never leaving yours as she struggles to breathe and stubbornly wanting to take the whole thing in her mouth at once. 

But there’s a moment when she comes out for air and she looks at you, and you think you can’t wait another second before you’re inside of her, and she seems to have the same thought. 

Grabbing her hand you pull her up and kiss her messily, and almost desperately. She moves to straddle you and you both work on lining the toy with her entrance before she sinks down on it with a heavy sigh and trembling body. 

For a few seconds she just sits there, and you try to stay still. Her head is thrown back, her hands squeezing your thighs behind her as she swallows and breathes in and out. 

You watch her and you know you want her. You want her for good, for yourself and you need to tell her that. 

When she finally moves her hips and her eyes meet yours again, you know you love her and you think she might love you too. 

She wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted to ride you. She does that enthusiastically for a little while, and when you grab her and roll on top of her, she moans out your name in the most delightful way. 

Her nails are digging on your back as you thrust your hips and fuck her against your mattress as hard as you possible can. 

And when she cums, a tidal wave of pleasure showers you as well, and you cum along with her. 

“I want you.” You tell her as you look up, the toy still buried in her. 

“Again?” She asks breathlessly and amusedly.

“I want you, Wanda. I want to be with you, and I want to be the only person in your life.” You tell her and her smile drops. 

“Let’s not do this tonight, please.” She seems to beg, her hands on your face now, trying to placate you like she’s done many times before. 

“I love you, and I want more than this. I deserve more than this.”

She looks away, still trying to catch her breath and pushes you off of her to be able to get out of bed. 

For a moment all you can feel is rejection, but you take a deep breath as she hurries to grab her dress from the floor and you get up too. 

You throw the damn strap away and you pick up a long shirt and put it on, if only to maintain some sort of dignity in the upcoming exchange. 

“Don’t you dare to leave like this.” You tell her when you see her grabbing her heels and heading for the door.

“What do you want me to say?” She asks you and you walk closer to her. Her hair is a mess, her makeup is smudged and if she walks out right now you have no doubt that anyone who sees her will know what she was just doing. 

“Anything.” You shrug and you see tears gathering in her eyes. “But you can’t just walk away after I told you I love you for the very first time.”

“I really don’t want to ruin this.” She tells you, and her words confuse you.

“How would you ruin this?”

“I always ruin what I love.” She says and you take her hands, letting her heels fall on the ground. 

There it is. 

“That won’t happen with us.” You assure her gently. “You’re my favorite person, and I love you.”

She chuckles when you say that and you go back to feel light, in a way. 

“And I want to be with you. For real this time. Don’t get me wrong, I love the sex. We’re very good at having it, but I want more and something tells me that you do too.”

She doesn’t say anything for a beat, and that’s how you know you’ve hit a point. 

“We will fight.” She argues weakly, and you peck her lips. “We will yell.”

“And then we’ll have make up sex. That’s like, the best sex out there.” You counter, and she laughs. “You love me?” 

“I do.” She nods, her voice soft and honest. She kisses you this time and even presses herself closer to you, so much so that you can feel her heart beating against your own chest. 

“Then no more excuses. We can do this.” You smile and kiss her again. She smiles, her hands on your face as she nods. 

“I’ll have to talk to Vision.” She realizes and you kiss her again. 

“So that’s that?” You ask with a smile. “We’re together now?”

“We are.” She nods and you pick her up and twirl her twice. You’re both laughing when her feet touch the ground again, and things seem to fall back into place. You’re you again.  

“Let him down gently.” You suggest and she takes a deep breath before taking off her dress one more time, and heading straight to your closet and then your bed. 

She’s familiar with your room, she knows where everything is, and she’s stopped asking to borrow your clothes a while ago. You watch her put on some shorts before she looks at you again. 

“I will. He’s such a nice guy.” She says as she throws your comforter to the ground, and you take a clean one from the closet. 

“He really is.” You agree, as you both get under the new comforter. 

“Are we bad people?” 

“Maybe.”

You’ll think about that in the morning, right now you want nothing more than to cuddle your new girlfriend and have a good night’s sleep. 

… 

[perrywrites]

Absentmindedly murmuring that you want him inside of you during his practice;

NSFW 

Includes; Isagi, Hiori, Bachira

Part 2 (Chigiri, Reo) and part 3 (Kaiser, Barou) and part 4 (Nagi, Shidou, Kunigami) and part 5 (Sae, Rin, Karasu, Otoya, Yukimiya)

Isagi: it’s time for his break during practice, and he’s gulping down water, adam’s apple bobbing as he hydrates himself. He’s loosely aware of your dazed stare as you continue looking at him from the bench, after all you haven’t been very subtle in staring at him throughout practice - and although he could ignore it on field, not so much off of it. He’s still gulping down water, about to go towards you afterwards just for a quick chat, and to ask you why you’ve been staring at him so much, unusually quietly. Then you say something that makes him freeze up, setting fire to his face and nearly killing him in the process. “I want you inside of me…” you mumble that, sighing in a manner as if he had romanced you. The surprise proves near fatal, and he’s choking on his water, turning away from you as his ears burn up fiercely. What? What? Did you actually just say that? Or has he somehow actually gone crazy now? Some sort of brain fatigue? An answer to his unasked question comes in the form of your lighthearted giggle, as you apologize casually for letting your thoughts slip out. That doesn’t do anything to calm the fire heating up his skin, heart thundering throughout his body, especially not when your eyes are still just as dazed when you look up at him, all lovesick and opaque with longing. “You can’t just say that,” he says, voice quiet and strained, face still heavily flushed. You giggle, and tease him a bit more, before he goes back to practice. Except now he can’t focus on anything anymore. All he can think about are your sweet words, that lovesick gaze of yours, and the softness of your plush walls. His mind is failing, and you’ve proven to be a magnificent distraction. The only thing on his mind right now is how badly he wants to sink into you and fuck you hard for even daring to say that outloud. He wants to pin you down and have his way with you, make you so dumb on his cock, fill you up - and oh god. He’s clenching his hands, flexing any muscles in his body that he can, trying to divert the blood away from his cock, because his shorts were starting to feel a little too tight. Fuck, look at what you’ve done. Are you proud of yourself? You’re not going to be getting away with this, you know that, right? Why did you think it was a good idea to tease him like this during practice, make him want you so badly? Was last night not enough? Just wait until the end of practice. He’ll be pouncing on you with a growl, dragging you somewhere private he can pound some fucking sense into you. Don’t bother trying to run away, you know he’ll catch you.

Hiori: he finds himself raising an amused eyebrow as he walks towards you during his break, noting how you’re still looking at him, all dreamy and dazed, gaze thick with longing. He knows more than well enough the meaning of that stare, your expressions always give away far too much, but he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he asks you lightly if something’s wrong, taking sips of his water. He freezes before he can go in for a third sip, some water spilling out from the top of the bottle at his sudden pause. Did he hear you right? Did you actually just say that? He blinks, looking at you, and his eyes narrow darkly when he catches that spacey fuzzy look on your face. How do you manage to look so innocent and corruptible despite just saying such a perverse thing? He doesn’t understand it, no matter how many times he thinks about it, but what he does know is how that spaced out look on your face never fails to stir sinful desires within him, cock twitching in his pants as his body heats up. On the surface, he looks calm, as always, nothing amiss - but his eyes are clouded over deeply, and his jaw is tense. You love to test his self-restraint, don’t you? For some reason, when you two first started dating, you seemed to have the impression that he doesn’t yearn, doesn’t have a sexual appetite, and it was amusing for him to prove you wrong again and again, take you by surprise - because every time you’d be befuddled by the fact that he wants you, and that he wants you badly. That’s why you’re capable of saying something so inviting so carelessly, right? Even right now, you don’t know a single thing that’s running through his mind, do you? How he wants to watch your eyes turn all dewy, tears pooling as you whimper and sob out his name beneath him, face flushed and lips quivering, an expression only for him on your face, make you vulnerable and helpless underneath as he loves you to death. He wants to do all of those things and more, make you so weak and useless, cherish you and make you take him until you break. But, he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he smiles impassively, walking over to you as he pats your head, but when he speaks, there’s something veiled in his controlled voice. “Don’t worry, ya only have to wait a little longer, okay?”

Bachira: throughout practice he catches your stare, noting your listless gaze as your eyes follow him run and score across the field. He’s not oblivious, though, he can tell well enough the simmering desire sitting heavy and darkly in your seemingly empty and unthinking eyes. “What’s with that look?” he asks, all toothy smirk and teasing eyes as he drinks from his bottle, eager to badger you during his small water break. But it seems like you’re a little too out of it, feeling a little too bold, because you respond bluntly, murmuring quietly that you were thinking about wanting him inside of you. He’s taken aback at your unintentional provocation, blinking away the shock as he smiles, amused. You really will be the death of him, won’t you? He tries lightheartedly teasing you, asking you what made you so impatient that you couldn’t even wait until you two were alone to tell him this, and when you say that neither of you would be able to resist right now if he got you alone, he damn near loses his mind. He can feel the heat spreading through his body, itching to do something to you as you continue looking up at him all dazed and yearning, and he tells you that exactly so, voice all husky. With a smile as normal as ever, except his eyes are glinting in a way that sends fire down your core. A whimper bubbles up your throat. “I want you to do something to me so badly, you have no clue,” you say, whimpery voice bursting out, and you’ve done it. His eyes darken needily, smile faltering, and he quickly ditches his towel and water bottle; practice be damned. Hand on your arm, he pulls you up and begins lightly dragging you somewhere else, somewhere isolated, somewhere he can fuck you and make you cry so hard on his cock you lose your voice. That’s what you get for tempting him. This is what you want, right? He’ll give it all to you, don’t worry. Just be good and submissive for him, spread those legs for him and leave your body all pliant under his hungry touch. He’ll fill you up, and he’ll keep filling you up until you’re satisfied - or rather, until he’s satisfied. Because you’ve lit a fire in him that you absolutely can’t handle - but don’t worry - he’ll hold you and love you even when you become a babbling mess on his cock, so let him break you apart right now. You’re the one that started it this time anyways, so he doesn’t have to hold back, right?

[18250mm]

She Kicks Ass | N. Romanoff

Gif not mine, credit to creator

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x GN!Super-Soldier!Reader

Word Count: 1,122

Warnings: None

Summary: You save Clint’s ass when Natasha gets angry at him, but not before reminding everyone just how good she is at kicking ass.

---

“Who the hell ate my sandwich?!” Natasha’s voice echoed through the Avengers Compound. She’d just come back from a tough morning at the gym and she was, without a doubt, ready for lunch.

When the redhead opened the refrigerator to grab the food you had so graciously prepared for her before heading off to fulfil your own duties at S.H.I.E.L.D., it was gone.

Pissed wasn’t even enough to describe how she felt right now.

“What are you yelling about, baby?” you asked, walking into the kitchen since you were on your lunch break too. “How was your training this morning?”

You and Natasha had been together for about two years now, having started dating a few months after you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. as an agent. You had defected from HYDRA — although… to be fair, you never really agreed with their ideologies in the first place — after being born to parents in the organisation. With your expertise and skill sets matching that of a high-ranking agent, you worked closely with Maria and Natasha as the second Deputy Director.

You weren’t small either, making you useful for certain field missions. Since HYDRA loved to experiment on their troops, it came as no surprise when you were eventually chosen to test their latest version of the super-soldier serum. It wasn’t an exact replica of the one Steve Rogers had coursing through his veins, but hey — at least it didn’t kill you.

“It was good up till the point I found out that someone ate the sandwich you made for me,” Natasha replied with a pout before resuming her stoic expression. “And when I find out who it is–”

She didn’t even finish her sentence before storming off (not without giving you a quick peck on the lips, of course) — but you knew exactly what she was going to say. You weren’t the most religious, yet you found yourself saying a silent prayer for the culprit.

You chuckled, turning around to grab the same ingredients you had used to make the first sandwich. Whatever happened to the last one, you didn’t know; but you weren’t going to let that spoil your girlfriend’s mood for the rest of the day.

…

A good 10 minutes had passed since you last saw Natasha. You’d finished preparing and bagging the second sandwich, and was awaiting the redhead’s return before lunch was over.

You had also brewed a fresh pot of coffee, mostly for the two of you to enjoy, but in good nature, the rest of the team too.

“Y/N! Y/N, help me!” came an exasperated whisper from across the room.

Turning around in confusion, your furrowed brows quickly softened when you saw Clint running into the kitchen with… a sandwich in his mouth.

Natasha’s sandwich.

He had taken it. And your girlfriend was hot on his tail.

“You really should know better than to take Nat’s food, Hawkeye,” you told him, but stepped aside anyway for him to climb into the vent above you. “She isn’t the kind of target you’d wanna mess with. You know that.”

The blond rolled his eyes and nodded, mumbling quick apologies you couldn’t even make out. “Mmank hyou!” he said — and that was the last you saw of him as he disappeared somewhere into the inner spaces of the Avengers Compound.

“I don’t care if you’re my best friend, I wouldn’t even let my sister eat that sandwich! Y/N made it for me!” you heard your lover’s voice as she made her way towards you — she had definitely seen Clint turn the corner here — with Wanda, Yelena and Kate behind her.

By now, a small crowd had formed — with all the shouting and vent-climbing, how could it not? — around you two.

Natasha came to a halt and looked around. “Detka, where’s Clint?”

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “I haven’t seen him, I thought he was with Kate,” you met the tall brunette’s eyes, subtly motioning for her to go along with it.

At first, Kate didn’t catch on, shaking her head before glancing up and spotting her mentor directly above her as he watched the scene unfold while chewing on the sandwich. Her eyes widened and she went into a coughing fit — causing all eyes to turn to her for a brief moment.

“I’m fine, thank you,” the young archer assured everyone. “Uh, yeah. Clint was just with me, ‘Tasha. I think he went to the armoury to grab more trick arrows…”

“I could’ve sworn I saw him come in here with my food,” Natasha mumbled, sighing. You immediately wrapped your arms around her comfortingly. “I really wanted that sandwich.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” you cooed, stepping aside to reveal her newly-replaced lunch and a cup of coffee. “I made you another one. Now, how ‘bout you eat before our break’s over?”

The way Natasha’s eyes lit up was the reason you wanted to do everything in life that would make her smile like that.

“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing you on the cheek as you tightened your grip on her.

“I’m just glad she won’t kick Barton’s ass today,” Tony laughed. “Though I’m sure with Rogers and Barnes around, that won’t be too easy for her.”

You merely scoffed at the billionaire’s statement. “My girlfriend can totally kick their asses! She can kick anyone’s ass. Hell, she can even kick my ass. And she has, many times. It was hot.”

Natasha watched you lovingly and casually sipped on her coffee as you rambled on. The other Avengers laughed, some shaking their heads while others looked away nervously because they saw no lie in what you said.

“Thank you for coming to my sister’s rescue,” said Yelena. “But I feel the need to clarify that I am still better than her.”

“Yeah, okay. We’ll see about that,” your beloved redhead replied sarcastically, finishing the rest of her food and putting the dishes in the sink. “Come, sestra. Let’s put that to the test.”

As the two made their way to the gym — with Wanda shaking her head and mumbling something along the lines of ‘here we go again’ — and the rest dispersed to either have their lunch or resume whatever task they had been doing, you sat alone by the island and took a bite of your own sandwich.

You smiled to yourself, thinking about how good you had it despite having to risk your life every day. You were absolutely in love with Natasha Romanoff, not to mention the amazing family you’d made with the Avengers.

Your thoughts were briefly interrupted when a blur of purple darted past you, but not before giving you a kiss on the head.

“Thanks for saving me back there, Y/N/N!” Clint waved, making his way to the armoury to actually get some of those trick arrows so Natasha wouldn’t be suspicious.

[lunajay33]

Save a Horse🍂

Summary: Wandering around in the apocalypse was hell until you came across a a ranch, finding a injured horse you helped it finding the owner and things getting a little heated with an older cowboy

Pairing: Cowboy Negan Smith x f!reader

Warning: Age gap, reader is in 20s Negan is mid 40s, p in v, praise, virginity lose

Inspired by @lanadelnegan stories🤎

•Masterlist•

The apocalypse hit and everything happened so fast, I was with my family at our farm for some time watching the news, listening to the horror stories on the radio, we thought that we could go unscathed since we hadn’t been affected and that all the food and water we needed was on our land but all that changed one night when a hoard of walkers ran down our farm, my parents were first trying to fight of the walkers, quickly being ripped apart their screams still lingered in my head whenever I thought about them, then it was my two sisters trying to flee but got surrounded taking them down as well, I was lucky enough to get to my truck finding an opening in the walkers and driving away from my home, leaving me all alone on the road

Now it’s been 2 years going from place to place just trying to survive, to find a reason to keep living in this cruel world, I’ve been able to dodge as many walkers as I can, that wasn’t the main problem anymore, the food shortage was what dwindled my hope

My truck had broke down a while back so now I’ve just been wandering on foot, walking through the trees trying to get some shade from Georgia summer heat when I hear a groan and thud, I follow the direction of the whines on a left of what have might caused it, walkers, people, god knows what now a days

Rounding a tree I see a horse laying down on the ground, I approached slowly not wanting to spook it having experience with horses back on the farm, kneeling in front of it petting its soft black mane

“Hey girl, what are you doing out here all alone?” She didn’t look injured she was laying down fine, maybe she just got hot it was one of the hottest days I’ve ever lived in even in Georgia

I took out one of the bottles of water I found poring some of it over her face to help cool her down then poring the rest in a bowl I had in my bag and she was quick to drink it

After some time I stood up taking her lead rope trying to get her to stand up, I couldn’t leave her here all alone for some walkers to eat her alive maybe she came from somewhere near by

Walking through the trees she would occasionally change our course more like she was leading me than I was her until we got to a break in the trees, a ranch in perfect condition, a few horses grazing the field, little sheep’s hoping around, a chicken coop and a cozy little cabin like house right in the middle of the land, a brown bronco truck parked out front

Opening the gate, closing it behind me and the horse so the other animals wouldn’t get out like she did somehow, when a deep voice stopped me in my tracks

“See ya brought Missy back, been wondering where she went off to” coming down the porch steps was a older man, cowboy hat, white shirt, blue jeans and boots, maybe it was the lack of human contact or even interactions but damn was he fine, I didn’t realize he was right infront of me till he cleared his throat breaking me out of my oogling

“Oh yeah, I found her out in the woods she must had heat exhaustion so I gave her some water” my stomach feels like it’s in knots, I haven’t felt like this in so long, he’s said a few words and I’m entranced by him

“A nice and pretty girl might just have to keep ya around darling” he smirked making my knees weak, but I still have my values I’m not just going to jump his bones even though the urge is so strong

“Oh I mean if you’re able to take me in I’ll earn my keep, help around the farm, anything I just…..I can’t stay out there alone any longer” I said praying he’d give me a chance, some hope

“Ya sure you know what you’re doing around a farm?” He asked as he looked me up and down, lingering on my chest

“I grew up on a farm, I know what I’m doing”

“Hmmm well come on in, see where you can stay” I let Missy go so she could run off with the others, following him inside, it was bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside, cute kitchen, wooden accents around the house, he kept walking down a hallways till he stopped at a room waiting for me to go in first, it was cozy, I don’t care if this place was trashy as long as I can be stress free and have someone to keep me company

“You like it?” He asked from the doorway

“I love it, thank you” I said as I sit on the bed letting out a long awaited sigh

“How long were you out there?”

“I don’t know time is hard to keep track of out there, maybe 2 years”

“Damn girl, 2 years did you atleast have someone out there?”

“My farm fell early taking my family with it when the walkers came, so it’s just been me until now”

He gave me a pitiful look it made the blood rush to my cheeks

“Come on darlin, supper should be done, should get some food in you” he said waving me out of the room and Im quick to follow him to the kitchen where I sit at the table as he dishes up some food, fresh food something I haven’t had in well forever it feels like

He sits across from me at the table taking his hat of showing his dark brown hair streaked with some grey, biting my lip to stop myself from fantasizing about running my hands through his hair, pulling on it as I feel his beard scratch against my legs

“So what’s your name darlin, like to call you something other than sweet names” he smirks obviously realizing my constant leering but he didn’t make it easy

“I’m fine with your little names but it’s y/n”

“You got a spark still considering how long you’ve been out there, how old are you even?”

“20 you?”

“Let’s just say I’m old enough to be your father”

“Not a problem for me” I said under my breath

A few weeks went by and I did what I said, working hard around the farm, waking up early to collect eggs from the chicken coop, feeding the horses and sheep, picking any ripe berries from the garden all before he was even up, no different from today, I laid berries on our plates and scrambled some eggs finishing right when he comes out of his room, scruffy hair, boxers and a black tank top showing off his tattoos, yes I earned my keep but the tension between us was growing stronger and stronger everyday, every touch, every long night of staying up talking I have to do something about it

“Morning Negan sleep well?” I asked as he sat across from me, our usual spots since that first day

“Great darlin, would’ve been better if you were next to me all night” he smirked, he’d do this tease me and act like it was nothing but it was something to me especially when I’d stay up late at night touching myself thinking of the things he’d say

“Negan you’re driving me crazy you know that” I said chomping on a strawberry

“You think I don’t hear you?”

“What?” My face flushed, please god don’t let it be what I think it is

“At night, when you think I’m fast asleep, I hear you moaning my name, whimpering when you can’t make yourself finish” he said his voice getting deeper as he leaned further across the table

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I gotta go……..go clean up the hay” I said flustered and completely embarrassed standing up and leaving the house to the barn

OH MY GOD this is so embarrassing, he’s heard me touch my self to him what is wrong with me, it’s only been a week and I can’t control myself, maybe because he’s everything I want, strong sexy makes my knees weak and panties wet, plus I have so much pent up sexual frustration, growing up on a farm and not being allowed to date led to me now, a horny 20 year old fantasizing about a man who generously gave me shelter and food, I’m a mess, a horny mess that wants to ride this man all day long

I get to the barn pitchforking any loose straw back into the pile trying to figure out what I’m suppose to do now, how do I face him again after he’s heard me moan his name

“I can hear your crazy thoughts from here darling” I look to the barn door seeing him dressed in blue jeans, cowboy boots, his cowboy hat and a brown plaid

“I can’t take it anymore Negan, obviously you know that now, please just……..”

“Just what baby?” He asks his voice deeper again as he gets closer gripping my waist, his hands alone engulfing me

“Just touch me”

He leans down grabbing the back of my thighs lifting me to straddle his hips, my arms wrapped around his shoulders now face to face

“You sure you can handle this sweetheart?”

“I need it, I need you to fuck me please I’ve been so good” I say as he litters my neck with sloppy kisses

“You have, such a good girl for me, guess you deserve a big reward for that” he smirks as he squeezes my ass, laying my down in the hay pile

“Fuck you got me so hard, you know how hard it was to not bust into your room hearing your sweet moans just begging for me to plow this pussy?” He grips the bottom of my sundress hauling it off over my head leaving me in just my panties, my tits completely exposed

Hearing him groan as his hands roam my body, from my hips up my stomach to caress my tits rubbing his thumbs over them making my panties even more soaked

“That feels so good, doesn’t feel like this *fuck* when I try” I whimper my body feeling like it’s on fire

“No one ever make you feel good darling?” He says as he leaves kitten licks against my nipples feeling like lighting shooting from them to my clit, trying to grind against his thigh between my legs

“No, no one’s ever…..”

“No ones ever touched you, you’re a virgin?” He continues to suck hickeys down my stomach stopping at the hem of my panties

“Only you” I moan needing more

“Don’t worry I’ll make you feel good baby” he removed everything he’d wearing going to throw his hat in the pile of clothes but is top him

“Stop!……keep it on”

“You like cowboys? Wanna take a ride?” He smirks as he pulls down my panties leaving us both naked

“I mean I did save your horse, it’s only right to ride the cowboy” I say as I flip him over to straddle his hips, his dick standing big thick and prominent, he’s really gonna stretch me out good

“Oh ya it’s only right” he laughs squeezing my hips hard as he helps me move them back and forth grinding on his dick getting it wet

“I need it please”

“Take your time darling” he says as he lifts me up so I’m hovering right above him feeling his tip gently pushing against me

I slowly push down feeling the pressure and stretch, it hurt god it was way bigger than my two fingers

“Fuck baby you’re so tight” he grunts

“Is it…….is it all in, you’re so big I don’t know if I can take much more” I moan uncontrollably, all this sexual frustration finally breaking free

“Just a little more, come on be a good girl and take it” he helps push me down the rest of the way till I feel his skin flush against my clit

I sigh I relief that I got it all in but the sting isn’t pleasant

“Take your time cowgirl, wanna get you nice and stretched before you try and ride your cowboy” he laughs as he sits up kissing my neck again and rubbing my clit to help distract the pain

“God I can’t wait” I say gripping his shoulders as I start moving up and down, slowly at first feeling him deeper and deeper each time

“Fuck baby this pussy is gonna be the death of me” I take his hat putting it on holding it with one hand just like I would when riding a mechanical bull, bouncing and gyrating fast and harder and deeper feeling him hit that spot where it makes me see stars and screaming his name over and over as I feel that tension build up in my lower stomach

“Come on cowgirl, cum on my dick, make yourself cum, let it out” he says meeting my thrusts over and over driving even deeper

My hearing goes fuzzy feeling like my whole body is lit up with pleasure, it’s never felt this good before doing it by myself, soon feeling a warm liquid shoot up inside me, dripping down in between us making a sticky hot mess

Coming back down to earth from that mind blowing orgasm I feel his hands roaming up and down my back, his chest pressed against mine

“Did I do it right” I moan biting my lip slowly grinding on him

“Damn darling, that was the best fuck of my life, yeah you did it right, look great doing it to, could get us to this” he says laying back in the hay hands behind his head

I sat up feeling him slide out whining when he popped out his cum dripping onto the hay as I lean down against his chest

“I want more”

“Damn baby girl, they were right good girls really are the most frustrated”

We spent the rest of the day in the barn, him taking me in every position imaginable, everyone better than the last until we were exhausted and my pussy ached so good

“Glad you found my horse that day”

“Me too Negan”

I want this man desperately damn, I’m newish to writing this kind of story so if you got any tips lmk

[triptuckers]

feelings that flicker - remy lebeau

Request: nope Pairing:  remy lebeau x mutant!reader (reader has the ability to manipulate and control electricity) Summary:  remy thinks you have trouble controling your powers, but there’s something else going on Warnings:  none! Word count:  1.6K A/N: to think this is the third fic I’m writing today and I also finished reading the darkness within us and read and finished what moves the dead… no wifi making me do crazy things lmao enjoy!

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as remy walks into the kitchen, he notices the lights briefly flicker and the coffee machine starts beeping furiously.

‘oh, fuck!’ you say, abandoning your breakfast as you bolt over to the coffee machine.

you put your hands on either side of it and concentrate, making sure the machine’s temperature goes back to normal. remy waits for you to step back before reaching for the coffee pot.

‘I’m not gonna burn my mouth now?’ he says.

‘nope, you’re all good.’ you say, briefly smiling at him before you go back to your breakfast. 

jubilee gives you a knowing smile as she nods her head towards remy. you elbow her in the side, shooting her a warning glare. you never should have confided in her about your feelings for remy. it’s bad enough you nearly lose control whenever he enters the room. you don’t need jubilee to start dropping hints around him.

remy doesn’t seem to notice any of it, as he’s rummaging through the kitchen in search for breakfast. you ignore jubilee’s not so subtle nudges as you continue to eat your breakfast.

for the remainder of the morning, no lights flicker and no coffee machines overheat.

as you go on about your day, teaching some of the kids, remy has been thinking hard.

those flickering lights haven’t gone completely unnoticed to him. every time he enters the room you’re in, the lights flicker and if there’s some sort of machine or electronic device, it also acts up. the same thing happens when you enter a room he’s already in.

the electric stove that suddenly turned on in the kitchen. the tv turning on while no one was holding the remote. beasts’ many monitors that all started beeping at the same time – and you apologising over and over, making sure there wasn’t any damage.

and always those flickering lights.

but he knows you regularly go to the danger room to train. mostly with jean, storm and jubilee. occasionally scott calls for the entire team to have a training session, and remy always watches you closely during those sessions.

you never seem to lose control during a simulation. and he has yet to see you lose control in the field. 

if anything, he’s impressed by your abilities. 

the things you could accomplish never fail to amaze him. in his opinion, you’re one of the best and most amazing x-men he’s ever seen. not that he would ever admit that out loud. the teasing would be endless. and he doesn’t want to embarrass you. 

still, it doesn’t sit right with him the way you sometimes slip up. 

is it something about him? does he bother you somehow?

he’s so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice the conversation stops when he enters the kitchen again in the afternoon.

remy looks up to see jubilee, scott and jean. he raises a single eyebrow in question, but no one explains anything, and jubilee starts talking about the latest session in the danger room she did with roberto.

while getting a snack, remy can’t help but to think he was a topic of conversation before he walked in.

‘hey cyclops, you gon’ work with y/n on controlling her powers?’ he says.

scott frowns at his words. ‘why would I?’

‘she always loses control when I see her.’ remy points out. ‘just this morning she nearly made the coffee machine overheat and combust. jubilee, you were there.’

‘have you ever seen her lose control during a mission?’ says scott.

‘non, but it doesn’t make sense why she would lose control in the kitchen and not when there’s people actively trying to kill us.’ says remy.

at his words, jubilee chuckles.

‘you never noticed?’ she says.

‘noticed what?’ says remy, confused.

‘jubilee, he’s a man. they never do.’ says jean, before turning to remy. ‘she only ever slightly slips up when you enter the room. why do you think that is?’ she says gently

‘que? only when I enter the room? why? I thought she was just jumpy, maybe I move too quietly?’ says remy.

‘come on, gambit, use those brains of yours, you’ll figure it out.’ says jubilee.

remy starts thinking out loud. ‘she only slips up when I’m in the room. or when she walks in and I’m already there. she never loses control in the field. oh, merde, does she like me?’

‘there you go! took you long enough.’ says jubilee.

‘she likes me?’ mumbles remy, smiling to himself. 

‘she’s in her room.’ says jean pointedly.

‘oui, yeah, merci.’ says remy, a bit dazed as he leaves the kitchen.

he had never once considered you might like him, and that that’s why you lose control. it makes sense now that he knows. in the field, you’re too concentrated on staying alive to focus on where he is and if he’s near. 

and he did notice you seemed to blush a lot whenever the lights flickered. you thought it was just embarrassment that your control slipped, but what if it was about him?

of course he’d noticed you when you first arrived at the mansion. how could he not? you were beautiful and he’d seen you demonstrate your powers when logan asked about it. 

now that he knows all of it, he doesn’t get how he didn’t see it before. clearly everyone knew but him? but why hadn’t you said anything to him?

as he reaches the top of the stairs, he sees the door to your room ahead. 

what was he even going to say to you? maybe he’ll just start by asking you about your powers, maybe you were aware of why you lose control.

he knocks on the door.

‘coming!’ he hears you say.

‘it’s me.’ says remy.

the light spilling onto the hallway through the gap near the floor flickers slightly, and remy smiles to himself. 

you open the door and smile at him.

‘remy!’ you say. ‘what’s up?’

since that conversation earlier with jubilee and jean, it’s like he sees you in a different light. your hair is up, and the sleeves of your shirt are rolled up. when he looks closely, he sees a slight blush on your cheeks. 

‘just came to check up on you. and tell you the coffee machine is okay.’ he says.

‘oh ha ha.’ you say sarcastically. ‘thanks very much for that update.’

you step aside to let him in. he notices the workbench in the corner of the room, scattered with various pieces of machinery. a steaming mug shows that you were working on something.

‘did I disturb you?’ he says.

‘not at all, I was just messing around.’

‘you control electricity, right?’

you frown. everyone knows about everyone’s abilities. there aren’t any secrets about powers.

‘and create it, yes.’

‘and you’ve been training for a long time.’

‘yes? what are you getting at, remy?’

‘why do you lose control when I’m around?’ he says, not dancing around it any longer.

‘I don’t.’ you say, hoping he doesn’t see through the lie. 

there’s no way he knows, right? he can’t. unless, of course, he talked to jubilee. damn that girl and her traiterous mouth.

‘come on, chéri, don’t deny it.’ says remy. 

you briefly look at him before you reach out to toy with some of the machinery on your workbench. you mumble something remy can’t hear, so he steps closer to you.

‘what was that?’ he says.

you swallow and look at him. ‘I have issues controling my powers whenever I’m around someone I have very strong feelings for.’ you admit in a soft voice. ‘it’s how I knew I was a mutant in the first place. I nearly electrocuted my first boyfriend.’

‘strong feelings, hm?’ says remy, stepping even closer to you.

‘remy, I’m trying so hard not to burst every light in this room right now.’ you say. ‘you’re making it very difficult like this.’

‘like what?’

‘like this.’ you say, gesturing to the small amount of space between the two of you.

‘but you admit you have, in your words, strong feelings for me?’

‘yes…’

‘parfait. I have strong feelings for you too, chéri.’

your eyes snap up to his upon hearing his words.

‘please tell me you’re not messing with me.’ you say. ‘because if you are, it really isn’t funny.’

remy lightly shakes his head. ‘non, I would never.’ he says. 

you notice how close his face is to yours and take a tenative step back, but your back hits your workbench. 

‘nervous?’ he says.

‘no.’ you say.

the lights in your room briefly flicker.

remy smirks at you. ‘the lights say something different, chéri. would the lights explode if I kiss you now?’

you feel a blush on your cheeks. ‘I don’t know.’ you say softly.

‘want to find out?’ says remy, leaning closer.

‘yeah.’ you manage to say.

remy closes the remaining space between you, pressing his lips against yours. you’re glad the workbench is at your back, because you’re sure your knees have given up on you. 

you feel how his hands come to rest on your hips. through your closed eyelids, you can tell the lights are indeed flickering, and you can feel remy smile against your lips.

but you don’t give a damn about those lights. because remy lebeau is finally kissing you. you couldn’t care less if all the lights burst in the mansion. it’ll be worth it.

A/N: thanks for reading! everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. please do not copy, translate, plagiarise or repost my work! some of these are requested by other people and I spend a lot of time and effort on my works <3 much love, marit

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is truly desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”