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«Антология русского хоррора: Красный состав» (Red Iron Road)
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King's Row of Glenwood Caverns
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caffeinewitchcraft · 27 days ago
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The Fool Dies
Summary: You are a villain known for telling the future. When a Hero kills your right hand, you’ll let the future burn to get her back.
Hero Cowboy kills your henchman after you’ve already surrendered.
Gunshot silence, the scent of iron heavy in your nose, the crippling cold that floods your chest. All familiar sensations, companions you’ve carried with you since you even became a villain, but this time—
This time it’s…different.
You’re on your knees, the rock salt on the road digging into your kneecaps, with your hands above your head, the ghost of your signature smirk fading fast. The street isn’t empty. There are witnesses. The Hero pulls his punches when there are cameras and citizens and teammates. That’s what your plan says. He pulls his punches.
She asked if you were willing to bet her life on that and you said yes.
Your henchman’s body is stuck in the crumpled side of a car. You see her out of your peripheral, the pale oval of her face unencumbered by the mask you’d lovingly bestowed upon her six years ago. Cowboy backhanded it off of her as she was falling to her knees beside you. There is wet and red and twisted metal dancing foggily around her. The air is harsh and cold to breathe. The world is wavering as tears flood your eyes. You can’t blink them away. If you do, you won’t be able to see her just at the corner of your vision, you won’t be able to watch for a breath you already know won’t come, you’re afraid she’ll disappear—
“Clever to pretend to surrender,” the Hero says. He’s like a swan, spreading his arms out so the leather tassels lining the underside of his sleeves look like wings. He tips his head back so that the news cameras rushing in can catch the strength of his jaw under his wide-brimmed hat. She’d managed to singe it in the fight and the light catches in his blue eyes through the resulting hole. “Was it worth it, Prophetess? Was your attempt on my life worth the life of your sidekick?”
Snow falls, a few flakes here and there. The street is lit like the middle of the day thanks to the news cameras swarming out of the side streets now that the fight is over. The fire is being put out and thick curls of smoke rise from just beyond the gathering crowd of onlookers.
Your spellbook is lying a hundred feet away at the bottom of the lake. That’s why the Hero is flaunting himself in front of the cameras, trying to minimize her death at his hand. He did what he had to do. They were wrong, not him. Unfortunate but expected. The Hero always wins.
She’s gone.
The Fool. She always wanted a different name. But you were adamant she wouldn’t receive one until she earned one outside of her service to you. Until then, her name was a reflection of your journey. Your first step, foolish and unknowing, young and ignorant of the consequences. The name felt right when you called it and you never thought to question why. Only now can you taste your own cruel power in the decision. The power of prophecy spelled her fate out in front of you and, like always, you didn’t listen.
Your tattered cloak ripples in the breeze coming off the water. The vibrant purple is stained with soot and worse, the once smooth velvet charred and eaten away at by the Fire Cowboy’s flames.
They don’t remember that you surrendered before he struck. He’s dismissed your uncharacteristic action as an act, and so the world will too. The Prophetess always lies. Isn’t that the first line in your Hero Force file? The Prophetess has no powers of divination; she lies.
The world is magic. You believe it like the sun, like the earth, like the ocean—
--like her—
--and there is magic even here. The spell of your grief rises over your head like a shroud and, for a moment, you are drowning in the dark as the world heaves. You can taste the last cup of coffee she ever gave you going sour at the back of your mouth, the small daily comfort washing away under the metallic scent of her blood. There is a purple current around your thoughts, painful and biting. You will always be in this moment with her jester’s mask – cruel, you are so cruel – leering up at you, closer to your hands than her. How did you let her get so far out of reach?
Why didn’t you hold her close?
“I asked,” Cowboy says from directly in front of you, “if it was worth it?”
The world pulses back into purple focus. Cowboy is looming over you and the smoke of your battle rises into the night behind him. The media jockeys closer the longer you are silent and they’re inching around the car she’s lying against.
“Tell them to get away from her,” you say. Normal, your voice is so normal. Your arms are burning from holding your hands over your head and your neck aches from forcing yourself not to look. You are afraid your tears will fall if you blink so you stare at the gaudy belt buckle in front of your face. Your eyes are purple in the reflection and your face is as pale as hers. “P-please.”
Cowboy must kill all the time. He has no problem glancing towards the slowly gathering swarm and you can feel his eyes on her body as if they were on your own. “They’re trying to help her.”
“She’s beyond helping,” you say. Why would they even try? You can’t even look at her and you can tell that. “I don’t want anyone touching her.”
“They’re not monsters,” Cowboy says. There’s a scoff and then he’s crouching in front of you. He smells like singed leather. “Not like you.”
You’ve never seen the Hero this close. He’s older than you thought, only a few years shy of your age. His stubble is darkened with soot and his nose bears scars of past battles. His eyes—they’re not blue. You can see the edge of brown behind his contacts, the same deep brown as his mask.
“You killed her,” you say.
“No, you did.” He answers you so quickly it’s like he was waiting for those exact words. He tilts his head so the brim of his hat hides his lips in shadow. “She wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for you.”
He’s so confident that you nearly believe him. Your hands ache with phantom bruises from the blows and the weight of your sin falls onto your shoulders like the sky itself coming to rest there.
--------------.
 You see the trajectory of her life lined in gold. Her first day at your firm, her finding out your identity, her wavering in front of the window overlooking the Charlotte skyline as she admitted to knowing exactly who you are and how you’d been hiding more than your fair share of power all along.
That moment shines. She wasn’t the Fool then. She ripped her pencil skirt up the side as you debated her fate. When you asked her why, she said in case she needed to run.
“You would run from me?” you asked, eyebrow raised, conveying with expression alone how ridiculous you found the idea of her getting away was.
“I would,” she said. She grinned unhappily. “You can kill me, but you’ll break a sweat doing it.”
You laughed and held out your hand. When she took it, the outline of her life changed. No longer edged in gold. All black. A night sky all around her.
“You’re a fool for this,” you told her.
“The biggest one around,” she said, chagrined. Then she laughed with you.
You’ll never hear her laugh again.
----------.
There is a protocol for arresting a villain. Cowboy is already so outside of Hero Force code that it takes a while for things to be ready. He stands over you for the better part of an hour, smiling at the cameras, glaring you into submission, waving to the officers that eventually come to secure the scene.
An ambulance comes to take her body away. Only when they load her into it do you move. You watch the side of the vehicle like you can see through it. Cowboy tenses when it starts to drive away, but you don’t twitch. Her body isn’t her. If you start clinging to it now, you will never let her go.
“I know they call you Cowboy,” a woman drawls, “but you aren’t supposed to act like one.”
The reporters leap out of Strongwoman’s way. Barely five feet, Strongwoman is a super hero. Nobody is willing to get too close, regardless of how good and moral she is. The dark-haired woman is one of the few heroes who don’t wear a mask. No villain is stupid enough to think that makes her weak. Her dark eyes catalogue the scene quickly and efficiently. The ground rumbles as she approaches.
“Heat of battle,” Cowboy dismisses. His shoulders relax with another hero to support him and he shakes out his leather vest. Soot and snow falls from him. “Literally.”
“Hm.” Strongwoman finally turns the weight of her attention towards you. “Where’s her spellbook?”
“Bottom of the lake.”
“She hasn’t tried to summon it?”
“Her minion was in charge of that.”
Strongwoman’s voice whips. “We don’t call them minions.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be,” Strongwoman says. She folds her arms across her chest. She always gives the impression of being wrapped in armor and it takes you a moment to realize she’s wearing a tank top despite the cold. The muscles in her arms twitch. “That’s your third body this year.”
Cowboy hisses, eyes flying over her head towards the reporters. “Don’t—” A coalition of people in dark suits are already herding the media away. Cowboy’s lips thin. “Not in public.”
Strongwoman raises an eyebrow. She reaches down with one hand and hauls you up by the collar of your robes. “Fine. The car then.” She frowns at the way your hands hang by your sides. “You didn’t cuff her?”
“She doesn’t have her spellbook.”
“Protocol, Cow.”
“It’s Cowboy.”
“…”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Strongwoman cuffs your hands behind your back. The familiar sting of power suppressors races up your arms. The last time someone managed to get them on you, the Fool had to break them off once you escaped. You feel her breath against the shell of your ear and her voice whispers, Now who will do it for you?
Her memory is another spell on you. The edges of your life – dark and violently violet – cover your eyes so that you’re blind and deaf to the world around you. Once this new incantation runs its course, you’re sitting in the back of a Hero Force car. The grate between you and the front seat is closed. Beyond it, you can see Strongwoman at the wheel, shoulders vibrating with tension. Cowboy is sitting in the passenger seat like a petulant child.
You read their lips in the rearview mirror.
--review, Strongwoman says. Three. Three deaths on your hands.
This one was just a villain—
Tell that to Foresight. I beg you. See how he likes that excuse.
Cowboy changes tactics. You know the Prophetess is basically an S-Class—
Without her spellbook?
She had it for most of the fight.
Did she?
You lean your head back and close your eyes. Cowboy’s been operating alone for too long. They’ll likely stick him in probation and then transfer him to a hero team with an established leader. Maybe Atlas’ team in San Francisco or Light’s team in LA. Hell, if they really want to punish him, they’ll assign him to Omit’s team in Chicago. The guy’s the most righteous and the most powerless leader out there. Cowboy might actually become a villain if he’s forced to follow that guy’s lead.
“He’ll suffer,” you say in your prophecy voice.
A speaker crackles to life overhead. “No divination,” Cowboy snaps.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” you say.
“Prophetess lies,” Strongwoman says to Cowboy. “Remember, she always lies.”
“It’s still a threat—”
“Prophetess,” Strongwoman says. “Let’s go over next steps. When we get to Charlotte HQ, you’ll be taken to a secure floor where you’ll be asked to remove your mask. It’s important that you understand your identity will remain confidential until your loved ones can be secured—”
“He killed her,” you interrupt. You watch the ceiling of the car. “I can tell you my identity now if you’d like.”
There’s a pause. “That won’t be necessary,” Strongwoman says. Is it just you, or is her voice a little softer? “There is a proper course to this investigation.”
The way she says it makes it sound like she’s promising you something.
It’s like your mind is scrambling for connection to her. There is nothing in what Strongwoman says that reminds you of the Fool. And yet, as the car falls back into weighted silence, one word rings. Proper.
There is a proper way, the Fool whispers. You could fight this spell, but don’t. You sink into the car seat the best you can with your hands behind your back. Hear me out.
Please, you think. By all means.
------.
The first time you ask her to dinner, you’re too hasty. There’s blood on the hem of your robes (possibly a tooth) and the city is still screaming the sirens of your escape. The Fool isn’t shivering like the rest of your henchman; she is standing next to you. Her Jester’s mask is carefully secured with three exact ties despite the haste with which she put it on.
“I can never wear this skirt again,” she says. She is standing on the very edge of the building, the toes of her sensible work shoes a bare inch away from nothing. “This was my best work skirt.”
The city sparks with the purple of your magic, violet vines climbing the buildings and blocking your view of the street below. Your magic is mostly illusion, but all power leaves behind a mark. Where your spell has started to fade remains a charred outline of leaves and flowers against the concrete and stone of the buildings.
While the rest of your minions look a bit like chimney sweeps, the Fool remains untouched. It’s an obvious sign of favoritism; you had room for one other person underneath your cloak and you chose her.
Somehow the memory of her pressed against your side as she used her power to lift you both up to the rooftop makes you blush.
“You don’t have any residue on you,” you say. “You can stitch it up.”
She scoffs. At you. “It’s recognizable, Prophetess.”
It’s really not. The black pencil skirt is the same kind she wore when you first met. How many does she go through? You find yourself smiling at her bare thigh.  Since she first told you she knew who you were, you’ve seen her rip at least three.
“Something amuse you?” she asks. Her voice is short and snappish, the tone she uses when one of the other paralegals aren’t as thorough as they need to be with the briefs. She turns to face you so that the setting sun lights her outline in orange and pink and gold.
“Have dinner with me,” you say.
And for a moment, the hope of her saying yes is as blinding as the sun behind her. Her lips part and you imagine that her eyes widen behind her jester’s mask. A wind picks at the long strands of her hair, sending them fluttering around her like a halo, and you’re standing so close that one brushes your cheek.
“There is a proper way,” she says and then stops. Her right hand twitches at her side. “There is—” is she stuttering? “This isn’t—Prophetess.”
You’re fascinated. She’s always so precise with her words. Even when you threatened her all those months ago she never once floundered like she’s doing now. “Hmm?”
“Hear me out,” she says.
You nod. “Of course.” You lean forward so that you’re only inches away from her. “I’m listening.”
“This…is not the time,” she says. You feel her attention slide to the others and then back to you. She hisses when she finds you even closer. “Prophetess.”
You don’t want to push too hard.
You lean back onto your good leg. “You let me know when it is time,” you say. Your lips quirk. “My little Fool.”
“Oh my god,” she mutters. She turns sharply on her heel. “Get yourself off the roof. I’m going home.”
You watch as she steps off the roof without hesitation. Her telekinetic powers are unique in that they can work on people too. You usually rely on her to get you home.
Maybe you should have asked her afterwards…
You turn to your other minions. Low-level villains without the drive or power to execute their own heists who all owe you the same favor. You raise your brow. “So how are you lot getting me off this roof?”
“You’ve got legs,” the Ace of Swords says.
“I broke my left one,” you say. And, to prove you aren’t lying, you draw away your cape to show that your pant leg is soaked in red.
The Ace of Swords stares. “This is why she said no.”
“Was that what it sounded like to you?” you ask. His surety makes you frown. “For that, you get to carry me down.”
The Ace of Swords groans as the other Swords flee.
-----------.
Your Swords are not always Swords. Sometimes they are Pentacles or Wands or Cups. There’s meaning to the costuming you put your people through, a meaning that escapes Hero Force.
“Where are the others?” Cowboy growls at you over the interrogation table. He keeps aggressively tapping the photos he flung in front of you. Grainy shots of your Wands storming through the Christmas Parade you used as a cover to kidnap the Mayor, blurry screen grabs from security footage of them as Pentacles in the art museum, a delightful brochure featuring them as Cups in a reproduction of Macbeth you used to do some light money laundering. “If you tell us, we might cut you a deal. Six of your people are being prepared for interrogation right now. Want to bet who breaks first?”
The ghost of you smiles behind your dead eyes, leans forward, and sneers in Cowboy’s face. That version of you is delighted by Cowboy mistaking six people for twenty-four and wants to play the interrogation game he’s offering. But the real you feels as heavy as lead and it takes all your strength to watch as Cowboy slowly works his way into a frenzy.
“For too long you’ve been tormenting this city,” he says. He shakes a finger in your face. “I told Headquarters, I said you were a problem when you first showed up in Raleigh. I said, ‘This one is going to come to Charlotte and she’s going to show up with an army.’ I did. I said that and now you’ve got the largest crew in America.”
“Quite the fortune teller, aren’t you?” you murmur. The Fool is at the front of the brochure, all done up as Macbeth. You’d tried to get her to be Lady Macbeth, but she’d insisted she be the main character for once.
You don’t understand Macbeth, you’d said.
His name is the play, she argued.
Lady Macbeth is the mastermind.
Did you read the play?
Did you?
Neither of you had.
Cowboy slams his hand on the table. “Look, Prophetess, I’m the only chance you’ve got at a deal. As soon as those DC heroes get in here, it’s off the table.”
Ha.
“It would be convenient for you if there were no witnesses,” you observe. “More convenient if you get to them before the DC crowd.”
“Witnesses to what?” Cowboy blusters. But he draws back and his gaze is colder than the Hero Force air conditioning that’s already making this room glacial. “To justice?”
How dare he lie to you? Her pale face haunts your peripheral vision. You can see her in the window of the interrogation room.
“To murder,” you say. Your glares clash when you finally look up at him. The soot is still in his stubble and you imagine you can smell her blood coming from his singed leather vest. “She surrendered. We all saw it.”
“She was an A-rank villain with telekinetic powers strong enough to crush my skull,” Cowboy bites back. “I acted in self-defense.”
“With us both on our knees—”
Cowboy whips his arm across the table, scattering the photos of your people into the air. He slams his hand again. “Last chance. Tell me where the rest of your minions are!”
In your holding cells, you stupid—
“You’re a pathetic worm of a man,” you say. You clear your throat. “Sorry. Let me say it in a way you’ll understand.” You adopt your prophecy voice. “The dust Cowboy leaves behind is red, red as the blood on his hands. His golden star is stained—”
You see the blow coming. Not a prophecy, of course.
You just know what heroes do when their buttons are pushed.
-----.
The second time you ask her to dinner, you’re too stupid for her to say yes. It’s not your fault though. How could you have known the Mayor had superpowers? He didn’t do anything besides embezzle taxpayer money!
“Maybe,” she says tightly, dragging your leaden and paralyzed body through the grand halls of the mayoral house, “you could have done a single iota of research instead of sewing all those costumes.”
Feeling is coming back into your hands. They still ache from finishing the elf-themed Wand costumes you’d made for your employees. You think the group costume of Five of Wands came out particularly well. All those little elves holding giant candy cane wands…a perfect symbol for the tumultuous election Season. You flex your fingers and then wince when the Fool’s nails dig into the soft undersides of your arms. “Ouch. Could you—”
“I am not slowing down,” she says. She grunts as she slings you around another corner. “We need to get to the backyard. Ace is meeting us there with the chopper.”
“Such a waste of money,” you bemoan. The chopper had been Two’s idea and all she does is maintain it. She won’t let you fly it until you get your license. “We should’ve got a boat.”
“Great idea,” the Fool snarls. She adjusts her grip so her nails are now digging into your shoulders rather than your arms. “A giant vehicle we have to keep in the harbor. The heroes would never find that.”
“Okay, you have me there,” you say. Your words are crisper now and you can even push a little with your legs as she pulls you into the empty kitchen. “But consider this. I could take you to dinner on a yacht. I can’t take you to dinner on a helicopter.” She stops in her tracks, head whipping down to look at you. Your noses nearly touch. You grin dopily. “Hi.”
“Are you asking me to dinner right now,” she asks in a tone that tells you you’d better be careful with your answer.
She’s so pretty. That’s why you aren’t careful when you slur, “Yes.”
She drags you through the doorway into the backyard. “I sure hope it’s the drugs making you this stupid.”
“Hey—”
“Hey!”
Both of you look back towards the house to where the Mayor has just appeared. He’s wearing the smoking jacket he’d monologued in and the handkerchief he’d used to drug you is hanging limply in his grip.
He points at you. “You. You should be unconscious! Nobody escapes my venom!”
“Oh gross,” the Fool says. “Does he make the sedatives from his body?”
“From his sweat,” you affirm. Then, raising your voice over the growing sound of the chopper and her gagging, “Maybe you should sweat better drugs, huh?”
The Fool coughs and wheezes. You recognize a laugh in the sound. “Don’t antagonize—”
The Mayor bellows and sweat begins to drip from his forehead. He mops at it with his handkerchief and then advances across the grass. “Get back here!”
“Hahaha,” you say, “He was definitely a hero. I know how to push their buttons.”
It becomes a race to who gets to you first; the chopper or the Mayor.
As usual, the Fool wins.
-----.
Cowboy isn’t allowed in your room after hitting you in the face. You can feel him lurking in the hall outside when Strongwoman takes the seat across from you.
“That…wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says and pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s sitting on a special crate they brought in for her. It creaks when she leans forward. “Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”
The Fool is the only one you let tend to your wounds. Blood stings your eye. Cowboy was wearing his rings when he hit you. “I’m fine.”
Strongwoman sighs through her nose. She’s short and stocky, dark hair and wide nose. There’s a beauty to her when she’s still and quiet. When she moves? She moves like a threat. “We need to know where your base is,” she says.
“Home is where the heart is,” you say. And you killed mine.
Strongwoman’s lips thin. “Look, if you want the guys who speak riddles, we can wait for them. Or you can answer my questions and maybe we can come to some sort of understanding.”
“Interesting offer.” You lean back and contemplate her. “You have my spell book.”
“Except that,” Strongwoman says immediately. She winces. “Sorry. You’re in custody. The spell book isn’t even on-site anymore.”
“Then you can take these off,” you say, nodding to your cuffs. Their faint glow is making you sick. “As a sign of good faith.”
“Tell me everything about your operation,” Strongwoman retorts. She shakes her head. “Nobody believes you’re harmless without your spellbook.”
“Cowboy does.”
“Cowboy is operating under a lot of false assumptions,” Strongwoman says. She leans forward to match you. “Like the one where you have over 30 lower-level villains working for you.”
“Oh?”
“We have six,” Strongwoman says. “Tell me where the rest are and we can negotiate.”
Ha. She doesn’t know either. You are so good at costuming. It’s not like your henchmen can multiply. There are always just six with you and it’s through your costumes that they transform. You’ll have to tell the Fool—
Your mood sours. Tell the Fool. Who’s the Fool now? You’re not in the mood to play games. “I tell you everything, you let me talk to those you have.”
“No—”
“I don’t know everything about them,” you snap. “You’re asking me to betray my people. Fine, I’ll do that. You lot will pry and pull and claw until you find out anyway. But allow me to give them the chance to tell you about whatever family or loved one they haven’t told me about. If I must take them down with me, at least let them beg Hero Force for leniency for their loved ones.”
Strongwoman considers you. “And what do you want in exchange?”
“Let,” you clear your throat. Your eyes are hot and itchy. “Let me have a moment with them. To mourn one of our own passing. To—” you clear your throat “-to lay the Fool to rest.”
The silence sticks to the walls and builds. It presses into you on all sides until you feel like you’re in a coffin. You once told her you would die with her.
Not allowed, ma’am. I don’t think we’d go to the same place.
You swallow hard and stare at your hands.
“Deal,” Strongwoman says finally.
“Thank you,” you say. Your head bows until your forehead presses against your shaking hands. “Thank you.”
“Cuffs will stay on,” Strongwoman says gruffly. She pulls out a pen and pad. The pen looks like it’s made of metal. “Start talking.”
You do.
-----------------.
The third time you ask her to dinner, she stares at you for a long time. It makes you nervous in a way you haven’t been before, her unrelenting stare. Is it because she’s usually so quick? Or could it be because you can feel her eyes on your bare face for the first time since she stood in your office and called you a villain?
The same office you’re currently standing in now as the sun sets behind her?
“I have concerns,” she says at last.
Oh thank god. You’re smiling too widely. “I can work with concerns.”
“Can you?” Her eyes flash gold with the sun. “You keep asking me out while we’re working,” she says.
You blink. “Do I?”
“You do.”
You consider her words, leaning back against your desk. You’re wearing your pinstriped suit today and it’s getting a little tight. She feeds you before and after every meeting you have and you have a lot of meetings. “I’m always working.”
“That’s true,” she says. She turns on her heel. “And that’s the concern.”
You stand up. “Wait, how is that—”
She stops at the door and turns to look at you in a way that steals your breath. “I am not work,” she says. Her lip twitches. “Nor am I a fool.”
“I know, you’re—”
“Ace says they’re already at the meeting place. According to your schedule, we’re running late.”
“We haven’t finished talking.” You try to sound firm, like you used to. Instead, the words come out as almost a plea. “We can be late.”
“You’re never late. Besides, I hear it’s going to be a regular rodeo.”
“Cowboy? Ha! When did he blow back into town?”
“His probation period is up.”
“Lucky us.”
-----.
Lucky us.
You Fool.
--------.
You look over the bowed heads of your employees. Ace, Two, Five, Eight, Ten, and Page. The room Strongwoman led you to looks like the cockpit of a spaceship. Noxious blue light undulates up the concave walls. There are no chairs in here, no pulpit for you to stand behind.
So your employees kneel when you walk between them all to stand in the very center.
“Prophetess,” Ace says. Her voice is thin and high. “We—I’m so sorry.”
Two looks up. Her face is drawn and there’s a deep bruise along the side of it. “We know how it is to lose.”
“You do,” you murmur. You’re aware of the eyes on you here. You saw Cowboy sneering in the observation room on the other side of this one. There are cameras scattered like black stars across the ceiling. “I know you do. But there is a renewal in Death. If—” you swallow hard “-if you allow it.”
You expect fear. What you’re asking of them has happened exactly six times. The favor they owe is not only to you, but to each other. Death is the complete annihilation of everything you know. It can be the end. Or it can be the beginning.
But it takes people to begin.
And you have asked them too many times before.
“Anything,” they say as one.
Your head shoots up. “What?”
Six of your employees – your friends – return your gaze unflinching.
“If I have to redo everything again, I will,” Ace says. She presses a hand over her heart. You know a picture of her son lies there. “Time doesn’t matter. We won’t lose anything but time.”
“We know we can rebuild,” Two says. Her eyes are fierce. “We can do it better.”
“You taught us how to do it better,” Five says.
“I thought you would’ve already done it,” Page says. He scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t eat lunch thinking you woulda done it by now.”
“You didn’t miss much,” Eight tells him. Then, to you, “You did it for us. Again and again and again—”
“—and again and again and again—”
Eight punches Page. “Shut up.” She breathes in through her nose. “Prophetess. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
“The memories you have made will only remain with you,” you remind them. Your hands are shaking. This—you have asked this favor for the sake of others. Did they feel this vulnerable asking? So hopeful and so full of dread. “It will be different. Time changes all and you who have experienced it—”
“—will be like fortune tellers in a strange new land,” Ace says. “We know.”
“We’re okay with it.”
“Are you?”
The time is approaching. You can hear voices outside the room. Ten minutes. She’d promised you thirty, but you figured they’d interrupt sooner. Especially considering what you’re saying.
You breathe in deeply through your nose. You think of her pencil skirt and her flashing eyes and her warm smile. The ghost of her pale face is fading into blackness as this curtain closes.
Your resolve firms. It was a bad ending. As a villain, you’re allowed to rewrite those.
“Tonight,” you say in your whispering voice, “we rebalance the deck.”
The blue in the room flickers. The voices in the corridor gain urgency. The cuffs around your wrist flare and then go dormant.
“I see my son a babe again,” Ace sings. Her eyes burn with your purple power as she brings her hands up towards you. The memory of the favor you granted her rises with her words. “I hold his hand.”
The blue flickers purple and electricity arcs. The Hero Force suppressors are to stop superpowers.
There is very little they can do against fate.
“I see the bus that takes them away,” Page says. He doesn’t sing. His voice is as dry as the desert and he salutes you. His hand glows against his temple. “They get on it.”
“I see my friend at the crossroads,” Two says. She holds her hands palm up and tilts her head to the sky. Tears of neon violet fall down her face. “I follow them.”
“The power I have falls into my hands like rain,” Eight says. She cups her hands in front of her and they fill with your power until it spills over onto the ground. “I drink from it.”
“The harm I caused erased,” Five says. He crosses his arms over his chest and bows his head. A halo the color of lilac blooms over his head. “I atone.”
“I do better,” Ten says simply.  They stand with their hands by their sides. Their eyes burn with your power and they do not flinch. “I don’t bury them.”
Your power crawls along the walls. There are no more blue arcs of power. There are purple flowers and thorns that leave shadows in their wake. They seal the door shut and you are distantly aware that Strongwoman is trying to smash her way inside and can’t.
Fate takes a different type of strength to overpower.
“I see her again,” you say. The tides of the world pull at your long hair. You are drowning in light. The ground shakes under your feet. You think of her life outlined in gold, yourself outlined in gold. Is it possible you can see it glittering there in the unrelenting ocean flooding into you? “I see her again.”
Thunder crashes and everything becomes nothing.
-----------.
You are at your desk. You blink at the pages lying before you. A brief. A case. From four years ago.
You release a trembling breath. You never doubted it would work but it’s a relief to see not so much time has passed. Ace will still share some memories with her son. Page will not have to sit by his brothers’ bedsides again. Ten won’t be trapped in her father’s house.
The rest…the rest will not expect your help. You didn’t help them the last three times. Cruel, maybe. Fate often is.
You think Two is in Charlotte at this point. She mentioned something about a halfway house…
You freeze grabbing your coat as familiar footsteps echo from the hall outside your door. The skyline is twinkling with city lights, but it’s nearly midnight. Nobody should be here, you don’t remember anyone being here at this time—
The door opens without a knock. Her hair is chopped beneath her ears and she has a lip piercing and there isn’t a pencil skirt to be found. But it’s her. It’s her.
“Anika,” you breathe.
Her gold eyes flick to you, to your desk, to your coat in your hand. “You working?”
“N-no,” you say. Your words pile up behind your teeth. Do you remember? Of course you do, otherwise how would you be here. But how? Did I infect you? Did the outline of my life really drag you into my power enough--
Anika waits. When you continue to stare at her, she prods, “I’m not your paralegal.”
“You don’t look like you’ve even finished your degree,” you blurt out. You point. “A lip piercing?”
Anika rubs her piercing. “I’m not the Fool,” Anika says patiently.
A light bulb goes off. “Oh,” you say. “Oh!” You get down on one knee. “Anika, will you marry me—” Anika throws her purse at you. It misses by about three feet. You stand and try again. “I mean, will you go to dinner with me?”
“Yes, I’ll go to dinner with you.” Anika rubs a hand over her face. “Everytime I give you an inch, you take a mile—"
“For the rest of our lives,” you promise.
Anika shakes a finger at you. “Dinner.”
“It’s a beginning,” you say cheerfully.
The best one you’ve ever had.
-------.
Thanks for reading! I do love my supervillain stories and appreciate you for making it through this one! Sometimes I wonder if I can even write flash fiction anymore haha
Next week's story is already up on my Patreon (X)! I'm super excited to share it as it made me laugh writing it. It's an AITA style post from a woman who used to be a Cryptid professionally and feels like she's made a misstep with her Slasher boyfriend.
See y'all next time!
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yourbleedingh3art · 2 years ago
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Wake me up inside + In the arms of the angels
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eupheme · 9 months ago
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— Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On
Hancock (FO4) x Sole Survivor!F!Reader
Rated E - 5.8k
Tags - 3rd person very loose pov, sole survivor!f!reader (no descriptors), canon-typical raider violence & death, mutual pining, teasing, partners to lovers, two idiots in love, waiting out a storm, mention of food/eating, SS!reader gets dicked down wearing Hancock’s coat, the hat stays on, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, manual restraints, multiple orgasms, PiV, creampie, mention of a cigarette/smoking, references to chems 
started this while doing research for wasteland, baby - and was consumed with thoughts of a slightly softer “oh fuck, I’m in love” Hancock
It’s a dangerous thing - to have feelings for the person you’re traveling with. Too many things can go wrong in an instant and yet…  here they are. Steadfastly ignoring the something that has been building, thick enough to taste. 
Luckily, an incoming rad storm might just be the push they need. 
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He’s fucked.
Figuratively, not literally. Unfortunately.
That’s part of the problem, if he could call it that. And he probably shouldn’t - because it’s not her fault. Just his. 
It was a rookie move, falling for his traveling companion. Should have kept it just professional - strictly business. No ‘get to know you’s, no inside jokes. 
But he had never been the professional type. Not his style. 
And somewhere along the way - between getting the shit kicked out of them, the close calls, the long miles of barren road - something had started to grow. Curling around his ribs and filling his guts up like ripe tarberries. 
Letting it grow and flourish. 
Unable to shake it. 
It hadn’t been long before he had known something was up.
That it was something besides that urge to get away from it all, to wander, that kept him sticking with her.
That along the way, the idea of this stranger having his back became comforting. That he knew he had hers - even if he half-thinks she have a death wish, with the way she rushs into things half-cocked.
He can’t understand, but he tries. The bits he’s gleaned from late nights - passing the bottle of whisky back and forth even though it makes her grimace. The pieces of her past that have slowly been revealed, forming a half-completed picture.
It’s enough to make his blood boil, that scorching feeling of vengeance curling in his chest, eating up his insides. It’s been a long time since he felt that way - making him think back to the night where he had stained his hands with all that red. 
He’d do it again, for her. 
It’s that realization made him think that just maybe - he cares.
And not just in a friendly kind of way. 
He thinks it began in the middle of a firefight.
Bullet whizzing past their heads. A nest of raiders flowing out from a jutting wreck of scaffolding they had missed.
Several downed already, lost among the ruins. A souped-up pistol in her hand, as the other shielded shrapnel from a hand-made grenade.
Missing the two that snuck up, flanking them. 
He had taken one down. A nasty shot to the gut, the Raider gurlging as his legs gave out. Her shot going wide - he can still remember the look on her face as she reached for the gun on her back.
The other Raider taking the moment to bowl him over, a padded shoulder to the chest. Knocking them both against a piece of metal fencing that creaked under their weight - his shotgun clattering to the pavement. 
An arm pressed against his throat, choking him - as the other fumbled for a knife. Ironic, he thought, that he’d be gutted, after all he’s done. 
But she had swooped down. Fingers twisted around the barrel and forestock of her rifle. Bringing it down on the raiders head like it was a louisville slugger, snarling like she herself had gone feral.
Her hand, warm in his as she hauled him up, the other splaying across his chest. Face streaked with grease and splattered with blood but in that moment, she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.
“Thanks, sunshine.” He had murmured.
Her smile had been small, as she pressed the gun back into his hand, “Can’t have you getting stabbed. I’d miss that mouth of yours.”
Such a small thing - her own joke. The way he filled the space with chatter on the road. But he’d been smitten. 
He had been good looking, before. He wasn’t half-bad now. Charisma could get you a long way, and his silver tongue hadn’t rotted like the rest of him. 
Charming words - flirty and sometimes filthy - slid easily from him in the heat of battle, the wind-down after. When he was feeling good about things, the words coming without thought.
Choking on them, when she turned to give him a look - embarrassed, sometimes. So goddamn cute and flustered, it made him want to do it more. 
Other times - a look, that was soft and lingering. 
“Yeah?” 
Almost a challenge in the way she said it.
He could never follow it up. 
Follow through. 
Because back home, it wasn’t an issue. A rejection meant nothing other than a soft blow to his ego. Brushed off with a hit of a favorite indulgence, finding company in another.
But here - it had a weight. It could ruin something he truly has enjoyed. Throwing in with her had been one of the best decisions he had made. He couldn’t fuck that up. Not this time. 
So he swallowed his words - before she was racing off, and he was following at her heels. Off to trouble that could be their last, and here he was - that clever tongue tied in a knot. 
That’s when he knew that he had it bad. 
Bad enough that out of the two of them, he had been the one peering up at the sky overhead. Where the muted hazy grey was rolling into a sickly green, rain starting to drop down. A rumble of thunder.
The first to suggest stopping at the next place they could, as the spaces between the raindrops started to dwindle.
“We can make it.” She had shrugged, as his jog slowed to a walk.
Catching her arm at the elbow, gesturing with the muzzle of his shotgun to the side.
“Not if you don’t want to end up like me, sister.”
Ignoring - but not missing - the chastising look she shot him. His head tilting towards the roof that looms just over the ridge.
An old diner - rusting chrome and shattered windows, but it would do. Well past soaked by the time they scrambled over the hill and down. Grateful to find that it was abandoned. 
Picked over, for sure - but as long as there was a roof over their heads, he hadn’t cared. Combing through junk was her thing, anyways. He was just the pack mule.
Now - he’s multi-tasking. Trying not to think about what he’s thinking about.
About her changing in the room behind him. Peeling the patchwork raider gear off her curves. All that soft, smooth skin underneath.
Distracting himself by eyeing the radroach that is skittering across the pavement outside the front door - just out of range of his shotgun.
Because of course, out of everything in the wasteland, that was the thing she was scared of. Not super mutants, not even the pack of mirelucks that had them cornered, just the week before. 
A goddamn bug. 
He laughs, a soft hushed thing. Catching himself with a grimace. 
Because, like he said.
He’s fucked. 
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The rain that patters overhead would be calming - if it had been 200 years ago, and not dripping with radiation.
She shivers, draping the tattered pants and worn shirt over the back of two rotting, wooden chairs - a makeshift drying rack. Missing that insulated warmth of her Vault Suit, trading it back at Sanctuary for worn clothes - old and salvaged Raider gear.
It had become hard to blend in, in all that blue.
It had made sense at the time, but in the dark and chilly backroom, she finds herself regretting it. Thinking that next time - she’ll pack it with her.
Trying to find the dampest parts of the packed gear to lay out, next. Lining up the bedroll next to the glow of the lantern. 
Don’t need any more must or mold than there already was. 
Pawing through her bag afterwards, coming up with something to pass for dinner. A can of cram, their only good fork wedged between two knuckles. A sweet roll split in two - the sticky crumbs clinging to her fingers as she nudged the door open.
Feeling vulnerable in the faded undergarments she wore underneath. Dreading facing him, not because of what he’ll say - that part, she is actually curious to hear. 
She’d given up on the idea of modesty long ago. Traveling on the road and through the dirt and blood and grime will do that. 
It was almost freeing.
No. It’s because - it makes her hope. Makes her think that dressing down might actually get him to notice her, in a way that’s more than the surface-level, flirty conversation she’s seen him have with dozens of people. 
In the old world, maybe she’d wear a dress for him. Something red and cut low in the front - bare arms and legs.
Now, it’s faded cotton and vulnerability.
A “I can trust you like this” and a “Maybe if you like it, it will make me brave enough to ask.”
Rejection dressed like this would sting, surely. Even if it’s her fault, for having a crush on someone who doesn’t see her that way. 
Her eyes linger on his back, where he stands watch. Where he hadn’t heard her open the door just yet, drifting to the other side of the counter to watch the rumbling, green storm roll in.
The tin clatters on the counter, drawing his attention. A flicker of lightning illuminating his profile as he turns, eyes widening. 
Hancock’s eyes drop automatically. Quickly and then a slow drag - it’s like watching him after she’s taken a hit of Psycho. 
Dark and glittering under her own careful watch, before they’re snapping back up, and he’s blinking. 
Pulling himself back. 
“Is that dinner?” He asks, clearing his throat when the words come out rough and low. 
Her face falls, just for an instant. A small smile replacing it, as she scoops up the tin of cram before tossing it his way. He catches it neatly - popping the lid open, plucking the fork from her fingers. 
She should have known better. 
Hancock was just a flirt, never taking her bait. It was a good thing, she thought. Honorable, despite the grey that’s soaked into both of their moral codes. 
He digs the fork in, breaking off a piece of the preserved meat. Handing the first bite to her, unable to help another quick look as he lowers himself to one of the stools that curves around the diner countertop. 
Not that he hasn’t seen her before. Never quite this bare - but close enough, from the quick times they’ve had to change clothes.
It didn’t mean anything. 
“So uh, what’s with the getup?” Hancock can’t resist asking, his tone deceptively light, “Or should I say, lack thereof?
“Clothes are soaked,” She snorts around the mouthful, trying to sound disinterested, “Besides, you’re always telling me it’s not good to let the rads soak in.”
He’s curious now, catching that slight edge. Not usually so defensive - that expression she makes when she’s flustered. It makes him want to nudge at it, poke at that little crack. 
“Hey, you don’t hear me complain’, sister.” Hancock grins, taking the fork back, “That’s a real good look for you.”
Always a joke. 
Her eyes roll as she sits down on the stool to his left, her knee knocking against his. The halves of sweet roll balanced on the curling, discarded tin, for after. 
They share the makeshift dinner. Passing the fork back and forth, trying not to think about how easy it feels to be like this. 
Companionable silence, beneath the rumbling, dark green sky. Tucked away and sheltered from the storm.
She stares out across the wasteland, lost in thought. Moving on to other things, already planning for the morning. If there’s any stops they need to make on the way back to Sanctuary. 
While his eyes wander - a sideways glance that drifts down her form greedily, only to shift away when her own lift. 
A breeze cuts through the building where windows once lived, making her shiver. Arms moving from the countertop to wrap around a bare middle, curling in on herself.
“You cold, sunshine?” He asks with concern, bringing her back.
She hadn’t noticed, but now she does. The chill starting to sink in, now that she’s not moving, not covered in the layers and padded armor. 
Goosebumps raise on her skin. Arms crossing tighter across her chest, as her lips part to answer.
But Hancock is already shrugging off his maroon frock, swiveling in his seat to swing it around her shoulders. 
She rarely seen him without it. Fuck, he even sleeps in the damn thing - a prized possession, if he ever had one.
“Thanks.” The word is layered with sincerity, as she pulls it close around her, the high collar brushing her cheek. 
Warmer already. The inside is soft against her skin, the fabric worn and stained and smelling like him.
Silence lingers for a moment, as they stare at the darkening sky. The heavy blanket of rain that still patters on the rooftop, a slow drip down to the tile floor on the other side of the room.
"Hope this lets up by morning," She says as she leans, warmer now - elbows pressing into the stained laminate counter.
Eyes out of focus, thoughts already running off without her. "Stop by Sanctuary, pick up some things for Tenpines. Haven't been there in a bit, been wondering how they've been holding up."
He mirrors her - feeling bare without his coat. A heavy lean on his left elbow, the swivel of the chair bumping his knee against hers, "’m sure they're fine. Gotta be better off than they were before."
A smirk crosses his features, a glance from the corner of his eye, "'Sides, not every day you get saved by the fearless leader of the Minutemen. That oughta keep 'em going for a while."
There's a groan as she slumps, the heels of her hands pressing into her eyes. Garvey's enthusiasm and her recent promotion to General a source of embarrassment, even if she bore the weight of it well.
"Yes, the fearless leader," She mocks, her head turning his way. Pushing herself up, her arms spreading wide, "If only they could see me now."
And they might not be able to, but he can.
Not just the soft expanse of her skin, peeking out from beneath his coat. The hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast and the strain of her tits against worn fabric that will be forever seared into his mind.
Not only just that, though. That something that he can see inside her - that was there when he had decided to leave Goodneighbor. That lingers with him, tethering them together as he follows at her side. And yes, he does stretch the truth - who doesn’t? He wouldn’t make half as many deals, otherwise. 
But he’s isn’t, now. 
She is unaware of the thoughts that tumble through his mind, quick as old snapshots. A curling amber film strip, tucked into a canister. 
Instead, there’s a roll of her eyes as her comment of "really, only you could pull this coat off" lands on ears that had been muted, in the way his mind drifts. How the low pooling of warmth in his belly turns sharp and cramps, at the thought of Preston Garvey spending time in such company. Like this - without him.
"I wouldn’t say that." He hears himself saying. Voice a little lower, raspier, than usual.
Maybe it's bravery. Maybe it's him finally seeing her intent - maybe it's the moment where he's realizing that after tonight, she's no longer just his again.
His eyes drag over her again, slower this time. And he lets her catch them.
"From here, things are looking pretty good."
She stills, eyes rounding. A swivel of her chair until knee-to-knee becomes thigh-to-thigh- something akin to hope slipping into her tone.
“Yeah?”
He reaches - fingers tracing the collar of his coat, thumb rubbing against the hollow of her throat.
“I’d say so.” Hancock tells her, “Look like a goddamn dream, if I’m being honest.”
She’s tired of waiting. She’s done enough of it. Eyes on his as her chin tilts up, just hovering.
He’s tired, too.
With a lean, he takes the offering. Ruined lips press against soft ones. Ones that part for him, a soft sound at the greedy dart and swipe of his tongue, until she’s meeting him.
She’s sweet - he can taste the sugar on her tongue, melding with the taste of her. Fingers press against his chest, where his heart hammers. Sliding over lithe shoulders until they’re wrapping around, pulling him closer.
He’s stronger than he looks. The seat squeaks when he leans, his palms tracing her waist, her hips. Tucking beneath her thighs - right against the curve of her ass as Hancock lifts his hips, taking her with him.
She moves, his name a soft sound in her throat. Letting him lead, letting him ease her onto the edge of the counter. A sense of relief and hope floods through her, dripping down to settle warm and wanting between the thighs that spread open so he can step between them. 
His cock swells, where it’s trapped inside his pants. Easing the ache with a roll of his hips, pressing himself against the thin fabric covering her core. The breath she inhales in response is shaky. Another soft sound, so different than the assured tone he’s used to. 
He wants to hear it again.
It’s easy to set the pace - the pointed press of his hips. Her hand finding his, drawing it up to her breast. Letting him cup her, the soft weight. Letting him press his thumb against that tight peak, catch it between his fingers until she’s gasping against his grinning mouth. 
Her mouth drops, catching his chin. The tip of a tongue between parted lips press against his cheek, warmth breath against his jaw making him growl. 
“Please-” She’s murmuring, against his skin. Against muscle and sinew, as his own lips follow.
Fingers biting into his skin, as his teeth graze her jaw. Her head tilting back, baring her throat to him, as her hips rock to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut as her chest heaves, as his other hand curls against the curve of her hip, keeping her close. 
His tongue peeks out, dragging against sweat and rain-dewed skin. A groan rattles in his throat, his own voice distant and rasping.
“Fuck, I need to taste you.” He can feel her moan, against his lips at his words, “Lean back for me, doll.”
She’s soft, pliable. Unwinding herself from him as she obeys, only for those hazy eyes to open - meeting his beetle-black ones. 
“Wait,” She’s protesting, hands slipping to press flat against on his chest. A sudden realization - shoulder curling back so his coat slides off it, “Let me take this off.”
“Leave it.” Hancock’s head lifts to kiss her again, his hand curling around the back of her neck. 
She huffs against his mouth, before it turns into a sigh. His tongue brushing against her lower lip, before she pulls back again.
Not wanting to forget her train of thought.
“What if I make a mess on your coat?”
He groans at that, the hand on her hip drifting lower. Cupping her over the thin piece of fabric, fingers pressing down. 
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He husks, “I’d fuckin’ love that. Never gonna take it off.”
It makes her scoff, cheeks burning, “You never do, anyways. You-”
He shuts her up with his fingers - tugging at the elastic waistband, pulling them down until she’s bare. Letting her kick them off, before he’s pushing her back against the counter.
Arching over her soft form as his mouth wanders, his hips grinding against hers. Teeth nipping at her throat, lips brushing where her heartbeat flutters. Clever fingers tracing the seam of her sex, brushing over soft lips - teasing. 
She’s so fucking wet, he can feel how his fingers glide over her skin. How it smears on her thighs, as they spread wider for him. 
“What do you want?” 
It makes her sigh - that voice, so low and rasping - and she’s clenching around nothing already.
“You,” She’s unable to help but whine, “Please, you-”
His laugh is rough, a rattling chuckle in his throat, “You have me, sunshine.”
Middle finger parting her, teasing at her entrance, the calloused pad of his thumb circling around the bud of her clit. Sinking into the wet heat as she groans, starting a slow pump of his textured finger.
Pressing deep with a slow thrust. Another, and then another, until she’s taking a second. Stretching her wide, as her fingers twist in his stained shirt. Grasping for his shoulders as her hips buck into his touch. 
“Should say how do you want it?” The kiss he presses against her throat is almost reverent, “Because I don’t think I have it in me to go slow right now.”
“Slow, later.,” She moans, as his fingers press deep, “Need you.”
He grins, “Love how you think, sweetheart.” 
Hancock’s head ducks, moving down to her collarbone, then lower. She’s already reaching to tug the cups of her bra down, baring the curves of her breasts to him.
“Fuckin’ beautiful.” He hums, fingers brushing over the soft weight again, cupping one in his hand. Still fucking her open with the other, curling and stroking until she’s panting. 
Tongue peeking out to flatten, and then drag across the tight peak of her nipple. Her hands grasping for him again, as there’s the briefest pinch of teeth.
“Hancock.” She grits out, a swivel of her hips against his, grinding into his fingers. 
His own rocking against the back of his hand, where he’s hard and aching. Never thinking he’d know what it’s like to have his partner begging like this. 
He wants to hear more. Every little sound she makes, as his mouth moves lower. Licking wet stripes against her stomach and abdomen.
Until he’s plunking down on the padded chrome stool he’s been straddling. Gazing at where she’s wrapped around his glossy fingers. 
Watching how she twitches and bucks and gasps when his thumb swipes across her clit, his name on parted lips again.
“Love hearin’ you say my name like that.” He purrs, “Can’t wait to hear how it sounds when you come.”
Leaning forward, inhaling her scent before his tongue swipes above his fingers. Her hips leave the countertop, the moan loud as he laughs - his other hand pressing flat against her stomach. 
Holding her down, as he teases her again. Short, pointed licks against her throbbing clit. Her cunt is as sweet as her mouth, his own groan caught in his throat as his tongue dips inside her. 
Mourning all the nights he could have spent like this. Spending the time as evening turns to night, then again as night turns to dawn. Drowning in the taste of her instead of clenching his teeth until his jaw aches, as he tries to keep quiet. Dreaming of this. 
He leans back, just enough to press a wet kiss against her clit. The soft suck a sharp contrast with the texture of his rough fingers as he fucks her open. 
She was right - it’s messy. Dripping down the curve of her thighs, the damp stain mixing with others on his weathered coat. 
Everything is so dry, in the wasteland. Dirt roads and dead trees. He relishes in the wet suck of her cunt, how it’s this way right now because of him.
His cheeks hollow, a swirl of his tongue before he’s adding to it. Leaning back to let his spit drip down, his thumb dragging it across the tight bud.
She’s whimpering. It’s been ages since she’s had anyone - the low throb in her belly swiftly building. 
In the before - she thinks she’d be embarrassed to be splayed out like this. Stripped near-bare on the counter of a diner, thighs spread wide as his fingers pump into her aching cunt.
But he eats her like a meal, left hand moving from her belly. Wrapping around a thigh to tug her closer, hiking it over a shoulder.
Groaning into her pussy as his tongue flicks against her clit, smearing slick across his chin. Pressing closer, unhindered by the usual curve of cartilage and flesh as he molds himself against her. 
“Hancock.” His name is a sharp gasp, as she clenches around him. Breath held in her throat as she watched with half-lidded eyes.
Focused on the tight string that winds with each careful curl of his fingers. He slips in a third and she all but sobs, chasing her pleasure with a needy rock of her hips.
Chanting him name as it curls low in her belly.
“Hancock. Hancock-”
And then, the prettiest of all.
“John. Fuck, John, I’m going to come-”
It’s goddamn music to his metaphorical ears. Better than that - better than the sing of gunfire in his favor, of the sweet rush and hum of that first hit of Jet.
He watches through those dark eyes as she falls apart. Her cry loud in the empty diner, as she’s struck - the livewire crackle of her orgasm ripping through her.
Better than she can ever remember. Thighs squeeze around his neck but it only makes him moan - breath hot against her cunt as his fingers continue to pump. And his tongue dips to taste her, slipping between knuckles. 
The pleasure throbs - the stained ceiling spinning, looking like the clouded stars high above them to her hazy mind. 
A disbelieving and dazed laugh caught in her throat as his mouth moves. Pressing against her mound, the sensitive curve where thigh meets hip. 
It’s only then that she’s unhooking her thighs - a heat blazing in her cheeks at the brazenness. Too caught up in the moment to see herself - splayed out across the countertop, heels digging into his spine. 
But she does see him - the need etched across his face under the tip of his hat, the wet shine against his lips and chin. Deadly in a new kind of way, mixing with the prowess he shows on the battlefield.
There’s another low throb, deep inside her. The lithe way he moves, rising - a hand planting next to her hip, the other working the heavy buckle open.
She meets him - pushing herself up. A hand coming to cup him, feeling the hard length that strains against his trousers. Tasting herself on his tongue when her head ducks to kiss him, swallowing his groan as her fingers palm and squeeze. 
“Drivin’ me crazy, sunshine.” His voice is like gravel, as he works at the zipper - her fingers slipping past to wrap around hot skin, “Enough to make a ghoul go feral, you know that?”
Her smile is pretty - pleasure-drunk, and he hasn’t even fucked her yet. Her hand soft and warm where she eases him out, the brush of her thumb over the head making his cock throb. 
“Me too. I need you.” She begs, and he knows it’s more than that just that.
That it’s not just fucking, right now. That a line has been crossed, that they’ll never be able to not want this again. More than ready to tumble over into the unknown, together.
“My mouth wasn’t enough?” Hancock grins. Fully intending to have her every way she’ll let him. Unable to resist making her squirm.
The look she gives him makes him chuckle - the gentle pull of her fist, the little frown. The way her thighs spread again, aiming the flushed tip of his cock over slick skin. Against the tight nub of her clit as she shivers, lips parting with a gasp.
“Hancock, don’t tease-” Some of that bite is back, desperate. Not begging but it’s close, as her hips lift against him again. 
“I’ll give you anything you want.” He promises, “Just like hearing you say it. Come on, sweetheart.” 
It’s hard to hold himself back, when she’s notching him against her opening. His hands sliding to her hips, liking the way his fingers sink into her skin.
How it dents around his calloused ones, soft as the rest of her.
“Fuck me.” Her eyes are on his, watching where they drag from his fingers to her pussy. Watching how his chest heaves beneath his vest, where his chest peeks from loosened buttons. 
“I need you in me. I need you to fuck me, I want to come on your cock-”
“Fuck.” He groans, and then his hips are snapping forward. Feeling the tight, warm squeeze as he buries himself in her, as she cries out at the intrusion. 
“Goddamn, sunshine.” He has to hold himself there for a moment, hilted inside her. Feeling the way she clenches down around him, fingers mirroring it where they wrap in his shirt. 
Almost sharing a breath as he inches out, only to press deep again. Again, and then again - until there’s the slick slap, the creak of the floorboards beneath his heavy boots as his feet spread wider. 
It’s better than his fingers. He’s deeper, filling her completely, stealing her breath. Those hands tugging at her hips, urging her to meet each thrust, as he picks up speed.
Hearing the changes in her pretty sounds - the gasps and the scrape of fingernails against his skin. Spearing her on his cock, where she can feel the worn and rough ridges gliding against a spot that has been sighing. 
But, he wants more. Wants her like before - splayed out. At his mercy, in a way that he knows she’d only do for him. Knowing that she trusts him - wondering if he would be worried that the thought makes his cock jerk inside her. 
“Give me your hands.” He rasps - and slowly, her finger uncurl from the edge of the counter, the vice-like grip on his shirt.
Hancock grasps at her wrists, joining them together with one of his own. Pushing her back, dragging them above her head and pressing them down hard against the countertop.
Arching over her as his eyes sweep over soft curves and bare skin. His coat spread out beneath her, the worn red so pretty next to her skin. Better than his best fantasy, and he’s already thinking about a next time. 
The choked out “oh!” she makes with the next rock of his hips shoots straight to his cock - knowing full-well she could break free if she wanted.
Instead, she lets him take. 
Giving up the control as he ruts into her, spearing his cock deep again and again. Trying to meet the messy swipe of his fingertips that drifted down to press against the bundle of nerves - her pleasure in his hands.
“Look good like this, sunshine.” His eyes drag over her breasts, still shining from his tongue.
“Real fuckin’ good.”
Down to where her thighs tighten around his hips, arching into him, “Should keep you like this all the time. Just in my coat. Wear it better than I do.”
A sharp edge to his voice, one that fuels the aching pressure that builds and builds. Her head thunks back against the laminate counter, eyes falling shut. 
The words starting slow, growing louder, then running together. 
“Feels so good-”
“Hancock don’t stop. Oh my god-”
There’s an electricity in the air that has nothing to do with the storm. His hand biting into her wrists so hard that it hurts, but the pain only loops into her mounting pleasure.
It’s different than his dalliances before. 
Before, it had filled his time. Finding someone to spend the night with a couple times a week, enjoying the shared company with another.
That frequency dwindling after they joined up, though he hadn’t been the type to stop. He just no longer had the time, that same desire. 
Finding that he no longer focused on chasing his own pleasure. His interest shifting - until there was only one face that drifts through his mind, in the stolen moments at night when his hand slipped beneath his trousers. 
Embracing the crave of a new kind of addiction, the urge hooking its claws into his brain. 
“Say my name again.” He tells her, feeling his own release winding and tightening. Trying to stave it off, as he tries to think about anything else, “Fuckin’ scream it for me.” 
Her eyes are on his when she says it.
“John.”
First soft, and then pitching up - louder.
And in the moment, he’s just John. The John before and the John now, man and ghoul and so focused on the circle of his fingers, on her cries.
It’s too much - all she can do is lean into it. Never realizing how much she’d like letting go for him, knowing that just like in the Wasteland, he had her. 
Always liking his quips and rasping tone but never experiencing it like this - honey-sweet and hungry. 
Learning so quickly what she likes - how quick he was to adjust the angle, the slick swirl of his fingers.
His name is on her lips again as he brings her over the brink. More like a prayer this time, her body stringing taut beneath him, eyes wide. Mouth rounding on a high gasp as the pleasure shudders through her, radiating up her spine and down her limbs.
Seeming to reach across from where they’re joined, that steady rhythm stuttering as she flutters tight and warm around him. 
“Fuck. Fuck, sunshine. You feel so fucking good, gonna make me come-” His teeth grit, a silent question.
Her answer coming in the way her thighs tighten around him. Keeping him pressed deep inside her, until his thrusts turn short and sloppy. 
“Oh, fuck yes.” His grin is closer to a snarl, “Thank you-” 
His fingers bite into her hip. Her name hissed through clenched teeth as the pressure builds, before spilling over.
As his hips rut until he’s pressed as deep as he can, a choked groan as he comes. His cock twitching with each throb of his orgasm, as he fills her. Emptying himself into her heat - until she’s milked him dry. Until he slows, leaving himself buried, deep and warm.
His eyes drop, as he comes back down. Where she’s watching, just as hungry as he was.
Leaving them staring at each other. His back arched over where his hand has slipped. Loosening on her wrist, until her fingers has twined with his. 
There’s no going back.
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His cock hangs heavy between his thighs. It’s night - dark now, but the flickering of lightning following the peals of thunder cast green shadows over her body. Eyes drifting up to where the rain patters on the metal roof.
A languid exhale, breathing out the smoke from the cigarette he fished out of the coat pocket. Dangling between two fingers, the cherry gleaming in the dim light. 
Then back down, to where she still rests - beautifully drowsy and limp-limbed. Thighs still parted, where she gleams with him.
He’s certain he’ll be dripping into those clothes of hers for days. 
It does something to him, an interested twitch from his cock. Stepping closer to fit himself back between those thighs, where they close to bracket his hips again. 
“Didn’t you say somethin’ ‘bout slow, later?” Hancock asks, his hand petting down a hip, thumb brushing against her skin. 
Stubbing the rest of his smoke out on the counter, letting it fall to the tile below. 
Her smile is sweet as she pushes herself up. No use leaving while the storm raged on - and she’s pretty sure the bedroll was well on its way to dry by now. 
Fingers catch on the collar of his ruffled shirt, starting to push it from his shoulders. His own hands tugging at her, until he pressed snug against her again. 
“Mm. Is it later, now?” She asks - as more of him is a bared - her hands running across rough skin. 
Hancock grins. 
“I sure as hell hope so.”
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I know this dropped out of nowhere for a 9 year old game but I can’t get the mayor out of my mind 💕 thanks for reading!!!
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youryanderedaddy · 7 months ago
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Dark Is The Night
Summary: A late night encounter with a patroling soldier changes the trajectory of his life - and, unfortunately, yours too.
tw: female reader, obsessive behavior, non - consensual touching, threats, thoughts of non - con, mention of war, patronizing behavior, slight misogyny, hinted kidnapping
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All he could think about was you.
It was a damp linden night, one of the very few old fashioned ones - as if time itself had stopped. The old colonel was laughing in short sharp breathes, skin spotting in red along with his sweaty neck, tearing into a letter he had received this very morning. The young soldiers were all over the tavern - some crying, some cheering over a beer and calling each glass their last, losing themselves in the rich foam that covered their fresh military mustaches. Christoph was alone, though.
He had no wife to write back to - no home to call his own, no friends or family to celebrate his final battle with. He also wasn't a rookie - so he couldn't drink himself blind in the pursuit of ideals, of empty promises of greatness to come. Truth was, his troops had won their fair share of battles, and today they had signed a treaty that would certainly benefit the district - the one he had lost his youth fighting for. He knew the capital would attempt at invasion, those greedy fucks wanted to bite more than they could chew - but that was no longer his problem. Today his contract ended. Today he was a free man.
And yet.
And yet all he could think about was you.
It was funny - he had spent more nights than he could remember wishing he could burn this half - dead village to the ground, all together with the maidens and the elderly still stick fending for themselves after the war. He presumed he'd be doing everyone a favor - he'd rid himself of the memories that haunted his dreams, and they wouldn't have to suffer any longer, not when all that winter would bring once again was even more hunger and decay.
After all, the victory changed nothing. The starving populace wouldn't starve anymore - it would simply die, having lost fathers, sons, daughters, farmers, merchants, healers. Nothing less than the very foundation of society. So maybe it would be far less cruel, far more humane, to burn everything and let them die with dignity.
But then you too would burn with the miserable souls of the damned. The man pictured it all - your beautiful skin still damp from the rain blistering in red and orange, and eventually black, those gems of yours trembling beneath your long eyelashes as the smoke swallowed your last breath.
The thought made Christoph irrationally angry - jealous even. Not only because he just imagined you dying, but because it was someone, something else stealing your final moment from him. Something else bruising your skin and forcing your lips to swell, something else causing you pain and suffering. No, he couldn't let you die. Not like this.
He couldn't help but recall your first meeting two years ago. Unbeknownst to you he had memorized it, citing each line by heart - envisioning it in his memory over and over each time he needed an escape, an outlet. The soldier wasn't one for softness, never one to dream and hope - but deep down he knew that this simple encounter had swayed the bullets. It had made him grip his rifle just a bit closer, made the biting wind just a bit warmer. He was a killing machine undeserving of humanity - yet you had saved him without even realizing it.
It was a cold winter night - quite opposite to this one, in the middle of Hell. The county your village was part of had been surrounded for a few weeks. Food was running low, and even clean water was scarce. All the men had been displaced a long time ago, sent off to fight in the eastern territories. Christoph was stuck at the Iron hills, a region so poor they didn't even bother to send additional armies to. If it lost, it lost. It held no special resources, no cultural or economic significance, no sea or forest roads to profit off of. All in all, no one wanted to serve here. No one but him.
Not that Christoph was too fond of the hills - it was more so that he didn't care where he was going to die. Whether it was on the eastern front, the western or even on the other side of the ocean, it didn't matter. And he had made peace with that fact - but before death took a toll on him, he was going to earn enough buck to buy good cigarettes for once in his miserable life. With real tobacco, none of that cheap imported trash they sold in his hometown.
And that's exactly how fate let him meet you. He was patrolling the border bridge late into the night - a thick cigar in hand (a parting gift from the general Murphy), humming to an old melody he couldn't quite remember the name of. He was alone that night - his friend had been injured so he needed to rest. The man was trying to stay alert, although the fatigue had long settled in between his tired bones and it refused to let go. The lack of sleep and the sheer paranoia was making him jumpy, ready to point his gun at the slightest of sound. He almost shot you that night.
"Colonel." You had whispered through gritted teeth, slowly raising your hands up as you approached him with a hesitant step. He blinked twice, unsure if he was still awake. Surely there was no way a young woman was out alone so late during wartime. "Colonel!" You repeated, putting a bit more force into your otherwise soft, calm voice. This seemed to snap him out of his trance and he finally raised his head to look at you, his sharp, intense gaze measuring you up from top to bottom. Just like a predator seizing his pray, like a soldier trained to keep his eyes on the target, he knew no other way to introduce himself other than with a silent, unspoken threat.
"A bit young to be calling me that, no?" The man snapped back, voice coming out more raspy than he intended - but it was hardly his fault. He rarely had visitors nowadays - no one wanted to expose themselves to the front lines, to risk becoming smoked meat, which meant he had little opportunity for chatter. So his voice had become rough - almost unnecessary cruel.
"I'm sorry." You mumbled, blurry eyes focused on the weapon resting oh - so snuggly against the soldier's heart as if guarding it. "I'm not familiar with your many titles, sir." You explained with a certain bite. Christoph squinted, growing amused at your little jab, yet the black mask covering his mouth hid it from you. The man knew exactly what you meant. You were not used to so much surveillance on your step - on everyone's step, so many eyes set on you as if you had a massive red target on your back. You were not used to armed forces ghosting around your small homely village with a gun resting at an arm's length just waiting to be loaded.
He wondered if it was your first time running into a soldier since the beginning of the occupation. He wondered if you were scared - if your heart was beating against your chest like it was trying to break through the skin. After all he was indeed intimidating - with heavy combat boots and a black uniform that did little to hide his rough figure, the lineage of lean muscle and battered blistered skin that undoubtedly belonged to a man. A man whose hands were still covered in dirt and blood. He could kill you. He could push you around - get some entertainment out of you. He could shove you down and use you like a cheap village whore - and no one would care because that's just how war is. He was serving his country, he needed an outlet, and you just happened to be there. No one would blame him.
He couldn't bring himself to come closer to you. He didn't trust himself to hold back when faced with something so fragile after months of letting his fists and his teeth do the speaking.
"That's lieutenant to you, miss." He barked in a tone that felt familiar - a tone that used to wake him up every morning at 5 for weeks on end. A tone that he could still hear every time he loaded his rifle and let go of the trigger with shaking fingers.
He couldn't be nice to you. He couldn't be nice to anyone in this bloodshed. And yet he heard himself asking you for your name. It hadn't meant anything - it was a long night and he was bored. Lonely, maybe, he couldn't tell his feelings apart very well. You hesitated for a second too long before you finally gave him a clear answer. It was the most beautiful sound he had heard - not just now, but ever.
"Would you mind explaining why you're here so late, miss?" The man tilted his head, trying to understand your unreadable expression - somehow you looked lost in time, striken by fear and grievance. "I believe the general gave direct orders this morning. No one should be out after ten." He paused to take a long, dramatic puff off his cigar. "It's too dangerous. Especially for a pretty little thing like you to be roaming at night." He knew his boldness was making you uneasy, and that he shouldn't derive such obvious pleasure from your discomfort, but he just couldn't help it. He was lonely. He was sick. And most of all, he was a bastard who had already given up on life. He had nothing to lose.
"Truth be told, if you were mine I wouldn't let you out of sight, miss." He grinned, feeling just a bit disgusted with himself. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted to scare you. To creep you out so bad you'd never go out alone again. Why he had got so invested so quickly, he also couldn't tell.
"I... I needed a breath of f-fresh air, l-leutenant." You responded quickly, eager to leave this conversation as soon as possible - completely ignoring anything he said. Your initial confidence had evaporated as the wet cold crept into your thin coat. It didn't fit your frame - it was too big on you and it reeked of a man's first proper cologne. The thought of it filled the soldier with unreasonable, hot -red fury, imagining you next to some nameless brat with his hands wrapped around you.
"That's all?" The corners of his lips stretched mockingly as he let his smoke blow into your face - and you had to fight the urge to immediately wave it off.
"Are you, are you implying something, sir?" You fiddled with your fingers nervously, looking anywhere but at Christoph. He found it pathetically adorable. "Just curious." He took another long puff - his breath coming out frozen - white as it hit the icy air. "You don't seem like the brave type to me." His eyes narrowed to two pitch black slits. He must have looked terrifying to you in that moment, and he loved it. "So just what-" He pulled you in by the collar. "Are you doing here, huh?"
You froze in place as if he had pointed his gun to you yet again. You swallowed loudly, trying to come up with an explanation - but nothing came to mind when you were so obviously scared. The soldier could feel your heartbeat - he could hear the blood pumping to your ears as you looked around hopelessly for help that wouldn't come. And just like that the wolf had the rabbit dancing in its own trap.
"Are you just looking for trouble, hmm?" The man reached in to curl his finger around one of your loose locks. He didn't want to make you feel so awfully small - but everything about this situation, from the tremble of your lips to the sheer panic in your eyes was going straight to his cock. "I'm sure that with a face like that you never lacked attention, no?" He tilted his head with predatory malice. "But now all the men bending over backwards for you are off somewhere, dying as we speak. Poor little you - I can imagine just how lonely you are." He pressed his body closer to yours. "The thing is, I am more than willing to play with you in their pl-"
"Please, lieutenant." You couldn't stand to listen to him any longer, a thousand warm pleas already falling off your desperate lips. "Please let me go." Your eyes softened, trying to hide the first sign of hot wet tears. "I need to go home to my siblings. I need to bring them fo-"
"Why should that matter to me, dollface?" It was his turn to interrupt you - voice full of childish glee as he kept up with his petty torment.
"Because - because," You started off, hands shaking into little fists that you knew, realistically, could do the soldiers no damage were you to push against his chest. "Because you're a good man." You mumbled after a while, looking for the right words to say. "And I know that deep down you're kind and brave. That's why you're here now, fighting for all our lives."
You were such a pretty liar, Christoph thought. He could listen to your sugary sweet fairytales all night long, silently praying that they'd become true if he was only able to capture his own little fairy - his own miracle.
"What if I am not the hero, doll?" The man whispered darkly in response, leaning against you until your back hit the tree behind you, trapping you between his stiff body and the pillar. "What if I am here for all the wrong reasons, huh? Just think about it." He lowered his head so it would match your eye level - you were so quiet he wondered if you had forgotten how to breath.
"We're in the middle of nowhere. I have a weapon and a direct permission to shoot at will. I can do whatever the fuck I want." He made sure you could hear every single word clearly. He wouldn't let you faint before he was through with you. "I can fuck you right here in the open - or I can drag you to the barracks and keep you there for as long as I need to. Do you really think anyone would care about some insignificant girl going missin-"
"Please." You repeated, suddenly getting stirn with your pleading, as if you too had nothing to lose. "Let me go - I'd do anything."
His eyes darkened - then lit up with sick, perverse desire. He wanted to echo your words back to you just like a classical villain would - to really drive the point across that he was out for blood. Anything, you say? Anything at all? But he couldn't contain his excitement enough to voice those sadistically banal thoughts. Besides, he could already feel the adrenaline running through his whole body. His heart was beating rhythmically, pumping and alive for the first time in days, weeks, months. He wanted you more than anything. It was that moment he knew he was going to live - he was going to fight and win, and then come back for you as a hero. As your hero, even if in your eyes he would be more of a villain.
A nightmare you'd try to forget - and just when you think you have erased his fingertips off your waist, your face, your neck, he'd come back to steal you away forever.
"Kiss me." Christoph all but snarled, some unfamiliar, needy - greedy ball of emotion settling into his loins as your delicate face twisted into a petrified grimace. You began trembling in his arms, looking around yet again. It was pitch black, no soul in sight. You inhaled deeply, trying to steady your movement to no avail. "A-alright. I-I..." You whispered with difficulty as if simply saying the words was causing you a great deal of pain. And maybe it was, but the soldier could care less. He already knew you were made for him - made to serve him, made to make him happy. "I'll d-do it."
The man growled in satisfaction, taking a small step back. You looked at him, puzzled - your confused face was just as cute as your scared one. He couldn't wait to explore all your reactions - the way you'd squirm and writhe underneath him as he fucked into you restlessly, filling you up with his love over and over again until you were crying for mercy. But that had to wait, he had a war to fight. For now he could settle for a little taste of you to keep him warm during the cold nights. And just like that he tapped his lips, guiding you silently. You felt your cheeks heat up once you finally understood what he meant by that. He wasn't going to kiss you. He wanted you to put in the work.
Your eyes filled up with tears, and you felt silly for becoming so upset over a little kiss - but this was your first kiss, and you had to give it to a monster. It was certainly better than the alternative, with the alternative being rape in a filthy military cottage, but it still made you feel dirty all over. Yet, you had no choice. You took a step towards the man - you could feel the suffocating warmth radiating off his body towards yours, and if the situation wasn't so grim, you might have been grateful for another human's heat in the freezing cold. But now all you could feel was dread.
You stood on your tip toes, a shaky hand reaching out to cup the stranger's face. Cristoph smirked, complecent at your obedience. You licked your lips and slowly, hesitantly pressed them against his, just barely touching at all.
He groaned, unable to keep his hands to himself any longer. He grabbed you and pulled you in roughly, squeezing you like a plush toy. He deepened the kiss, forcing his tongue deep into your mouth, finding heaven between your soft, sweet lips and broken whimpers. You were so innocent. So lost. He wanted to take you into his arms and never let go. He wanted to keep kissing you until your lips turned blue, until it hurt to speak.
And then you pushed him off just like that, using your own body as a distraction. He tripped backwards, too shocked and lost in sensation to stop you. He smiled at your final act of defiance. It was, of course, adorable and so painfully you, yet it didn't really matter - not in the long run. You had only suceeded in making him want you more.
But that was two years ago. Now the war was finally over. Now he had enough to start a new life. Now he was a free man.
And he was coming back for you.
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tbaluver · 3 months ago
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pairing: sylus x reader
genre/tags: 18+, road head, car sex
a/n: might be ooc again, only thought of this bc of that one call when you reach lvl 38 with him heh (': enjoy!
⋆。‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧。⋆
"Don't go home and sleep. Drive around the city with me tonight."
You found yourself in his sleek, high end sports car, initially just helping him out by giving him a ride after his meeting with your boss. But as the engine roared to life and the luxury of the vehicle surrounded you, the experience quickly became overwhelming as this was a way different car you've driven before. After just a few minutes of driving him around the city, you decided to switch spots.
As you two chatted in the car, you would glance at boyfriend occasionally. It was no doubt he was attractive. One hand on the steering wheel and one hand placed on your thigh. You couldn't ignore the heat in your lower region so a devilish idea pops up in your head. You were needy and simply couldn't wait to get to either of your homes.
You slowly unbuckled the seatbelt and crawled over to the center console towards Sylus lap and rested your elbow on the armrest of the console. He raised his eyebrow as he glanced at you, "And what do you think you're doing, sweetheart?"
You bit your lip as you reached for his belt, beginning to unbuckle his pants slowly. He gives a breathy chuckle knowing where this was going as he lifts his hips, allowing you do so. You lick your lips in anticipation as his cock sprung free, his tip a crimson red. You fan your breath across his exposed skin before lowering your head towards him.
You hummed before you slowly took him in your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you sunk your mouth down on him. You began to swirl your tongue alongside his shaft as his hand that was on your thigh moves to push your head further down the length of his cock. You continue to swirl your tongue on his length as you feverishly sucked on his cock, moaning as his grip on your hair tightens. He groans, his head falling back slightly as he struggled to keep his eyes on the road as he wants to watch you work.
You vigorously move your head up and down the length of his shaft and each time you do so, the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat. Soon you felt his cock begin to twitch in your mouth and you swirl your tongue along his tip, taking all the leftover precum. With a few more strokes of your mouth, he was finished.
He cuts the drive around the city short as he parks in an abandoned parking lot. You crawl into the back seat of his car as he follows you, closing the door behind him. He pulls you to him, making you straddle his lap. He unbuttons your top as he kissed and sucked your neck down to breasts, leaving you gasping and desperate. The windows were fogging up as he gave you on last lick to your nipple and removed any other articles of clothing you were wearing. Two of his fingers spread around your wetness, pressing them into your clit as you whined, raising your hips and guiding him to your entrance.
As you were straddling his lap, his throbbing cock twitches against your core as you he makes you bounce up and down. His usually well-ironed material of his shirts were now crumpled, offering an opening of his sculpted body. You place your hands to his chest, nails raking across his skin.
"Im- ah close" You whimper, thrusting your hips forward. He desperately tries to hang on through the way you walls are clamping down around him. Your chest is heaving until you meet the pure pleasure you were chasing. You continue to move your hips, sliding in and out of his length to fully chase it out. He finishes soon after you, spilling himself into you like the good girl you are because he didn't want any fluids staining the black leather material of his car.
His hands travel up to your spine, rubbing small soothing circles, while he presses his lips to your temple.
"Don't think I'll be so easy on you next time sweetheart. Just wait until we get back home."
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ceilidho · 10 months ago
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take me home, country road
prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 2) part 1
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The solid hand at your back guides you through the dusty streets towards the courthouse in the middle of town. It’s not an easy walk. Your shoes catch on the skirt of your dress a handful of times in Price’s haste, each time almost causing you to tumble forward before you manage to catch yourself. 
It’s patently unfair. The strides of his long legs would easily have you losing him in a crowd were it not for the way he refuses to leave you behind; every time you so much as slow down a tad to catch your breath, the firm hand on your low back presses you forward again. You’d be snippier if you weren’t still addled from the events of just five minutes previous.
“I beg you, please—” you plead, heart skittering in your chest when you chance a glance up to find Price’s face set. Everything about him feels purposeful now, driven. “If you just—if you would just let me explain!”
“Nothing more to know, darling,” he says, not bothering to meet your desperate eyes. Clearly not in any mood to continue arguing with you on the status of your identity. 
He tugs you along when he takes a right turn down a road leading into the center of town. The belt of bullets around his waist rattles with every step. It’s a constant reminder of who you’re with and why you should not be with him. Every step feels like a step towards your own sentencing, like accompanying your jailer to your cell. It’s perhaps fool’s luck that the sheriff hasn’t inquired further into your identity or your reason for coming into town. Makes you think that perhaps there isn’t yet a warrant out for your arrest. Maybe that’s only to come. 
“Sure there’s more!” you insist. “There’s—there’s—” It’s like the words fly right out of your head, bucked off like a bronc rider. Too much has happened in too short a time. “There’s the matter of—oh, would you quit that, I am walking!” The last bit comes out snappish, peeved as Price pulls you towards the stone steps of a red-bricked building. 
The words County Court House are inscribed above the second-story door girdled by a wrought iron balcony. It’s a simple building, far from the colonnaded buildings from back home with their cupolas and hand-carved lintels. Even in size it hardly compares, a meager three stories with perhaps a basement. Still, it catches the eye in a town as small as this, by far the most imposing building for miles around.
It’s also the one he pulls you towards, hand moving from the small of your back to take firm hold of your waist. You flinch at the touch and the way his fingers dig in, almost proprietarily. It’s a physical shock to your system. While you’re not unaccustomed to the rougher ways of men, you’ve also been largely shielded from it yourself. By chance or fortune or luck. Men may take an attitude with you, as they’re wont to do, but none have yet manhandled you the way Price feels free to do. 
“Take a big step there now, darling,” he says, lifting the front of your dress for you a tad, to your shock. “No accidents before the wedding.” 
“The wedding?” you shriek, face heating at the heads that turn to look over at the two of you. 
The courthouse is bustling with townsfolk, still not as busy as in the bigger cities back east, but still clearly at the center of all business activities. The few people that pass you by on the way out of or into the courthouse are bold in their perusal, eyebrows lifting when they take notice of Price at your side—and how could they not, with the size of him and the badge pinned to the lapel of his vest that glimmers when it catches the light. 
“If you were expecting something grander, you should’ve turned up last month when I sent for you,” Price says, stern again. In the foyer of the courthouse, you can see the way the long hallway cuts through the building, leading into the adjacent rooms until finally culminating with the courtroom at the very back. You watch as a man slowly closes the door to the last door, shutting the occupants in. “Might’ve been more amenable to it then.”
“I’m not asking for a nicer ceremony—”
“Good, then you won’t be disappointed.”
“—but that’s because I’m not the woman that you intended to marry in the first place,” you finish, quieting to a hissed whisper, conscious of those still lingering close enough to eavesdrop. In all likelihood, the other people milling around probably already know that the sheriff has been waiting for his mail order bride to arrive. They wouldn’t be the first people to mistake you for her.
He pulls you into an alcove off the side of the foyer. When Price turns to face you, no longer just the heavy presence at your side, it takes a moment for you to gather your bearings. He seems larger somehow, with his arms crossed over his chest and feet rooted into the floor, drawn up to his full height. The hair on his forearms draws your eyes momentarily before he steps into your space, forcing you to meet his eyes again. 
He stares down at you with an intensity that makes you flinch. “Now, far be it for me to say that I know my wife-to-be by her demeanor alone, given that we’ve hardly corresponded beyond our initial agreement. But I find it mighty strange that a single, unaccompanied woman would show up in town with all of her earthly belongings as I’m expecting my own woman to show up any day. Hardly seems coincidental.”
“Don’t you think I would have sought you out if we were intended to wed?” you ask beseechingly. “Or that I would put up such a fuss now? What sort of bride would do that?”
“You want to know what I think, darling?” The timber of his voice deepens as he lowers his head slightly, wrapping the conversation in a layer of intimacy despite its public nature. There’s a darker note to his voice now, a thinly-veiled anger. “I think you’ve been keeping yourself housed and fed off the back of men like me and the money you’ve been sent to compensate for the rough journey. I think your guilty conscience brought you here because you know that the Lord doesn’t look too kindly on swindlers and thieves.”
“I’m not a thief,” you hiss in protest, affronted. Ironic that you’d be insulted by his words when the truth is far worse. 
“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Price permits, a reluctant softness in his voice. “But your conscience did you right. Marriage will suit you far better than a life of crime ever could.”
If only he knew. “You’ve still got it all wrong—I’ve never once even glanced at the matrimonial pages or the personals. And I certainly didn’t come to town expecting to be wed.”
You did, however, arrive in town with a guilty conscience. Even you’re wise enough not to mention that, though.
“Then if you're not her, who are you?” he asks. 
It’s clear from his tone that Price doesn’t believe you, but the question itself makes you antsier than even the thought of marrying this man. He still stares down at you in challenge, an eyebrow cocked. If you wanted to, you could easily answer his question and even furnish proof—a letter from an aunt or uncle or a telegram from a previous employer. 
That last thought makes your throat squeeze tight. You could furnish proof, but at what cost? You’re still unclear on how much information has been disseminated or whether you're a wanted woman. Though only weeks have passed since the event that caused you to flee in a haste, there’s no telling whether a warrant has been put out for your arrest, no telling whether word has reached a town this far west. 
“Not that it matters, but I’m from New York,” you say, scrunching up your nose. 
The look he gives you is unimpressed. “I’m sure you lost the accent on the train ride.”
Embarrassment makes you dig your heels in deeper. “I didn’t grow up there, it’s just where I’ve lived for the past few years.”
“And what’s your name?”
“…Elizabeth Smith.” 
It’s the first name that occurs to you, but the moment the words come out of your mouth, you can’t help feeling like you’ve made a huge mistake. Price must sense it too because he draws back up to his full height, lips twitching into a small smirk. 
“You have family or a post back in New York, Miss Smith?” he asks in a patronizing tone. 
“Family.” 
“Alright, then it shouldn’t be too hard to get confirmation and settle this whole issue.” He points behind you to one of the unoccupied rooms. “Telegraph’s office just behind you. We’ll get in touch with the Census Bureau and ask them to confirm your identity. And, if you are who you say you are, Miss Smith, then we can put this issue to rights.” 
Your blood goes cold. “That’ll—that’ll take time though. I can’t marry you today if they only get back to you in a week’s time.”
Price nods, his expression dissatisfied but resolved. “Wouldn’t be proper for you to stay at the house either, but I’ll make sure the inn lets you stay free of charge until this is settled. You’ll be in good hands under the Pattersons’ watch.” 
He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear the implication in his words. You’d be essentially under house arrest, perhaps free to move about town, but certainly not free to take the next train out. 
Your pulse thumps nervously at the base of your throat. Even swallowing takes effort now. The weight of his stare takes root in you, a living coil in your belly. No getting out of it. There’s no getting out of this. You don’t know why you thought you could, how you tricked yourself into thinking for even a moment that a man as formidable as the one set in front of you would simply give in. Let you go. You’ve hardly even moved the needle. 
It’s there still in his eyes. Not even doubt—something quite far past that. Certainty. 
“‘Elizabeth Smith of New York’, was it? Come, we’ll have them start the message and you can give me your birthday as well so it’ll be an easy find—” Price says, attempting to slip around you to head to the telegraph’s office. 
“No.” 
It slips out of you inadvertently, high and panicked. He pauses at the word. More than just your words. When you look down, you notice your fingers clenched in the fabric of his sleeve, bringing him to a halt. It pulls taut against the muscle of his forearm. 
Softness bleeds back into him at your touch. You can see it smooth out the lines of his forehead and the jut of his brow. He ignores the onlookers still hovering by the double doors to twist back to you, now obscuring their view of you. The breadth of his shoulders nearly blocks the rest of the foyer from sight when he looms over you like this. Down the hall, you can hear a gavel pound down on wood and a litany of raised voices in unison from behind a shut door. 
“You don’t have to make up stories,” Price murmurs, drawing a hand up to cup your cheek, holding it like a precious thing. “I told you before—all’s forgiven.”
His words remind you of being trapped in his office, drawers stripped down your ankles and skirt pulled up to your waist. Your bottom still smarts from the palm of his hand, still hot and sore to the touch. It’s hardly been long since then and yet it feels like an age ago, like trying to find your way in a dust storm. 
You open and shut your mouth, lost for a way out. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Marriage or a jail cell. You swallow. Both sound like a sentencing. 
But there are the cold, metal bars of a cell, and then there’s John Price. The first man in an age to elicit more than a passing glance from you. Deep blue eyes crinkled with the folds of old laughter, wide shoulders, and barrel chest. In another time, you think you would’ve jumped at the chance to be courted by a man like him. Keeled over at the very thought of being chased the way he hunts you down now. 
“Alright,” you say instead, giving in. The hand fisting his sleeve shakes. “Alright.”
It’s not a pleasant giving in. Your permission is handed over with shot nerves. The coil bunched up in your core burns white hot, hissing and spitting like a rattlesnake. 
Still, when he drags a thumb over the slope of your cheek, you fight not to let your eyelids flutter shut. “Good girl. We’ll make it work, love. Won’t be easy, but it never is.”
You don’t anticipate that it will be, but your mouth stays shut. Price must think you mollified, soothed rather than resigned to your fate, because he passes his thumb once more over your cheekbone, this time so tenderly that you wait for his lips to descend upon yours again, sure from the heat in his eyes that he won’t be able to keep from stealing another kiss. You lick your lips out of habit—not just to see the way his eyes follow the motion. 
Then the door at the back of the building bursts open to a cacophony of shouts and hollering voices. The moment broken, Price drops his hand away from your cheek, only to take your hand in his this time, pulling you down the hall towards the register’s to await the circuit preacher. He makes you walk on the side closest to the wall, shielding you from the men that burst out of the courtroom, surging towards the doors. You think that someone must have been found guilty because the lot of them look joyous, clamoring over each other for attention. 
You think that you might be spared another minute or two, enough time for them to clean up and reset the courtroom, but you’re shocked to find the circuit preacher ready to conduct the ceremony in the cramped register’s office. He and Price shake hands enthusiastically, the preacher turning to you to grasp your hands in welcome before turning back to the sheriff. They have a camaraderie that speaks of old friendship. 
The cramped room where you’re married smells of patchouli and moth wings, like holes burrowed into sweaters at the back of a closet. The bookshelves along the walls are stacked with books old enough that you know they’d crinkle deliciously if opened. You try to listen as the preacher begins the introductory prayer. Behind you, another man slips into the room, a witness. He hardly bothers to introduce himself for such a brief affair. 
You haven’t been to many weddings, but you always imagined that yours—if you were privileged enough to have one—might have more fanfare. The wedding you actually get is a brusque affair, a brief recital of vows that ends only when the preacher enjoins Price to kiss his wife. 
His wife. 
Your eyes go wide when a hand flattens along your spine and pulls you into a hard chest, John dipping his head down to kiss your mouth again. His kiss is less chaste this time, not restricted by convention as earlier. This time, his tongue licks hot into your mouth, like no kiss you’ve ever had before, beard scratching your face. His mouth tastes like something you’ve never had before, like heatburst. Hot and wet. Soft and suckling. Any kiss you’ve had before pales in comparison—juvenile fumbling, all dry and half-humiliated, unsure of yourself. Nothing like being kissed by your husband.
Your husband. 
He only pulls away when the preacher finally clears his throat, a tad embarrassed. You’re too dazed to feel the same, fingers still sunk into the lapels of Price’s vest, clutched there. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up and your hands to unclench. You feel Price tug your hands away and slip something onto your finger.
The few documents needing to be signed hardly takes any longer. You finally notice the man that had slipped in behind the two of you, a masked man even larger than Price, who nods at him before glancing at you only long enough for you to notice that his eyes seem curiously blank. 
“Thanks, Simon,” Price says as the man—Simon—signs under your names, but he only grunts. The ink is still wet when he leaves. 
“How was it so fast?” you ask absently, staring at the papers as the ink sits drying and the preacher takes his own copy before handing John his. 
“Everything’s practical out here, darling.” His hand holds you by the waist again, relaxed this time. Not worried about whether you might run. “Even the weddings.”
“You don’t…you don’t even serve dinner? Invite guests over? No gifts?” The questions are irrelevant, but you ask them anyway because it’s a way to focus on anything other than the preacher handing you the final copy of the papers and Price leading you back down the hall and out the doors. 
There’s a ring on my finger, you think, looking down. It sparkles when you twist your hand from side to side. Topaz, instead of diamond. 
“Maybe if you’d showed up on time,” Price reminds you. He no longer sounds upset about it, but it still seems to come out as an admonishment. 
You don’t respond to that. Perhaps you’re still shell-shocked, looking at the world through new eyes. It feels unreal that in the span of less than a day, you’ve been plucked up and married off, to the sheriff no less. The one man you would’ve tried your hardest to avoid crossing paths with. 
No chance of that now. 
“Where are we going?” you ask, still in a daze. The sun makes you squint when you leave the courthouse, making you miss the hat back in your room at the inn. Maybe you can convince Price to let you go back to collect your things.
“I think we’re due for a honeymoon, don’t you, darling?”
You go doe-eyed at that. When you look up, your husband is already smiling down at you, crow’s feet wrinkling at the sides of his eyes. 
“Let’s go home.”
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a-leg-without-fear · 2 months ago
Text
Flooded Red (pt.1)🩸🌧️
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some lore for the reader character!! this takes place during the raid on the mansion in X2: X-Men United. please enjoy some Gore and some BAMF reader :)
Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader
Rating: 16+
Wordcount: 4.7k
Warnings: gore, violence, Carrie-levels of blood, mentions of child abuse/abandonment, child endangerment, mentions of experimentation, depressive thoughts, drugging, choking, mentions of serious illness
Series: Flooded Red
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You were no stranger to nightmares. Whether they were your own, making you toss and turn and wake up feeling exhausted, or Logan’s, leaving him shaking and panting. Yours were more infrequent than his. Every other night or so, your dreams were edged with that toxic darkness compared to his nightly torment. Anxiety-fuelled imagery that made your heart pump and your skin sweaty.
Tonight, it seemed, was your turn on the nightmare-express. Flashes of your life before joining Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters pierced your mind like a hot poker. Your father dying of polio, your mother abandoning you when your mutation showed itself, you begging for food on the side of the road for twenty years. 
In particular, one evening in the ‘50s decided to plague you. 
You, a 54-year old who appeared to still be twelve, were hunkered down in the abandoned building you called home. It was raining, humid summer air leaking in through the boarded up windows. Mildew spots covered the aged wallpaper. A distinct, old-house smell permeated the aged floorboards. 
You sat on your collection of moth-eaten blankets. An array of warm reds and cool blues created a cushy, makeshift bed that you spent your nights in. Pale orange filtered in from the streetlamps outside the abandoned house. You had tried your best to block out light by sticking newspapers to what windows weren’t covered by pine boards.
A group of men stood in front of you. Varying heights and weights. One had darker skin and cropped black hair, another had a neck tattoo and a cleft lip. Those two stood at the front of the pack of five. All wearing dark clothes and brandishing various household items as weapons. Steel pipes, wrenches, tire irons.
“You guys really don’t want to do this,” you squeaked out. You silently cursed your prepubescent voice. The man with the tattoo scoffed, squinted eyes peering around where you sat.
“And what’re you gonna do, pipsqueak?” he sneered. He smacked his palm with the pipe in his hands. The others moved to form a line next to him, blocking you from any exits.
“You’re not gonna like it,” you muttered under your breath. The man on the far right, blonde-haired and green-eyed, chuckled at you.
“You are the least threatening girl I-”
His words were cut short, breath caught in his throat. Your head was tilted as you focused. Dark eyes flooded red, blood overtaking the white, as your left arm raised toward the group.
Rough gurgles echoed from each man’s chest. Eyes wide with fear, skin flushing, lungs filled with liquid. Your lips spread into a knowing grin.
With one flick of your fingers, you made the men’s blood reach its boiling point. Explosions of crimson ichor burst from the five men. Skin split and flowered around large wounds. Bones cracked, limbs twitching and flailing.
One by one, each man fell to the ground. Bodies turned to sacks of flesh and organs. Blood seeped from the empty carcasses into the wooden floorboards.
Your smile remained stretched across your face. You hadn’t moved from your pile of blankets. Left arm covered to the elbow in blood, rest of your body clean, eyes returning to their normal ruby shade.
A piercing, world-shattering scream broke you from the shackles of your nightmare. You darted up, chest heaving, hands covering your ears to shield yourself from the noise. Glancing briefly at your own body, you were met with your adult self. Your wide eyes looked up and darted around your room.
The left side of your bed was empty. Sheets bunched up by your knees, pillow ruffled. Results of Logan sharing your bed. Yet the grouch was nowhere to be seen. You looked up to the door hoping to see him standing there.
Instead, your eyes landed on three heavily armed men. Covered in kevlar, bullet-proof vests, thick helmets. Each one having several guns attached at various points on their bodies. They were hunched over, hands over their ears, occasional grunts coming from beneath black, cloth masks.
Ignoring the scream that jabbed your eardrums when you lowered your hands, you scrambled out of bed. Your socked feet slid slightly on the hardwood floors as you dashed to the doorway. 
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. You shook your head and blinked a few times. You took the chance you saw before you while the armed men reoriented.
A sharp jab to the front man’s jaw, his head ricocheting back, and a swift kick to his stomach sent him careening back between the other two. You couldn’t stop to check if he was out yet. You swiveled on your backfoot to the man on the right. Grabbing the sides of his helmet, you yanked his head down and connected his eye socket with your knee. You punched him in the temple for good measure as he fell to the floor.
The last man raised his machine gun to your torso. You paused briefly, eyeing the man up and down, then dropped to your knees as gunshots ringed over your head. You lunged forward at the man’s legs and knocked him to the ground. A strong kick to the face and he was out.
Breathing heavily, you clambered to your feet. Your gaze landed on the wooden door behind you. You expected to see bullet holes and splintered shrapnel. Instead, three small, white darts were embedded in the wood grain. You plucked one from the door to inspect it.
Right when the dart was lifted to your face, thick arms wrapped around your neck. Kevlar vest met your t-shirt clad back as the man who you’d failed to check choked you. Your breath came out ragged and strained. You tried to stomp back on the man’s feet, but he just stepped out of the way. Your vision was growing blurry around the edges.
“Stupid fucking mutant,” the man huffed in your ear, every word laced with malice and hate.
In a last ditch attempt, you took the dart still clutched in your fingers and stabbed it into the man’s arm. A string of pained curses left the man’s mouth as he released you. You stumbled forward, chest heaving to recover lost air, as you pivoted to face your attacker.
The man blindly grabbed at the dart in his forearm. He stumbled back, body connecting with the wall behind him, then started sinking to the floor. His head lolled to the side.
Huh, tranquilizers, you thought.
You hardly had time to assess your situation as you heard scuffling down the hall. Dozens of thick boots stepping quietly across the hardwood floor. When you listened closer, you heard the clatter of guns in gloved hands.
An involuntary growl left your chest. These men were here for the kids. Your kids. The kids you’ve helped teach and care for and raise. Flashes of fiery anger licked up your chest. You knelt and tore one of the machine guns filled with darts away from the unconscious men.
You kept low to the ground as you peered out of your bedroom doorway. A larger group of kevlar-clad men, about eight strong, were walking away from your room and toward the edge of the mansion. You nestled the stock in your shoulder and aimed at the group.
Muffled, quick shots echoed from the rifle as you shot at the men, each bundle of three darts connecting with a limb. Helmets clattered on the floor as the men collapsed. They had no time to register where the shots were coming from before they laid in an unconscious heap on the floor.
You threw the empty gun to the floor as you stood. You hated guns. Hated what they represented, the violence they caused, the people who wielded them. It was a very rare circumstance that placed a gun in your hands.
A chorus of children’s screams came from the hallway behind you. Terrified, heart-wrenching, utterly fearful. Pure, unbridled rage tugged at your chest. You could feel red coat the edges of your eyes. Blood seeping into the whites to make you look like some kind of demon.
You turned and walked briskly down the hall. Hands clenched in fists at your sides, pulse beating rapidly beneath your skin, eyes clouded in a flaming scarlet.
When you approached the next group of men, this group being six strong and standing outside Ryan and Addie’s room, your mind seemed to click off. All you could see was red, all you could hear was your own pulse in your ears, all you could taste was fresh blood coating your tongue. 
Your body wasn’t your own. Fingers twisted and manipulated the pumping blood beneath the men’s skin. Bubbling and boiling the flowing ichor until each man froze where they stood. Twitching and shaking, eyes crying scarlet and mouths leaking red. Another flick of your fingers and they exploded into clouds of steamed blood. Crimson coated your entire body, leaving you drenched in the men’s remains.
Six men. Turned into empty skins and abandoned organs. Blood seeping into the hardwood floor. Dead.
Your vision came back to you. Gasping breaths left your throat in short bursts. Warm liquid beaded on the sides of your face and dripped down your skin. Your clothes were utterly drenched, your hair plastered to your scalp, feet submerged in a puddle of red.
It had been so long since you’d lashed out like that. Mind going blank and fingers acting of their own accord. Since that night in the abandoned house, you’d kept your wits about you. Always resorting to hand-to-hand or to weapons if the need presented itself. You never used your mutation if you could help it.
You felt ashamed. These six men were just doing as they were told. They were only following orders. No one, not even the worst humans, deserved to die like that.
Before the panic could grip you in a chokehold, another group of booted footsteps came from down the hall. A small voice echoed in the back of your mind. The kids. Protect the kids. Whatever it takes. How could you refuse, when the children were your life? Your reason for being?
You splashed through the puddles of blood as you moved down the hall. Eyes flooded red, fingers twitching at your sides, anger gripping your chest in a vice. You weren’t yourself anymore. You weren’t the art teacher the children loved, the friend that the X-Men laughed with, or the lover Logan had grown to know.
All you were was a burning, churning whirlpool of fiery hate. Flames licked at your lungs, filling each breath with fire. Swirling images of corpses at your feet filled your stomach to the brim.
“There’s another one! Wait… holy shit!” yelled out from in front of you. You cocked your head as you observed this new group of men.
Ten strong, all clad in kevlar and vests, all pointing their rifles loaded with tranquilizer darts at you. You could see a shake in their hands as they took in the sight of you. Eyes flooded red, blood seeping through your hair and into your clothes, feet tracking crimson in their wake. If there was a physical embodiment of Carrie, you fit the bill.
“D-Don’t move!” called the trembling voice again. Guns clicked in gloved hands as the safeties were switched off. You could see every hand had a finger resting on a trigger.
Your right hand twitched, fingers curling, as a manic grin overtook your stoney expression. These men, these infiltrators, were giving you commands? Were demanding you stand down as they took your children away? These puny, insignificant men were instructing someone with the power to kill them in a single motion? The thought made you laugh under your breath.
“Or what?” you said back. Red dots centered on your chest as every man aimed at you. Another chuckle flitted through your lips, “Good luck with that.”
Dozens of gunshots ringed out through the hallway as dart after dart embedded in your chest. Clusters of white needles protruded from your blood stained shirt. You glanced down at the intrusions to your bloodstream. A tired edge overtook your mind as the tranquilizers pumped their chemicals into you. 
You gripped the darts and ripped them from your chest. A cacophony of clatters bounced back to the men as the darts fell to the floor. You shook your head to rid yourself of the chemicals threatening to knock you out. 
“Wanna try that again?” you asked, every word dripping in sarcastic confidence. 
Before the men could reload and obey your request, you raised your left hand to the group. Your senses focused on the blood pumping through their scared little hearts. Cortisol coursed through each man’s veins. Pathetic.
A twitch of your fingers made their hearts careen to a stop. Blood froze in their veins, oxygen being deprived from their lungs, eyes widening and limp hands clutching at their throats. It only took a few moments for them to collapse to the floor.
You breathed a humorless laugh at the mess of corpses in front of you. Who did they think they were, to challenge you like that? Especially after they saw that their darts didn’t work. You tilted your head side to side as you stretched out your neck.
“Vampire?” a small voice said from behind you. You turned to the source, fingers twitching in preparation. Whoever this new threat was, you’d deal with it quickly.
Regret filled your stomach like a lead ball when your eyes landed on Addie and Ryan. They stood, hand in shaking hand, feet soaking in the puddles of blood, wide eyes looking up at you. Your breath left your lungs in one sharp gust.
“Are you okay?” Addie asked, being the one who’d said your nickname before. She tucked a strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear. You sank to your knees before the siblings.
“I… Yeah, I’m okay,” you sighed. You squeezed your eyes shut, clearing your head of the hatred it was filled with. When you opened them again, Ryan stood before you. His blue eyes looked you over with a deep concern crinkling in the corners.
“You sure? You’re pretty bloody,” he said. You wiped at the blood covering your face. It was no use, your hands being equally drenched.
“Is it your blood?” Addie questioned from behind her brother. You shook your head.
“No. No, it’s not. Are you guys okay?” you asked, desperate to shift the attention from yourself. Both children nodded. You gave them both a once over. Their hair was ruffled from sleep, hems of their pajamas and white socks soaked in the blood covering the floor, wide eyes looking to you for reassurance. You cleared your throat, “Did those guys hit you with anything?”
Both siblings shook their heads. You breathed a sigh of relief. 
“Alright. Let’s get you to the passageway on this floor. Ryan, You’ll be right behind me. Protect your sister,” you instructed. The kids nodded their heads again. You stood before them, giving yourself a look up and down. 
You looked horrifying. Once white t-shirt and green shorts were drenched in thick blood. Your hair clung to the sides of your head. Rivulets of crimson leaked down your bare legs and arms. 
Yet, when your gaze met the kids’, they looked at you with nothing but adoration. How could they look up to someone as terrifying as you? Someone who just killed sixteen fucking people? What would that teach them?
You squared your shoulders, pushing your insecurities down as far as they could go, and started leading the kids back down the hall. Your knees were bent as you kept low to the floor. You would pause every few moments to listen to the mansion around you. More gunshots from the floor below you, screams of terrified children, grunts and yells from the men in kevlar. You kept your mind from wandering to that rage and continued to lead Addie and Ryan to safety.
Relief flooded your lungs when you saw a group of children, led by Piotr, standing by this floor’s escape passageway. You straightened your posture. Addie and Ryan ran ahead of you to reconnect with their classmates.
“How many do you have?” you called over the swarm of scared children. Piotr, an older student whose skin could turn to metal, looked up at you from directing kids through the narrow doorway. His eyes widened at the state of you.
“Uh… Twelve, I think,” he replied. He ushered Addie and Ryan through the door, then turned to you, “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth. Your shoulders seized when you heard heavy boots across the hall from you. Piotr looked over his shoulder, having also heard the approach.
Logan turned the corner. White tank top bunched around his midriff, jeans torn around his thighs, dark hair mussed from its two points. He held a knocked-out Jones, a young brunet who could manipulate electrical frequencies, in his arms. His hazel eyes glanced at you then fixed on Piotr.
“Hey, take him. He’s stunned,” Logan said, handing Jones over to Piotr. The larger boy held Jones tight against his chest. 
Just as Logan was turning to you, Piotr called out, “I can help you!” Logan looked back at Piotr. He pointed down the passageway, then said, “Help them.”
Piotr nodded at Logan, ducking into the doorway and sealing the passageway behind him. Logan suddenly grabbed your shoulders in both of his hands. You met his frantic eyes, narrowed lids shadowed by his furrowed brow.
“What the hell happened to you? Why are you covered in blood?” he asked. 
“I’m fine, Lo. It’s not my blood,” you said, shrugging his hands off your shoulders. His indignant reply was cut off when you both heard movement around the corner. 
Logan shoved you behind him as you both approached the corner. He pushed on your shoulder so you could squat next to him. His sturdy arm held you against the wall at your backs.
“Stay here,” he breathed into your ear. You nodded once in acknowledgement. Logan nodded back, then turned his attention back to the approaching group. 
You focused on lifting the blood from your shirt. Beads of crimson drifted away from your body and floated in the air before you. Your fingers twitched and the beads crashed into each other. Blood cell on top of blood cell, stacking together and forming a sharp lance the length of your forearm. One last flick of your wrist and the iron in the blood hardened the lance. A solid, red, metal weapon fell out of the air and into your open palm. At least you were significantly less bloody now.
Logan watched you out of the corners of his eyes. An air of admiration crossed his face. 
The brief moment was interrupted as a combat boot landed by Logan’s knees. Logan’s chest rumbled a deep growl, his claws shinking out of his knuckles, as he lunged forward and stabbed his right claws through the toe of the boot. A pained cry fell from the kevlar wearing man. Logan leapt to his feet as he plunged his left hand into the man’s stomach, shoving them both around the corner and out of your sight.
You remained crouched, back leaning against the wooden wall. Loud pops of gunfire echoed around you. Real guns, loaded with bullets instead of darts. Sharp cracks pierced the air as bullets flew in rapid succession toward Logan. A few bullet casings landed, smoking, by your feet. 
Light beamed from the dropped flashlight that rolled into view. Spurts of blood coated the tool in red jets. You spun the lance a few times in your hands, waiting.
“Clear,” Logan called. You pushed yourself upright and rounded the corner. About a dozen men, all clad in the same dark kevlar, lay dead at Logan’s feet. His chest was heaving, eyes darting to and from each man’s face, fists still clenched with claws poking out between his knuckles.
“All good, Lo?” you asked. His claws fully retracted as he met your gaze. He gave you a sharp nod then turned on his heel. You picked your way through the bodies, accidentally kicking a few limbs here and there, as you followed after him. 
“You never answered my question,” Logan said. You caught up with him and met his fast pace down the hallway. The two of you jogged while you tried to ignore his question. A few moments passed, the clipping of Logan’s boots on the floor being the only noise between you.
“I snapped,” was your quiet response. Short, simple, to the point. And it was all Logan needed. He threw you another quick nod while you two approached the balcony overlooking the mansion’s foyer.
Bright lights shone on Rogue, Bobby, and John as they stood below the balcony. All in their sleep clothes, all looking absolutely terrified. A guttural yell came from Logan as he leapt over the railing and dived into the four men aiming rifles at the older students.
You were about to follow when the back of your head was grabbed, a rough hand shoving your face into the railing and knocking your forehead on the wood. Spiked pain shot through your head, your knees crumpling beneath you. The hand tangled in your hair remained.
“Got the bloody one,” the man gripping you called behind him. You scratched at his hand as you tried to free yourself.
Slicing claws through flesh and pained yells soared over the balcony from the floor below. Your dazed mind tried to comprehend what was happening around you.
Some of the kevlar-clad men stood around you. Five, or was it seven, surrounded you with the muzzles of their guns aimed at your woozy form. Your head was utterly spinning. Nausea flooded your stomach and sent you reeling. If it weren’t for the gloved hand in your hair, you’d be sprawled out on the floor.
“Vampire!” Bobby called. You could just barely see his face through the bars of the railing. Wide, blue eyes glanced between you and the men surrounding you. He threw a hand up in your direction, “Duck!”
You didn’t need to be told twice. You yanked your head away from the man above you and dove to the floor. Just as your hands covered the back of your head, a biting chill filled the air above you. Wave after wave of flowing ice coursed over the balcony. You shivered from where you laid on the floor.
“C’mon!” John yelled up at you. You peered at the men who held you captive. All of them were coated in a thick layer of ice, skin turned pale and blue, joints frozen in place. Living ice sculptures. 
You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the sway in your motion, as you prepared to vault over the railing. Just as you had swung your leg over the wood banister the front door burst open, streams of LED lights illuminating the four mutants below you.
Logan motioned for you to stay where you were, looking you up and down, then ushered Rogue, Bobby, and John further into the mansion. Dozens of men followed in their wake.
You, not being one to listen to instructions very often, crept along the banister until you reached the stairs. Lucky for you, your socked and soaked feet wouldn’t make much noise on the hardwood. You snuck down the stairs while listening to the kevlar-clad men flood through the front door. When you reached the bottom you paused. Squatted, lance clutched in both hands, waiting for the last of the men to pass.
Once you saw a break in the stream of soldiers, you dashed between shadows while trailing after Logan. Keeping out of sight, ducking beneath flashlight beams, sneaking around corners. 
“You want to shoot me? Shoot me!” you heard Logan yell down the hall from where you were. You picked up the pace. Soaked feet slapping against the wood floors, clubbing soldiers on the head as you passed with the blunt end of your lance to knock them out, racing to try and prevent Logan and the others from getting hurt.
“Don’t shoot him!” a male voice yelled. You slid around the last corner and found a cluster of kevlar-clad men. All with their rifles and flashlights pointed at Logan down the hall. You froze in place, breath held. One of the men stepped forward, a flashlight held aloft in his gunless hands. He moved to stand in the middle of the rest of the men, “Not yet.”
You slipped behind one of the giant vases scattered throughout this hallway. Tucking yourself into the long shadows thrown by the large piece of pottery, your head just barely poked out to watch the scene unfold.
“Wolverine? Well, I must admit, this is certainly the last place I’d expect to find you,” the unarmed man said. He took a few more steps forward. Logan watched his approach, confusion written in his knitted brows. The lone man chuckled, “How long has it been? 15 years? You haven’t changed one bit. Me, on the other hand…” the man trailed off. He stopped a few feet in front of Logan and gestured to his own face, “...nature.”
You didn’t like this. The man in front of Logan gave you a bad feeling. Like shocks of anxiety pricking over your hypersensitive skin. You gripped your lance tighter in your hands.
Logan’s claws retracted back between his knuckles. Narrowed, hazel eyes analyzed the man standing in front of him.
“I didn’t realize Xavier was taking in animals,” the man said with a laugh. He adjusted the glasses sitting on the bridge of his wide nose, “Even animals as unique as you.”
“Who are you?” Logan asked. His hands remained clenched at his sides.
The man laughed again, “Don’t you remember?”
Logan stared at the man, mouth agape. He took a few steps forward.
You’d had enough. This man, whoever he was, wasn’t going to talk Logan into… whatever it is this guy was trying to do.
You darted out from behind the vase, lance brandished in your hands. Your head cocked as you sent the weapon soaring through the air. One of the kevlar-wearing men to your right gasped as the lance speared through his back and exited from the center of his chest. You focused on the lance as it flew from one man to the next. Sailing through the air until it pierced the men’s abdomens and sent them careening to the floor.
Every gun pointed in your direction. Some men holding rifles containing darts, others aiming real guns straight at you. You paused mid-step.
Your gaze met Logan’s. Recognition flashed in his widened eyes. He took another step forward, this time toward you.
Ice crackled on the walls of the hallway. Large snowflakes linked together as they stretched the width of the hallway and formed a wall. The ice solidified, creating a transparent, blue blockade between you and Logan.
“No, no!” Logan yelled from his side of the wall. He pounded desperately on the ice.
The unarmed man turned to face you. He was older, hair graying and beard wiry. Black glasses framed his squinted, blue eyes. You shifted your weight between your feet.
“Hello, my dear. You must be the one called ‘Bleeder,’” he said. Your posture stiffened at the name. You felt your jaw clench.
“I haven’t been called that in a long time,” you replied. God, if it weren’t for the guns pointed at you, you’d have skewered this man ages ago.
“And yet it was your moniker all the same,” the man said. His boots clicked against the hardwood as he approached you. Thick coat covering his torso, gloved hands clutched behind his back. He stopped a few paces in front of you. His hooded eyes passed over your blood-covered form, “I believe I have use of you. Take her.”
The familiar pop of the dart-filled guns rang out as you were peppered with white needles. Dozens and dozens of pinpricks filled your chest. You gasped, falling to one knee. The edges of your mind began to cloud with a foggy haze.
“Vampire!” you distantly heard Logan yell. You felt the floor sway beneath your feet. Your hands planted on the hardwood when you fell forward.
“That’s it. Off to sleep, Bleeder,” the man said above you. You threw him one last hate-filled glare, then collapsed as the tranquilizers overtook your senses.
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some looooooooooore for reader!!! hope y'all enjoyed. and what a cliffhanger, huh?
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adalindofcabinsix · 4 months ago
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that kind of love never dies | chapter two
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summary: the one where jake realizes the complexity of a supposedly simple plan.
pairing: jake x mc
word count: 1.4K
warnings: tkolnd takes place after the events of episode 10; cover images found on pinterest; english is not my first language.
author’s note: i love this chapter. it was so much fun to write jake's first meeting with mc. the game left many unresolved questions and i will try to answer them based on the information we already have and a little imagination.
masterlist
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Without any hesitation, he nodded. There was no point in lying now, not after everything they had done to get Hannah back. And, even if it bothered him a little, Barbara had won his trust.
“A penny for your thoughts.” The hacker asked, seeing the confusion in her eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“It's a long story.”
“I have time.” She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.
Jake took a deep breath to calm himself. They definitely didn't have time. However, he knew he would need to do his best to make her trust him again.
“Long story short, an old alert from Nym-0s showed results yesterday saying that you bought a plane ticket to Switzerland. Since the airport was close to Duskwood, I thought I'd better investigate.”
“Have you been following me since New York?”
“Not exactly, I bought a nonstop flight from Tokyo to Zurich.”
“Why didn't you tell me who you were when we bumped into each other at the airport?”
He hated the fact that his tone was more hurt than angry. Jake opened his mouth to apologize, then closed it. Looking over her shoulder, he noticed the presence of a hooded figure standing in front of the open door of the chinese restaurant, hunching his shoulders against the pouring rain.
Barbara's cell phone immediately started ringing with a call. Frowning, she reached for the device inside her bag, and Jake didn't need to understand portuguese to know what was written on the screen.
“Unknown number?”
“Yes.” She lifted her head, meeting Jake's eyes.
“Great.” He said ironically, taking the cell phone from her hand and sliding his finger to the left to reject the call. “Come on, I'll explain everything to you on the road.”
“All right.” Barbara answered, allowing Jake to lead the way. “But if you're lying about who you are, I'll break your nose.”
“It's fair.”
The hacker kept walking , and she ran to keep up with him, dodging a puddle of water. Two minutes later, they stopped in front of a gray Mercedes-Benz crowned with a red convertible roof parked behind the Gates Hotel.
“Please tell me it’s not stolen.”
“It's not stolen!” Jake looked at her offended, opening the passenger door.
“Sorry! It's just that in my mind you were poor. Which, when you think about it, doesn't make sense, right? How would you do everything you do without money?”
“You are impossible, Barbara.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“I can't be impossible, Jake, I exist.” She replied, rolling her eyes theatrically. “I think you meant that I'm unbelievable.”
“Get in the car straight away.” He ordered, but he was smiling, his eyes filled with something like pleasure.
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“I have some questions.” Barbara announced when they stopped at a red light.
“Of course you have.” Jake smiled amusedly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Earlier, at the airport, was our meeting on purpose?”
“Yes. I couldn't risk my position by tracking you via cell phone so I had to be creative.”
“Something tells me you're the type to put trackers in people's favorite coat pockets.” She was surprised when he didn't deny it. “Seriously?” Barbara scoffed, rubbing her hands down her arms.
“That worked, didn't it?” He said, undoing his seat belt. “Here, you must be cold.”
Before Barbara could object, Jake took off the leather jacket he was wearing and handed it towards her.
“Thank you, Jake.” She accepted the offer, her cheeks blushing beautifully as she quickly looked away from the defined muscles that were marked by the white t-shirt.
“You're welcome.” He looked straight ahead again, covering his mouth with the back of his left hand to hide a smile of pure satisfaction.
He looked straight ahead again, covering his mouth with the back of his left hand to hide a smile of pure satisfaction.
“Were you in Tokyo this whole time?” Barbara questioned, placing the jacket over her shoulders.
“Tokyo, New Delhi, Manila... I needed to keep myself busy so I didn't think about you too much.”
“I'm unforgettable, aren't I?”
“Too unforgettable for your own good.” He agreed, replacing his belt and accelerating the car to get them moving again.
She sighed loudly.
“Yeah, I guess that explains why the FBI won't leave me alone.”
“What?”
“You have no idea why I'm here, do you?”
“Considering who I saw at the chinese restaurant, I think I might have an idea.”
“They sent some messages yesterday, inviting me to that same restaurant we talked about last time. The writing was very similar to yours, but it wasn't the same.”
“You knew it wasn't me and you came anyway?”
“We had an agreement, and as a future lawyer, I couldn't let them get away with this so easily.”
“What was your plan?” He waited for an answer, but Barbara just shrugged. “What? Didn't you have one?”
“We brazilians work better under pressure.”
Jake had to stop himself from giving her an irritated look.
“Well, at least this time the FBI is innocent.”
“What do you mean?”
“Old habits never die, right? I figured something was wrong when you didn't go directly to Duskwood, so I accessed the security cameras around the hotel and watched the footage from the past two days.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Nothing too out of the ordinary, but there was one guy who caught my attention. I think I've seen him before. Anyway, I've run his face through facial recognition software and will have confirmation by the end of the night.” He met her eyes, his expression becoming serious. “Barbara, do you understand how…”
“Stupid to come here alone without knowing what I would face? Yes, the reality is starting to knock. In my defense, I would never imagine that someone from the outside could have access to our conversations.”
“Breaking into the FBI database is complicated, but not impossible. This guy was supposed to be looking for information about me and ended up finding you along the way. I'm sorry for bringing you into this.”
She made a nonchalant gesture, dismissing his apologies.
“You're only here because I was impulsive and played my role as a decoy very well, so I think we can say we're even.”
“I will always be in your debt.” Jake declared softly, weaving through traffic with ease.
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The rest of the trip flew by, and the next thing he knew, he was parking near the Aurora's curb.
“What are we doing here?” Barbara looked at him uneasily, her voice sounding louder.
“I need to drop you off somewhere safe before I go back to get my gear from the hotel I'm staying at.”
“A bar is the last place I would think of, I have to admit.”
Jake snorted.
“As much as you approve, we only came here to get Jessica's address.”
“I thought you gathered information on all of us when Hannah was kidnapped.”
“I did, but Jessica moved out a few months after Richy got arrested. And since the FBI is monitoring activity around your friends' digital data, I'm forced to do this the hard way.”
“You mean... Talking?”
“Talking to Phil.”
She stifled a laugh.
“You can wait in the car if you want.”
“I'm not leaving you alone with this guy.” He rolled his eyes, stepping out into the drizzle that was decreasing with each second.
“In that case, why not go to Lilly or Dan?” Barbara commented, carefully slamming the car door. “I'm sure it would be less unpleasant for you.”
“I don't want others to know I'm in town.” Jake said, stopping beside her under the bar's canopy. “Not yet.”
“You're avoiding your sisters, aren't you?”
“It is complicated.”
“I know it's none of my business, but they'd be happy to hear from you. Especially Lilly.”
“Since when have you been Lilly's defender?”
“Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are.” Barbara laughed, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her dress. “How do I look?”
Jake analyzed her from head to toe for a few moments, seeing the way Barbara's hair fell over her arm in messy locks, how her smudged mascara highlighted the beauty of her light brown eyes, and how her dress, almost completely dry, outlined each centimeter of her body.
“Beautiful.”
“I'm serious, Jake!”
“Me too.” He smiled adoringly, intertwining his fingers with hers. “Come on, I don't want to prolong this any longer than necessary.”
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taglist: @daniiiworlds; @labemquarts; @deinily
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lowkeyhollland · 3 months ago
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best of both worlds
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peter park x stark!reader 4.2k words mix it all together & you know you get the best of both worlds
“I just don’t understand why I can’t know who Spider-Man is,” you grabbed yesterday’s unfinished iced coffee from the fridge and closed it. “I know everyone else’s identity, Dad. Why not this one? 
“Y/n, I love you, but–” Your dad started but was rudely interrupted. 
“You’re a yapper!” Sam yelled from across the kitchen and Bucky started laughing with him as you shot them a glare. 
“Okay, who taught them that?” You crossed your arms as the two kept laughing.
“I’m sorry, princess. But it’s true,” your dad laughed with them while you rolled my eyes. He messed with your hair and kissed the top of your head. “You can’t keep a secret to yourself.”
“You told the whole world you’re Iron Man,” You rebutted, and ‘oohs’ erupted from the small crowd. “Plus, the only person I tell is Peter.”
“What about when you told Ned you were going with us to Germany,” Bucky said.
“I had to tell my teachers I would be gone and he was curious,” You shrugged and took a sip from your coffee. 
“Hi, Mr. Stark.” Just then, the man of the hour, Spider-Man swung into the kitchen. Well, he walked into the kitchen. “I might be gone–” he stopped mid-sentence when he saw you. “Y/n! Hi!”
“Hello, Spider-Man,” You narrowed your eyes at him and he spun his head around. 
“Did I do something?” His voice squeaked and you narrowed my eyes even more. 
“She’s just upset that we won’t tell her your identity,” Tony informed him. 
“If I just keep guessing who you are, will you tell me if I’m right?” You batted your eyelashes at the masked hero as you put on the sweetest smile. You could tell he was smirking as he let out a soft chuckle while shaking his head.
“I doubt you’ll guess correctly, sweetheart.” He crossed his arms and Tony’s flickered between the two of you, a faint smirk forming on his lips. A small blush crept onto your cheeks at the nickname. 
“All I’m saying is everyone in the Hannah Montana universe was stupid because they couldn’t put two and two together,” you mumbled as you grabbed a granola bar from the pantry.
“But how were they stupid if they never heard Miley sing? They had nothing to compare her to.” Spider-Man started the counter-argument and you raised your eyebrows, turning to face him and straightening out your back. 
“At every concert, the artist speaks to the audience. How did they not notice that Miley and Hannah sounded the same when speaking? Or even her mannerisms.” You eyed Spider-man cautiously as he grabbed an apple. 
“Alright, one of you can’t be in here if you are going to remove your mask.” Your dad pointed to the both of you and you rolled my eyes.
“It’s fine, I’m leaving for school anyway.” You slung your backpack on and grabbed your car keys. “Bye Dad, love you. Bye, guys! See you later.” 
“Wait, are you picking up Parker?” Your dad yelled and your eyes widened. 
“Shit! I’m late!” You yelled and ran out the door to the car. 
“Drive safe!” You heard your dad’s voice in the distance while seeing a flash of red leaving the tower. Interesting. 
– – –
You frantically knocked on Peter’s apartment door. It swung open and Peter smiled and was breathing heavily. “Hi,” he sighed and smiled. 
“Hi,” You smiled back at him. “You ready?”
“Yeah! Let’s go.” He walked out and locked the door and the two of you hurried to your car. 
You were speeding down the road, not trying to be late for the second day. “Y/n/n! Slow down!” Peter grabbed the car handle and sat straight back in his seat. 
“Oh please, I’m only ten over. I cannot be late again. Mrs. Smith threatened to give me a week’s worth of detention if I was late to her class… again. ” You stopped at the red light and took a sip from your coffee and Peter scoffed. 
“As if they’d ever give Tony Stark’s daughter detention.”
“You’d be surprised,” you said under your breath. “Hey, weird question.”
“What’s up?” Peter looked over giving you, his chocolate brown eyes full of wonder and ready to tackle whatever question you had to say. 
“Did you watch Hannah Montana as a kid?” And just like that, all the wonder was drained from his eyes and his mouth formed a line. 
He knew he had to be careful of what he would say in this conversation in case it reminded you of Spider-Man this morning. It wasn’t that Peter didn’t trust you. No, not at all, he trusted you with his entire life. You were his best friend, but Tony had advised him to keep his secret identity to a limited number of people in case it spread like wildfire. 
“Not really, why?” 
“Nothing, I just got into an argument with Spider-Man today.” You grumbled, looking in your blindspot to switch lanes, seeing Midtown was coming up on the left. 
“It won’t ever shock me how easily you can just casually mention superheroes.” Peter took your coffee and took a sip from it. His face scrunched up and he immediately gagged. “How much sugar did you put in this?!”
“It’s from Dunkin’! You know I always get three packs of sugar with my Dunkin’ coffee.” Peter shook his head as he handed it back to you before you both got out of the car. 
“And every time, I forget how disgustingly sugary your Dunkin’ order is.”
“It's not my fault you like your coffee black. You know, you have to be some psychopath to like straight-up black coffee.” 
“Sorry, you have the palette of a five-year-old.” You gasped at the comment and lightly pushed Peter away as you walked through the school doors.
“Whatever, I’ll see you later.” You playfully rolled your eyes with a small smile on your face before walking away to your first period. 
“See you!” Peter exclaimed, a smile forming on his face as he admired you from afar.
– – –
“I was team Jake because I had a thing for blondes, but then when he cheated on Miley, I was so heartbroken my dad had to watch me to make sure I didn’t throw up from crying so hard.” Ned and Peter listened to you intently as you rambled on about your favorite childhood show. MJ would look up from her book now and then to nod at you to show she was listening. 
“How were you not team Jesse right away? I mean, even I was head over heels for him,” Ned argued with you about the teen heartthrobs. 
“I don’t know, Jake was so charming to six-year-old me. I just couldn’t not fall in love with him. He was always so smooth with everything.”
“So, the opposite of Peter?” MJ raised an eyebrow and smirked while you let out a giggle. 
“Exactly.” You agreed with her while Peter’s mouth hung open. 
“Okay well, Miley didn’t even have to tell Jesse she was Hannah. He figured it out himself because he was so in love with her while Miley had to put the wig on in front of Jake.” Peter smugly said. You stared at him as he proudly smiled at himself.
“I thought you didn’t watch the show,” you mumbled and Peter’s cheeks flushed pink. 
“I mean, not really, but– okay fine,” Peter sighed knowing you had caught him in a lie. “I was the biggest Hannah Montana fan out there. I used to perform just like her in our living room.” The whole table burst into laughter and his entire face went red.
“Please tell me May has videos!” You said in between laughs and you heard your best friend grumble something. 
“Is that why there were purple Hannah Montana sheets in your linen closet?” Ned asked, wiping away tears. 
“It’s okay, Pete. My go-to karaoke song is ‘Best of Both Worlds.’” You smiled in an attempt to make him feel better. He gave you a tight lip smile, knowing no one would let him forget about this. “But, back to this Jake and Jesse discourse,” you circled the conversation back on track. “Would you say Jesse only found out because he was so insanely in love with her?” You watched as Peter thought about the question for a while. You couldn’t help but smile as you admired the way his brown curls fell on his head perfectly or how he bit his lower lip a little as he concentrated. 
“Yes, I believe so.” And that was all the information you needed. 
– – –
Peter walked into the living room of the compound, following the echoes of your laughter. He furrowed his eyebrows together when he saw you throwing a laughing fit over something on your phone. 
“Are you… okay?” Peter cautiously asked. You motioned for him to sit next to you on the couch, still laughing. 
“Look– look at what May sent me,” you managed to get out. Peter looked at your phone and saw a video of six-year-old him singing ‘I Got Nerve’ into a remote, dancing around the living room like he was a pop star. 
“Oh my god,” he mumbled under his breath, horrified. He quickly grabbed your phone away and held it up as you protested against it. 
“No! Peter give it back!” You exclaimed climbing over him to take back your phone. 
“Nu-uh!” A playful smile formed on his lips when he switched which hand held the phone. You were both laughing and messing around until you lost your balance and he caught you under his arm, pulling you close to him so you wouldn’t fall off the couch. Your faces were inches apart and you were praying your face wasn’t as red as it felt. 
“Hi,” you whispered to him, staring into his big brown eyes.
“Hi,” he mumbled back, his eyes flickering down to your lips. His action didn’t go as unnoticed as he had hoped when you smirked back at him. It wasn’t uncommon for you two to be so close to each other, but the position you were in was definitely different than most times. You know, being quite literally on top of him and everything. 
“Can I have my phone back, please?” You batted your eyelashes at him. Peter gulped and nodded, not trusting anything that might come out of his mouth. You slowly got off on top of him and sat at the end of the couch and Peter tossed you your phone as you threw your legs over his lap. 
“Now delete the video,” Peter demanded. You were taken aback by his tone and couldn’t help but laugh. 
“I top him once and I don’t even get a thank you,” you jokingly said and he rolled his eyes. 
“Y/n, seriously.”
“Fine,” you grumbled and deleted the video against your will. 
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He smiled at you but the nickname took you by surprise. You furrowed your eyebrows together and looked at your best friend.
“Wait, why are you even here? I didn’t invite you over.” You realize Peter just appeared out of nowhere. 
“She tops me once and thinks she’s in control of me,” he jokes around and you lightly kick his leg. 
“You fucking wish, Parker.” You laughed at how red his face had turned while his eyes widened. 
“I- uh, I have that internship with your dad, remember?” He answered your question, ignoring the comment you made. You silently mouthed an ‘oh,’ completely forgetting about the internship.
“What do you even do for the internship? I’ve never seen you here doing anything else but hanging out with me.” You eyed your best friend suspiciously as he squirmed around avoiding your eye contact.
“I– uh, you know, I do… stuff.” He scratched the back of his neck, his eyebrows furrowing together once more. 
“What kind of… stuff?” You raised an eyebrow at him and could’ve sworn you heard him gulp. 
“I… repair their suits! Yeah, I do that,” Peter said almost like he was trying to convince himself. 
“So why are you here today? No one has been on a mission in like a month.” Your suspicions were rapidly going up by the minute. Why would your best friend lie about what he does for your dad? Unless… No, that's crazy, you thought. 
“I was upgrading Spider-Man’s suit,” Peter’s face fell. Shit. Alarms were going off in his head, hoping you wouldn’t catch onto anything. But another part of him was hoping you would. He thought maybe he should just come clean. Right here, right now. He watched as you eyed him up and down, biting your lower lip. 
“Fun.” He sat there shocked. Fun? That was all you had to say? 
“Yeah, super fun.” He let out a sigh as he sat further back on the couch. You looked at him curiously, opening and closing your mouth like you had something to say. He looked at you, questioning your movements, but you just shook your head. “I should… probably get back to your dad.” He lifted your legs off his lap and you just nodded. 
“Yeah, don’t want to upset Tony Stark,” you scoffed and he smiled. 
“Maybe tomorrow after I’m done, we can watch a movie?” Peter suggested, but you had other plans. 
“Tomorrow’s Bachelor night,” you smirked and you could have sworn you saw Peter’s face light up.
“Oh, I don’t want to miss the girls fighting. Save me a seat next to you,” he winked and you felt your cheeks start to blush. “I’ll see you later.” Peter messed with your hair and kissed the top of it. You sat there in shock while he walked away, eyes wide and face red once he realized what he had done. 
– – –
“Mr. Stark, I don’t think I can keep it a secret from her any longer.” Peter stood next to his mentor as they worked on his suit together, the memory of him kissing your head replaying over and over again. Tony sighed and looked at Peter.
“If you want to tell her, kid, you can. No one’s stopping you.” He tilted his head to the side as he sighed again. His answer took Peter aback. 
“But you told me I shouldn’t tell her.” His mouth hung open, still shocked at Tony’s response. 
“I only said that in hopes of keeping my daughter safe.”
“But she’s constantly surrounded by other superheroes. And, no offense, but she’s your daughter.” Peter bluntly said and Tony let out a dry chuckle. 
“I know.”
“So, why did you tell me to keep it from her in the first place?” Peter looked around confused. 
“Because she’s already surrounded by enough heroes as it is.” Tony made it seem like it made total sense, but Peter just stood there stunned. 
“So?” He felt bad giving his mentor attitude, but he was so confused and lost at what to do and the responses he was receiving. 
“So,” Tony exaggerated. “If she’s seen with Spider-Man, she can, you know, attract danger.” 
“But she’s already seen with– I’m so confused, Mr. Stark.” Peter’s eyes pleaded for a clear response and Tony groaned. 
“Again, if she’s seen with Spider-Man, she can get hurt. I just want my precious daughter to be safe, is that too much to ask for?”
“But she’s always seen with you guys. I don’t understand.” Peter was so confused he thought his head was going to explode for feeling so dumb. 
“If she is seen with Spider-Man–” Tony tried to emphasize. 
“Yes, I get it, but–”
“Oh my God, do I have to spell it out for you? Kid, we all know you’ve been in love with Y/n ever since you met the girl!” Peter stood there dumbfounded. 
“What? I– no I am not– I mean no offense, but–” Peter’s words were all jumbled together as his cheeks flushed pink. 
“What’s Parker rambling on about now?” Steve asked as he walked through the doors of the lab. 
“Trying to convince me he’s not in love with my daughter,” Tony bluntly said, turning back to work on the suit. Steve burst into laughter and Peter’s face fell. 
“Oh, Parker, anyone can see that you’re head over heels for her from miles away.” Peter’s entire face had turned red from embarrassment. 
“Okay, so maybe I am—“
“And you are,” Tony mumbled. Peter shot him a look before continuing. 
“Why does that have to interfere with me being Spider-Man? She’s my best friend, I’m tired of lying to her all the time when she’s already a part of this sort of lifestyle!” Peter threw his hands up in frustration. 
“It’s up to you, Parker. But if Spider-Man is seen with any sort of love interest, criminals can take advantage of that. And it’s your responsibility to make sure my daughter gets home safe.” Tony pointed his finger into Peter’s chest. The kid gulped and nodded before returning their attention to his suit. 
— — —
“I’m home!” You yelled through the compound. Walking into the kitchen, you saw a familiar red suit rummaging through the fridge. “Hello, Spider-Man.” You announced. He whipped his head around, causing him to almost hit it on the door. 
“H-Hey, Y/n!” He scratched the back of his neck and you eyed him suspiciously. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much. It’s Bachelor night, are you gonna watch with us?” You swirled your iced coffee in your hand before taking a sip. 
“Yeah!” Spider-Man responded. “I mean, uh, well. I will be watching it just not… here.” Peter looked around nervously under the mask, debating if he should just tell you his secret right now. But Tony’s words rang in his head about the danger it could put you in. He watched as you used the straw to mix your coffee even more and nodded to his words. 
“You should watch with us,” you suggested. “You can finally meet my best friend, Peter.” 
Peter almost collapsed when you suggested that his alter ego should stay for ‘family night.’ You had never hung out with Spider-Man that often, always running around to see other people outside of the compound. The fact that you were inviting him was almost out of character. 
“Only if I get to sit next to you, pretty girl,” Peter smirked under the mask getting caught up in the moment, watching you almost spit out your coffee. 
“Woah there, Spidey. You’re getting bold over there.”
“Can’t help myself when you’re probably the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen.” You couldn’t help but smile because you assumed who might be under the mask. Getting up from your seat, you walked over to the masked hero and wrapped your arms around his neck. 
“Maybe I can say the same about you if you just, I don’t know, take this little thing off.” You wrapped your fingers around the edge of the mask and could feel his heartbeat going crazy. Peter gulped as you continued to mess with the mask. It was harmless flirting, right? If he told you he was Spider-Man, it wouldn’t put you in too much danger because you two were just… friends. Right? 
“Is that coffee good?” Peter tried to change the topic, now feeling very strange watching you flirt with his alter ego instead of his true self. You removed your arms from him and grabbed your coffee, handing it to him. 
“Do you wanna try it? It’s good. Trust.” You reassured him. He grabbed the coffee from your hands and lifted his mask just right under his nose. 
As he swirled the straw around to mix the coffee around more, you couldn’t help but notice Spider-Man’s thin lips. How familiar they looked. He brought the straw up to his mouth and took a sip but immediately gagged. 
“Is this from Dunkin’?” He asked and you smirked. That was all the information you needed. 
— — — 
You knocked on Peter’s door. He had texted you earlier, saying he had something important to tell you and it couldn’t be over text or call. You had a feeling that he was finally going to tell you his secret. Peter swung the door open and smiled, cheeks turning pink. 
“Hi,” he breathlessly said. You weren’t quite sure why he was out of breath, but you just assumed it was nerves. 
“Hi,” you responded back. He let you into his apartment and you followed him to his room. You took in his room, smiling at his dorky Star Wars posters. Walking over to his desk, you noticed a picture of you and him. It was blurry and you were both laughing, your arms wrapped around his neck while his arms were around your waist. “This is new,” you told him, picking the picture up. 
“Oh! Yeah,” Peter’s face turned red but he walked up behind you to look at the picture, placing a hand loosely over your hip. “MJ took that picture from a few weeks ago. It’s my favorite.” He smiled down at you, taking in your features as you continued to stare at the frame. 
“It’s cute,” you turned around, your breath hitched seeing his face just inches from yours. Your eyes flickered down to his lips, those lips, and it reminded you of why you were here. You set the picture back down and walked away from Peter, already missing the warmth he brought you. Sitting down on his bed, you brought your legs up and he sat down next to you.
“So, I did have something to tell you,” his voice trailed off toward the end and you gave him your undivided attention. “God, this is sorta hard to say.” His hands messed with the end of his covers, shuffling something.
“You’re Spider-Man!” You blurted out. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as you smacked your hand over your mouth, not expecting to say it so bluntly. 
“How did you–” 
“Peter, I’m not stupid. You don’t have to recreate the scene where Miley is holding up the Hannah wig to Jesse with your Spider-Man mask,” you gestured your hand to his that was still under the covers. He slowly lifted his hand to reveal the mask from the bed.
“Well, yes I am Spider-Man.” You smiled to yourself, proud that you figured it out by yourself. “But,”
“But?!” You interrupted him. He let out a dry chuckle and shook his head.
“But,” he continued. “That isn’t why I invited you over. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am so insanely happy you figured out this secret and I feel a weight lifted off my chest. You’re my best friend and–”
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“You’re rambling.”
“Oh, right, sorry.” He sheepishly smiled and looked at you. How your hair fell perfectly over your shoulder as you ran your hands through it, an anxious tic Peter found you do often. 
“I wanted to tell you that…” he spoke slowly as you hung onto every word that came out of his mouth, your heart about to explode from your chest. “I am in love with you.”
The room was silent. You could hear a pin drop. You stared at Peter in disbelief, your brain running a thousand miles an hour. 
“Y/n, please say something,” his voice was low, barely coming out as a whisper. 
“I…” you started, “I’m in love with you too.” His face broke out into the biggest smile you have ever seen and you mimicked him.
“Really?” 
“I mean, you said it yourself. Jesse was so in love with Miley that he knew he was Hannah before she even told him,” you smirked as Peter rolled his eyes. 
“Only you would bring up Hannah Montana in the middle of a moment like this,” his hand cupped the side of your face and you smiled sheepishly. 
“Only with you,” you closed the gap between the two of you. When you kissed, it truly was like fireworks were going off behind you. You smiled into the kiss, but the fireworks seemed to be getting louder– wait what?! “Do you hear that?” You pulled away from Peter, his eyes half closed. 
“Mm, no,” he leaned in again to kiss you, but you pushed him away. 
“Peter, my dad is blasting someone a few blocks away.” You saw out his window and he immediately jumped up. 
“I’m so sorry to leave right now but–”
“Go get ‘em, Spidey.” You winked at him and he smiled. He put on his mask and took off his hoodie to reveal the suit.
“Will you be here when I get back?” He asked, his eyes pleading for an answer. 
“Is Hannah Montana one of the best Disney Channel shows?” Peter rolled his eyes. 
“On second thought, you can go home,” he was about to climb out the window before you pulled him back. 
“Yes, I will be here. You,” you poked his chest, “be safe.” You lifted his mask and kissed him one more time and Peter melted into the kiss. 
“I could get used to this,” he mumbled against your lips, but you pulled away making him frown. 
“Peter.” You said sternly. 
“Yes, sweetheart?” “Go help my dad, idiot."
“On it!” And with that, Peter swung away. This really was the life and he just had to hold on tight. 
492 notes · View notes
theemporium · 4 months ago
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[3.5k] luke hits the west coast for his first long roadie of the season with some unsettling feelings about leaving jersey for so long. who would have thought his biggest problem on the road would end up being looking at his caller id over the actual hockey games he was playing? (smut)
series masterlist
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hockey boy: u up?
Luke Hughes had never felt like more of a fuck boy than he did the moment he had sent the text—which was ironic when he was quite literally the opposite of a fuckboy.
He hadn’t even meant for it to come across that way. Genuinely, he did not.
Despite being officially in the NHL for over a month now, this was the first time Luke was going on a roadie across the country whilst wearing the New Jersey red on his back. Most of their away games had been in nearby cities, where they would maybe spend a day or two in another city before returning to Jersey. 
But this was the longest one yet—a full ten days in the west coast for games against San Jose, LA and Anaheim. 
He wanted to say it wasn’t a big deal, that he was used to the life of hockey taking him to new cities and states. But things were different in the NHL. The stakes were higher, the games meant more even this early in the season, things just felt a lot more intense.
But it felt stupid to confess as much to his brother or any of the other boys when he literally played in the playoff games last season, when the stakes were the Cup. 
However, Luke couldn’t shake off the weird intensity of the roadie. He played off Jack’s concerned looks with some bullshit excuse that he was tired, that he was just struggling to sleep these days. It didn’t wave away his older brother’s concern but it got him off his back for a little bit. It let Jack focus on a different concern and not the real reason (that felt borderline childish to admit) that he felt on edge about leaving Jersey for so long. 
And it meant that Luke was laying in the hotel room alone whilst Jack was out with some of the other guys on the team for dinner, embracing the one free evening they had before the game tomorrow against San Jose. 
He had flipped through a variety of shows on the tv and scrolled through endless apps on his phone before he gave in, his finger hovering over the send button before he clicked it.
It hadn’t even hit him how his text sounded until your reply came through a few moments later. 
cherry🍒: damn hughes
cherry🍒: you gonna ask me what i’m wearing next?
His cheeks instantly burned hot, something quite like embarrassment and awkwardness bubbling in the pit of his stomach. 
At least it was hard to focus on the upcoming games when he was too busy thinking about the quickest ways to flee the country and change his identity. 
hockey boy: absolutely not 
Luke’s fingers moved fast on the screen, already drafting up a second message when your reply came through. 
cherry🍒: rude :( 
cherry🍒: maybe I had something special on for you 
And that was enough to make his brain go blank, the sentence he was in the middle of typing long forgotten as he stared at the words on his screen. He almost felt guilty how quickly his imagination came up with images of you back on his bed, just like his birthday party, in something short and sexy and—
He almost dropped his phone on his face when it began buzzing in his hand, scrambling to sit up in his bed as he answered. 
“H-Hello?” He cleared his throat, his face burning warmer when he heard your laugh on the other side. 
“You sound a little caught off, Hughes,” you teased, lighthearted and playful. “Did I interrupt something?” 
“I—no!” Luke exclaimed, though something inside him relaxed when you laughed again. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to come off like that. I swear. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“I didn’t think so considering it’s been five minutes since my last message and you hadn’t replied yet. Not really setting the mood there.” 
He shook his head, his lips twitching upwards. “So you’re saying you’re not wearing something special for me?” 
“Unfortunately not. Just some sweats and a hoodie.” 
“Hm,” Luke hummed before frowning, taking a quick glance at the time on his phone before he swore under his breath. “Shit, I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
You laughed and something in his chest tightened as he imagined the soft smile on your face as you did so. “No, I couldn’t get to sleep. I was just watching some random episode of The Vampire Diaries before you called.”
Luke blinked. “The what?” 
You fell silent for a moment. “Tell me you’re joking.” 
He paused as well before he spoke in the most unconvincing voice. “I’m joking?” 
“Forget watching it, how have you never heard of it?!” 
“I don’t know!” Luke defended weakly, shuffling back further against the pillows. “Is this your subtle way of telling me to watch it?”
“No!” 
He frowned. “No?”
“I want to watch it with you. I want to see your reactions.” 
Luke snorted but he didn’t disagree, something fond and warm bubbling in the pit of his stomach at your insistence. “Fine, deal,” he mused. “But it would have at least given me something to do.” 
“Wow, is Jack that boring of a roommate?” 
He laughed. “Nah, he went out with some of the other guys for dinner.” 
“You didn’t feel like joining?” 
“Not really,” he admitted. 
“How come?” 
“Just…didn’t feel like it,” he said, his fingers tugging on the drawstrings of his hoodie as the spiralling thoughts began to creep in again. Like a reminder he wasn’t just lying on his bed back in Jersey talking away to you on the phone, that he was actually on the other side of the country. 
And it seemed like you sensed his reluctance, the shift in his voice like he seemed distant and you wanted to pull him back in.
“So you try to sext me instead?” Your voice was playful and taunting and he could imagine the smirk on your face so clearly. 
“Shut up,” he groaned, his cheeks burning once again. “I didn’t—”
“You so did.”
“That was not my intention at all,” he retorted. 
“Damn, Hughes, didn’t take you for a phone sex kind of a guy?” 
Luke could only thank some superior being above that it wasn’t a facetime call, that you couldn’t see how bad he was blushing. “I am neither a sexting or phone sex kind of guy.” 
“Boo, it’s more fun than you would think.” 
His nose scrunched up. “I don’t know.” 
“Don’t knock it until you try it, Luke.”
Despite being in two very different states, Luke had found himself on the phone with you most nights of the roadie so far.
It wasn’t really a co-dependent thing, like Jack liked to tease him about when he caught Luke waiting for your message saying you were free to call after the game in LA. It was a similar feeling he had with his friends back in Michigan or his brothers, this strong urge to tell you things. He wanted to share it with you, he wanted to tell you about something stupid Jack did in the locker room or the weird drink Curtis smuggled him at dinner. 
And in turn, he wanted to hear about your day too. He wanted to hear about how the nice barista at the coffee shop on the way to work gave you a free cookie because she fucked up your order by accident. He wanted to hear about the way your upstairs neighbour had taken up tap dancing and seemed to only find eleven o’clock at night the most appropriate time to practise. He just wanted to hear you talk. 
Luke was at least self-aware enough to realise he was being a bit insane with the phone calls every night when he was only gone for over a week. But day six into a ten day roadie and he just kind of wished he was chilling on your couch when listening to these stories rather than a nondescript hotel room he shared with his brother with limited privacy. 
However, the phone calls had become such a routine over the last few days that he didn’t even think twice when he picked up his buzzing phone, answering and putting it on speaker as he walked towards his suitcase in only a towel. 
“Hey, I’ve been waiting for your call,” Luke said, an easy smile on his face as he quickly grabbed some clothes to change into after his shower. 
“Really? I didn’t realise you missed me that much. I miss you too, dude.” 
Luke froze, his eyes widening as he snapped his gaze back towards his phone. He quickly grabbed it off his bed, letting out a soft ‘fuck’ when he realised it was Ethan, not you. 
“Luke? You still there?” 
“Uh yeah,” Luke cleared his throat. “Sorry, I just came out of the shower. So, uh, what’s up?” 
“I caught the game, just wanted to make sure you were alright. Looked like a tough game but you were killer out there, bud.” 
He paused, his lips twitching upwards. “You watched the game?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, dude. The boys watch every game we can. Our boy is in the big leagues! We gotta support you.”
“I didn’t know,” he admitted, his chest tightening a little.
“We miss you on the team, gotta get our fix somehow,” Ethan joked, lighthearted and playful. 
And yet, Luke felt a wave of guilt wash over him. Despite flying out for his birthday party, he hadn’t really been messaging the boys back in Michigan as much as he should have. He knew they were also giving him space to settle into the NHL lifestyle and they were busy with classes and such, but his own surprise from Ethan calling confirmed enough that he needed to reach out more. 
“I miss playing with you guys too,” Luke confessed, and it was true. He loved the Devils and he loved living out his dream but a small part of him itched to be back on the ice with his UMich boys again. 
“Yeah but you never threw us around like that.” 
Luke let out a groan, ignoring Ethan’s laughs. “I didn’t mean to knock him over like that, it was just the momentum!” 
Ethan’s laughs only got louder. 
It was the night before the Anaheim game when Jack had all but bolted out the room, muttering something about hanging out with Trevor and that he would be back before dinner. 
In all honesty, Luke didn’t question it much. He just waved his brother off, saying he was going to have a small nap before he started getting ready for whatever restaurant Trevor had booked for them (assuring that it would fit their diet plan but Luke wasn’t convinced). Between the travelling and training on the road, Luke found himself more exhausted than he was from back-to-back games in Jersey.
And he genuinely was going to nap until his phone buzzed with a message from you and he found himself dialling your number before he could help himself. 
“A call already? You didn’t even give me a chance to try sexting you.” 
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t see what the point is.” 
“I like hearing you get all flustered and nervous.” 
“Yeah but it’s not really the same thing, is it?” He commented, running a hand through his curls before tugging his hood back over his head. “Surely it’s just a bit…awkward.” 
“It can be hot if you do it right,” you corrected him. “Personally, I think phone sex is better but it can be fun to sext too. Like a thrill, you know?” 
“Yes because nothing sounds sexier than talking about sex,” he mused.
“It’s not like that,” you laughed, shuffling around on the other side of the phone. “Think of it like…foreplay.” 
His brows furrowed together. “In what way?” 
“You aren’t together but you’re telling each other what you would want to do if you were. What you wish you could be doing. And you’re listening to it all, listening to them get off to your words.” 
Luke swallowed harshly. “It still sounds awkward.” 
There was a pause on the other side. “Yeah?” 
“Yeah,” he breathed out, shifting a little in his spot. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to facetime them and see them?” 
“It’s about using your imagination, Luke,” you hummed, sounding amused by his grasp on phone sex. “It’s about taking the scraps of what they tell you and letting your brain run wild with it.” 
He let out an unconvinced hum.
“Still sceptical?”
“Maybe.” 
There was a small pause before you spoke again. “You’re alone, right?” 
“Uh, yeah,” Luke nodded, even if you couldn’t see him. “Jack won’t be back for another few hours so—”
“So you can be a good boy for me?” 
His brain went blank.
“C’mon, Luke.” He could almost hear the smirk in your voice. “Remember what we said about words?”
“Yeah,” he let out a shaky breath. “Yeah, I can be…good.”
“I know you can, you’re always so good f’me,” you commented, so nonchalant and casual like your worlds didn’t make his heart beat a little faster. “Tell me what you’re doing right now.” 
“Uh,” he cleared his throat. “I’m lying in bed, talking to you. But you know that—”
“What are you wearing?” 
Luke glanced down at himself, the Devils branded hoodie and UMich sweatpants hardly the sexiest of outfit choices but he muttered out his response regardless. “Isn’t that the exact line you teased me about earlier?” 
“You telling me you’re wearing something special just for me?” 
He snorted, despite himself. “Hardly.” 
“That’s fine. You look better without anything anyway. A shame you’re all the way in California, would’ve been nice to have you all to myself.”
He gulped. “Is this where I use my imagination to guess what you’d do to me?” 
“If you want,” you said, laughing softly and it almost felt like you were right there beside him. “Or I could tell you how I miss hearing those pretty noises you make when you come, the little moans you let out when I touch you.” 
“Shit,” he muttered. “How do you just say those things so…easily?” 
“Because I know what I like and I’m confident with saying what I want. And I really like making you come, you’re always so sweet. You get so blushy and shy, it’s cute. I could only imagine what you’d be like when I get my mouth on you.”
Luke squirmed, his hand reaching down to press down on the length of his cock like it would ease the way he was twitching at her words. 
“Would you like that, Luke?”
“Y-Yeah,” he breathed out, nodding even if you couldn’t see him.
“Bet you would look so pretty, all shy and nervous to touch me even if you wanted to,” you continued, his eyes fluttering shut like he could pretend you were really in the room with him, like you were really whispering all of this in his ear. “But I would want you to, Luke. I would wanna feel your hands in my hair, wanna see you take control.” 
“I would,” he mumbled out, his hand slowly stroking himself over his sweatpants as he imagined it. As he imagined being sat on your couch, with you kneeling between his legs and your eyes glued on his reactions. It made his whole body feel hot and flustered. 
“Yeah, baby? You’d take control? Fuck my mouth?” 
He was almost embarrassed by the noise he let out.
“Are you touching yourself right now? Letting your imagination fill in the blanks?” 
“Mhm,” he nodded. 
“Good, baby, good. Keep touching yourself, keep making yourself feel good.”
“Wish it was you,” he managed to mutter out, his cock straining under the fabric of his boxers and sweatpants. However, any embarrassment or lingering awkwardness was long gone as he pushed them down to his knees, not even bothered to kick them off as he got his hand on himself. 
“Yeah? Me too, baby. I wish I was with you now, could watch you squirm and beg f’me with your dick down my throat.”
“Fuck,” he hissed, squeezing the base of his cock as he tried to mimic the night of his birthday, to mimic the feeling of your hand on him instead. “That’s…vulgar.”
You laughed, and it shouldn’t have been so hot to him but it was. “Too much? You don’t want me to talk about how badly I wish that it was you touching me right now?”
“You’re touching yourself right now?” It was almost a wheeze, like the air had been knocked out of his lungs and it hadn’t even hit him until that moment that you were in the same position as him. 
“Mhm,” you hummed, all sweet and high-pitched and it reminded him of the noise you made just before you came on his fingers. “If I was more patient, I would’ve got a toy. Would’ve felt way better.” 
“Toy?” He rasped. 
“Jealous?” You teased, unaware of the way Luke turned his head to the side, biting down on his pillow to hold back his groans as he continued to stroke himself. “I’ll show you when you’re back.” 
“Show me on yourself?” 
“I can use them on you too, pretty boy, if you could handle it.” 
“I…could,” he muttered out, listening to the breathy, moany laugh on the other side of the phone.
“We’ll see,” you hummed. “Maybe I’ll send you a video for your next roadie. Keep you occupied while you’re away.”
“Nuh uh,” he bit out, shaking his head. “This. I like this. I like hearing your voice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he repeated, his stomach twisting as his thumb swiped over the head of his cock and rubbed the small bead of precum along his slit. “S’close.” 
“Come f’me, wanna hear you come.”
It was a bit of a mindfuck if Luke was completely honest with himself. The pleasure running down his spine, leaving his body hot and heavy and just as good as it did when he was with you didn’t make sense to him. Listening to the little breathy moans and whines you let out when he came all over his hand, as he listened to you get yourself off shouldn’t have made his dick twitch so soon. He shouldn’t have been able to make himself come so hard just from some dirty talk from you, and yet he had. 
Though, Luke didn’t have a lot of explanations when it came to the way you made him feel.
“You still there?” 
“Yeah,” he hummed, his eyes still shut as he laid on the bed, practically melting into the sheets beneath him. “Kinda need that nap now.”
You snorted. “You should clean up before you fall asleep.” 
“Five minutes,” he murmured out, a lazy smile on his face as your laugh echoed through the phone.
He was rushing to button up his shirt when his phone rang again. 
He was already running late for the reservations Trevor made for dinner (if the constant stream of messages from Jack was telling him anything) and his nap lasted longer than he expected. But he couldn’t bite back his smile as he reached for his phone, his thumb already swiping to answer the call as he rummaged through his suitcase to find his cologne. 
“You’re out of luck if you’re wanting to go for a round two,” Luke mused once the call had connected, an odd wave of confidence in his voice as he spoke. 
“Round two of what?” 
Luke froze, yanking his phone away from his ear to see Quinn’s name on his screen. He let out a muttered ‘what the fuck’ under his breath, an odd sense of deja vu from his phone call with Ethan washing over him before he quickly answered his eldest brother. 
“Uh, nothing,” he laughed off, resisting the urge to yank on his own hair after he had spent the better part of the last fifteen minutes trying to make his curls look presentable. “Just some…exercise challenge thing Jack and I were trying out.” 
“And you think he would call you about it? Aren’t you two together right now?” 
“Yes. No!” Luke shook his head at himself. “No, he’s in Nico’s room right now.” 
“I thought you were getting dinner with Trevor?” 
“Right,” Luke laughed once again, awkward and strained. “We are. He just…had to tell Nico something first. You know Jack! Just…always attached to Nico’s hip.”
There was a moment of silence before Quinn spoke again. “Are you feeling okay?” 
“I feel great, actually! Speaking of, I need to go so I’ll call you later. Okay, great, bye!” 
He slammed the small red button until the call disconnected, throwing his phone down on his bed and letting out a long, deep sigh. He really needed to start looking at his phone before answering calls, it was getting a bit ridiculous. 
Luke finished getting ready, shoving some shoes on and making his way towards the elevator as he began typing out a message before slipping his phone into his pocket, already preparing himself for Jack’s whining about how late he is by the time he reached the lobby.
hockey boy: remind me to give you a personalised ringtone when i’m back in jersey
.
909 notes · View notes
ham1lton · 4 months ago
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SHE’S SO LUCKY, SHE’S A STAR!
pairing: charles leclerc × famous!reader.
warnings: mentions of mental health. slightly angsty.
summary: lucky is the dream girl. she has everything. the man, the career, and the fame…. or does she?
faceclaim: britney spears ♡
author’s note: this has been in my drafts for SO long. glad to share it with you. let me know if you enjoyed it! <3
— part of the diva anthems series ♪
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liked by lucky, landonorris and 1,383,737 others.
charles_leclerc: happy music video release day to the love of my life! thank you for letting me be a part of your journey. i’m your biggest fan until the end of the road.
also keep an eye out for my cameo on oops!… i did it again - out now! :)
tagged: @ lucky
view all 234,982 comments
user1: he’s so whipped it’s adorable. he truly loves her.
user2: the album is so good. this is crazy!! the album of the year.
*liked by charles_leclerc*
user3: favourite song?
-> charles_leclerc: i love them all…. but dear diary.
user4: charles in his acting era omg.
-> user5: charles leclerc: f1 driver, astronaut, actor and official wag to thee yn.
-> user6: lucky has his ass WORKING 😭
user7: charles going from having a crush on yn to dating her?? he needs to give me his game card. i need to use it on theo james.
user8: OOPS U THINK IM IN LOVE THAT IM SENT FROM ABOOOOOOVVVVEEE
-> user9: IM NOT THAT INNOCENTTT
user10: video vixen charles 😍
user11: the titanic reference omg!!!
lucky: i love you!!! i’m your biggest fan. this album wouldn’t be here without you. 💕
-> charles_leclerc: 💕
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"so are we ready for the tour" your manager speaks to your team. you're wearing a threadbare t-shirt that you stole from charles' wardrobe and a pair of jeans that were more comfortable than stylish.
no one commented on your lack of makeup.
“i can't do a tour." you say, softly.
“you have to. it's the best way to make money. the more shows you do, the more money you make."
“it’s not that. it's just... i'm tired." being lucky, the superstar was a façade. one that you felt that only you could pull off.
it took a certain amount of mental fortitude to lie to everyone in your life.
"maybe next year? can we delay it at least?"
"what about your fans? you know the music industry, yn. the less you strike while the iron is hot, the bigger the chance you’ll be irrelevant when the next new thing comes out.” a executive says. “besides, we’ve already announced it.”
to be genuinely honest, you didn’t care. it would have been absolutely fine for you to retire now. you felt that you’d made your mark. tours would drag you away from your loved ones, they require constant discipline and a lot of effort. something which you didn’t have a lot of at the moment.
“okay. how many shows?”
“not too many. around 80/90.”
you bite your inner cheek and nod. there isn’t anything else you can do.
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lucky: this has been a work that has been lovingly crafted by so many people. i want to thank my team, everyone who helped to bring this album to life. my best friend who would always bring coffee to set, my makeup artist and stylist tina who helped me create this gorgeous look and my incredible fans who make every release one i look forward to sharing to you. ‘oops!… i did it again’ is out now!
also i see you already getting your red jumpsuits ready for halloween!! tina’s already posted a list of makeup products on her ig - @makeupbyti.
also the biggest thank you to my biggest fan, my confidante and my forever muse - @charles_leclerc. this album wouldn’t be possible without you. thanks for being my first listener. i love you till the end of the road 💕
view all 107,928 comments
user1: THANK YOU TINA!
-> lucky: we love tina in this household 💕
user2: “HER FOREVER MUSE” excuse me while i sob, scream and perhaps cry.
-> user3: i need a love like theirs one day.
user4: ALBUM BANGS
user5: NOW IM STRONGER THAN YESTERDAY!
-> user6: NOW IT’S NOTHIN BUT MY WAY
-> user7: MY LONELINESS AINT KILLIN ME NO MOREEE!
user8: ONE KISS FROM YOU!! AND SUDDENLY
-> user9: I SEE THE ROAD LEAD OUT IN FRONT OF MEEEE
user10: IM A CMULM STAN! SOTY!!!! 😋
billieeilish: thank you for letting me help write some songs alongside you. i love you 🖤
-> lucky: love you the most billie. thank you!!
-> user4: this is my favourite music friendship. so cute.
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you pull out your phone when you see charles ringing. you smile to yourself and lie it against the pillow across from you. when the facetime connects, you see he’s in the same position as you. sleep rumbled with flushed cheeks and twinkly eyes.
you want to kiss him but you’re in amsterdam and he’s in madrid. you doubt you would even have time to make it, even if you could justify the expense to your team.
“hi sweet girl.” he grins at you. “you look pretty.”
“you’re prettier. didn’t you see the tweets? i manifested you.” you laugh slightly. “lucky girl with a gorgeous boyfriend.”
“opposite way around actually. lucky guy.”
“i miss you.” you sigh, looking around your hotel room. it’s gorgeous. it has everything you could possibly want or need and if it didn’t, a quick phone call downstairs would immediately rectify that. but you miss charles. you miss your best friend. you miss your home.
“i miss you too. next time i get a break i’m flying to wherever you are and that’s a promise. okay?”
“okay.”
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FIVE MONTHS LATER.
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ham1ltonshaderoom: according to sources, singer yn yln and athlete charles leclerc have broken up. the reason being that their busy schedules had gotten too intense for the two of them to handle. singer yn, also known by her stage name lucky, has just embarked on her newest world tour and driver charles is currently travelling for his f1 races.
sources state that their families and friends were all ‘shocked’ by the news as it seemingly came out of the blue. with one party stating that he had seen them only a month earlier and they were ‘all over each other’:
view the link in bio for more information, but how are we feeling at the demise of the power couple ham1ltons?
view all 497,868 comments
user1: well how is he gonna stay relevant now?
-> user2: he’s an f1 driver. i think he’ll be fine.
-> user1: don’t gaf. he’s a flop. how do you fumble THEE yn yln?
user3: NOOOOOOOOOO JUST FELL TO MY KNEES
user4: wait um… why am i happy… yn is single now
user5: him breaking up with her because she got successful is sick. men always want to destroy a woman when they become more successful than them.
-> user6: we don’t know that’s why they broke up or that he was the one who initiated. it could have been her or it could have been mutual.
user7: good. he’s been driving like shit since he started dating her.
-> user8: okay now that’s a lie 😭
user9: this is so sad. they were in love just before she went on the tour. could they not handle long distance?
-> user10: probably not. while yn was writing and recording, she was able to be more flexible so she would travel with charles wherever he went but being on tour means she can’t do that.
-> user11: this makes me believe it was his fault and he broke up with her.
-> user10: i always hated them together anyways. athletes are always bad news.
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charles_leclerc: leo, frank and i.
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user1: the dog is so cute :(
user2: is it true y’all?? did they really break up?
-> user3: they kept all the pictures of each other on their profile and he still follows her.
user4: CHARLES MARC HERVÉ PERCEVAL LECLERC WHAT IS GOING ON 😭
user9: the frank song… oh they’re over :(
-> user10: he’s playing SELF CONTROL too 😭😭
-> user11: is the lyric choice deliberate? yn cried on stage the other day :(
-> user12: idk omg. it sounds like a dick move if so… poor lucky :((
user5: that f1 gossip page was lowkey right because yn is halfway through her tour and he hasn’t been to ONE tour date.
-> user6: thats lowkey crazy when u consider how she would always come to his races to support him.
user7: i just want them back together :( they were the only celeb couple i could stomach.
-> user8: no deadass. they were my taylor/travis.
user13: frank ocean…. this is the most post-breakup ex boyfriend post ever 😭 charlesynnies we lost.
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PARTIAL PHONE TRANSCRIPT BETWEEN YN YLN AND CHARLES LECLERC. — LEAKED BY TMZ.
YLN (CRYING): i hate it. i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry charles. i didn’t want to do it. i just can’t do it anymore.
LECLERC: hey, it’s okay. i get it. it’s okay. i’m not upset with you. i’m not angry.
YLN: i fucking hate touring. i hate it so much. it takes everything from me. i broke up with you because i knew you’d get tired of me. that the tour would make me a shell of myself and you’d inevitably dislike me.
LECLERC: where did you get that from?
YLN: that’s what my ex did. i don’t even blame him.
LECLERC: but i’m not him. i understand that it takes a lot from you but a relationship isn’t supposed to be 50/50 all the time. sometimes it’s 90/10 or 70/30. it’s okay for me to help you. you’ve already done what? two thirds of the tour? not too much left to get through and then you’ll be free. you can do it.
YLN: i know. i just hate it. i love my fans and i love making music but the tour is just too much. this is my third tour in two years…. i miss you. i’m sorry.
LECLERC: i miss you too yn. there is nothing to be sorry about.
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ham1ltonshaderoom: tmz leaked the audio of a emotional phonecall between exes superstar yn yln, more famously known as lucky, and f1 athlete charles leclerc. the two minute leak has the global superstar crying about her current tour and her ex-boyfriend comforting her.
what do we think of the leak ham1ltons?
view all 789,927 comments
user1: oh this is so disgusting my god.
user2: whoever leaked this go to hell. this was very much a private moment between the two.
user3: yn’s management need to let her take a break. a album and a world tour EVERY YEAR is insane!!! i’m surprised she hasn’t burnt out yet.
-> user4: she’s reaching the end of her rope and that makes sm sense. this is a insane amount of work and she’s only in her early twenties!!!
user5: charles was so sweet. at least we know it wasn’t his fault but i feel so much for lucky :( she doesn’t deserve this.
user6: poor lucky :( her management should go to hell!!!
user7: she needs more people looking out for her. this is awful. why would someone even record this anyways???
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charlesupdates: charles was spotted in rio de janeiro/galeão–antonio carlos jobim international airport! he signed a bunch of stuff for fans and then had to head off before taking any pictures! i wonder where he’s headed? 🤔
view all 124,837 comments
user1: OMGGGGG
user2: LUCKY IS PERFORMING IN RIO DE JANEIRO
user3: CHARLESYN BACK TOGETHER AGAIN THANK YOU GOD PLEASE
user4: PLEASE PLEASE
user5: ITS HER LAST TOUR DATE PLEASE
user6: i’ve never been this invested in a celebrity relationship ever but i really want this for both of them!!! they seem miserable without each other.
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lucky: and that’s a wrap on the world tour! thank you to all of my incredible fans, the hardworking and talented team behind the scenes and my family and friends for being there for me throughout everything.
a lot of things have been speculated upon and discussed on the internet about me and my life. i am aware of my status and how it endorses these sort of conversations about me but i just want to encourage kindness. we don’t know what someone is going through and a little compassion can go a long way.
i will be taking some time off for my own personal reasons as the tour has wrapped up, but i will see you next year. i love you! stay lucky!!! 💕
tagged: @ charles_leclerc
view all 1,562,828 comments
user1: WAR IS OVER THANK YOU LORD!!!!!!
user2: take all the time u need lucky!!! we love you!!!
user3: CHARLESYNNIES HOW WE FEELIN??
user4: THE PIC OMG! they’re so cute :(
-> user5: yn was so happy at this concert, and charles was spotted there all four nights!!!
-> user6: i love them 🥺🥺🥺
user7: lucky i hope u spend this time having fun and relaxing!!! u deserve it!!
user8: missed seeing charles being tagged in every lucky post…. IM SO HAPPY THEYRE BACK TOGETHER.
billieeilish: i love u :(
-> lucky: i love u too!!! i’m still around!!! always :)
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liked by lucky, arthur_leclerc and 1,726,828 others.
charles_leclerc: home ♥️
tagged: @ lucky
view all 236,727 comments
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— diva anthems taglist: @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @chuxk-lerclerk @ivyvlair @luvsforme @claymoreshaze @mehrmonga
— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @aliciaablueprint @lennnooshh @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @theblueblub @lavisenri @marshmummy @23victoria @ourlifeforchaos @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @tsireyasgf @landososcar @yongi-lee @maxlarens @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong
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1K notes · View notes
uzurimisery · 2 months ago
Text
bitter frost, honey i'm coming home. / logan howlett x reader / nsfw
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warnings: MDNI, angst, p in v, mention of vomit, makeup sex, death (not character), thoughts of suicidal ideation, sappy emotional sex, old man cums quick, Logan yells at reader, smoking, knotting (not a/b/o)
wc: 9k
A/N: I do not know brevity. This was only meant to be 4k max
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It’s cold on the ranch now. The first frost came barrelling through, ice crystals hanging on the barbed wire fences and freezing over the troughs out in the pasture. Days on the ranch start early, often before dawn, the first rays of light peeking over the crest of the mountains, painting it pink and golden. He’d step out into the crisp morning air and go to the barn, where he’d feed the animals. The chickens were too loud if he didn’t feed them first, the two roosters crowing till he did, so they went first. After the chickens, it was time for the two horses and the cows. After three years of doing it, he moved with practiced precision. Scattering hay, pouring oats, and spreading seeds are all mindless tasks. 
Logan had to venture out on Weston, a reliable but honorary son of a bitch, with an icebreaker to free up the water for the herd. Then, he had to head into the barns and ensure they weren’t frozen. He should pull out the heated troughs, kept convincing himself he’d do it next weekend 27 weekends ago, and now it was necessary. His back ached a bit at the thought. Pulling out all the equipment and placing it was a full day's job with just himself doing it. He was getting a fucking headache just thinking about it.
It’s not that he wasn’t strong enough. He was just old. He was far too old to run a ranch independently with so little help. Each winter felt a bit long as if there was too much work. Maybe he had grown lazier, too, over the years. No more fighting and not working at Xavier’s school; he was just living on the land now. Cattle ranching. Felt like an All-American cowboy when he had on wranglers, flannel, Justin boots, and some hat he had picked up at the tractor supply store a year back. The hat had seen better days, and the ridge was beaten up and dented from all the times he’d fold it in half and tuck it into his back pocket. He didn’t bother with a jacket, be far too warm that way. 
The ranch was quiet, save for the sound of cattle and horses. Now, the yellow pasture stretches out from the start of his property line on the road to near the base of the mountains. His little private valley. At first, the quiet made him anxious, like he was waiting for another catastrophe to come and tear it apart. That he’d wake up with someone trying to kill him, and all too often, he’d close his eyes and envision all the torture he’d been through—too much pain and suffering in his life. 
The quiet also gave him too much time to think about everything he’d done. Everything he’d lost. He was a man who had known mainly suffering for all his life. Sometimes, he felt he didn’t deserve this peace, this serenity. It was dissonant. He was a fighter, a soldier, a weapon made human to kill and kill and kill again until the only color he knew was red, the only scent he smelt iron, till the collar around his neck pulled so tight it’d break it.
His hands ached, claws threatening to come out as he worked himself up, the sting of vomit on his tongue. The back of his knuckles split open like they weren’t even there, like there was no skin or muscle for the adamantine to cut through. Like it didn’t hurt every time it did.
Weston whinnied under him, tired of lazily trotting around the barn to check for coyote marks. He wanted to gallop around the outskirts of the land while Logan sniffed out any danger to the herd. Didn’t need a cattle dog when he was a glorified one.
“Yeah yeah, asshole.” His spurs dig into Weston’s sides, urging the horse into a gallop. He might as well get the morning round done now. 
The horse broke into a gallop, bouncing Logan in the saddle, wind whipping him in the face. For a moment, the noise in his head quieted. There was no constant thought of you, just what he had to do after rounds. 
As they reached the fence line, Logan scanned the horizon, senses on high alert. He knew he was never looking for just coyotes or stray animals; he was always searching for something more. A threat that might never come. Some bullshit hopped-up mutant on a vendetta or some power-hungry human looking to use him.
Now, at a canter, the two patrolled the whole property line as he took deep breaths, inhaling the cold air, trying to focus on the present. On the life he had here. Not what he had left behind. But the past is never far behind, and he had so much past to run from. It would always be near him, lurking in the shadows. The ranch could never drown it out, cover it up, and make him forget. Maybe it was just another reminder he could never truly escape who he was, no matter how hard he tried. 
“Easy now,” he murmured, pulling Weston to a stop near the far edge of the property. He could see everything from here. It was beautiful and peaceful, but all he could feel was the weight of what he was missing. 
Sometimes, he swore he smelt your perfume on the breeze.
“Let’s head back.” Weston turned around, ready to run the way back toward the barn. This routine was the only thing that kept him sane. The work. The responsibilities. Barely enough to keep him busy but not enough to keep him from sinking too far into the darkness in his thoughts. 
He’d gotten lazy the past week and fallen behind on the hay maintenance, so he’d need to buck it today. Move it all from being covered under some tarps to the hay barn. Move them all one by one. He was glad that 150 pounds felt like nothing to him in times like that. 
The chicken coop also needed a roof repair. The last storm did a number on it. Logan bought the supplies the last time he was in town. It just meant stripping the old one off, resecuring the waterproof liner, and hammering the steel roof. Maybe he’d add some more insulation next weekend in preparation for the winter. 
Today was going to be a long one.
───※ ·❆· ※───
A knock on the door echoed in the ranch house, slicing through the quiet thrum of the fridge kicking on and the TV volume on low. He wasn’t expecting company as he stopped mid-swig of his beer, brow furrowed. The neighbors knew by now to leave him the hell alone and had enough run-ins to steer clear of him unless it was an emergency. There were no ranch hands due to arrive until next Monday. 
His boots thudded with heavy steps as he rose from the couch and walked over. The tips of his claws cut through his skin, the metallic ring soft as he reached the door.
He grabbed the handle, ready for it to be blown off the hinges by someone knocking it down.
“Logan, it’s me.” That's a voice he’d recognize anywhere, unmistakable and achingly familiar. The one he longed to hear to the point it drove him crazy. The one he dreamed of every night, of all the terrible things it had said to him because of what he’d done. Heard it in his sleep and his waking hour like a fucking ghost haunting him.
“Can you open the door already? I know you’re in there.”
He blinked as he did, trying to grapple with his emotions brought to light by the reality of you standing there. 
“What?”  his voice cracked. “What are you doing here?” 
You looked so sad, a deep sorrow in your eyes—the kind that had been there when the two of you had argued the night before he left. It made him feel like he missed something crucial like you had lost a part of yourself—one that settled deep in your bones and moved in your muscles and ligaments.
“Charles told me where you were.”
His throat felt painfully tight, as if the words were squeezing his neck. He didn’t expect this- hadn’t expected you to ever ask Xavier where he was and come see him.
Neither of you moved, the door half-open as he stood blocking it.
“You ain’t supposed to be here.”  His tone was gruff. He had been smoking more since coming to the ranch, trying to dull his brain.
Your voice was steady but filled with so much sadness it made him want to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Plead with you to transgress his sins. Go to confession and tell all his wrongdoings. “I needed to see you again.”
He looked out into the driveway, seeing nothing but emptiness.
“Did you fly over here? You don’t even have your suit on.”
“It’s fine,” you said with a shrug, “it’s dark out anyways.” 
He stared at you. The porch lights set a soft, warm glow on your skin, the panes of your face made clear. You looked beautiful, mesmerizingly so, as you stared up at him.
“You gonna let me in or not?” 
“Don’t get comfortable,” he grumbled, his tone softer now that you were closer. He opened the door wider, letting you walk past him.
He had the fire going, for which you were grateful. Flying without your suit always left you frigid afterward, especially since Logan had taken to living in the middle of nowhere nestled in the Rocky Mountains. You had always been jealous Storm didn’t have to deal with that. 
The ranch house Logan was living in was quaint. It was a three-bedroom, two-story house built in the 1880s that the previous owners renovated in recent years to feature modern amenities. The floors creaked as you walked, clearly still the original hardwood. He hadn’t done much decorating. It was clear that Charles had been the one to decorate the place for him.
He wasn’t ready to see you. Ready to talk about why he left you in the middle of the night four years ago. 
You quickly found your way into the living and dining room. Logan had left pocket doors open in these two separate rooms. Sitting on the couch, you could see through to the kitchen. A large pot was on the gas stove, the flames flickering on low. It smelled like beef stew.
Logan lingered by the entrance to the living room off of the entry space, unsure of what to do next. Watching you settle into the beat-up couch made him feel a mess of relief and anxiety. He was glad to see you were okay. Your hair was shorter, and you must have cut it after he left at some point. Grey hairs were coming through at your temples. 
“It’s, uh, good to see you.” Having his eyes on you like this made you feel small again. Like he was leaving you all over again.
Logan nodded, swallowing hard. “You too.” 
You smiled at him, and it hurt. Cut him like a thousand glass pieces over and over again. He was getting sandblasted and healing through it. 
He walked into the kitchen, trying to distance himself from you and his feelings, and stirred the stew. “I wasn’t expecting company,” he commented his back to you.
Your hands wrung together automatically, anxiety creeping up your throat. Maybe it was a mistake to come here and see him again when he had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do to you the night he left. “It’s fine, I don’t need to eat.” 
The wooden spoon clatters against the rest, and he puts it down harshly, making you wince. “Nonsense. I can hear your fucking teeth chattering from here.”
“I’m fine, really. It's just wind chill.” 
“Just take the damn food!” Logan bellowed, his hand slamming down against the counter, breathing heavily. “Just take the damn food.” 
You were silent for a moment, reeling. He’d never been like this with you before. “Okay.”
Logan closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and pushed it out of his mouth, trying to steady himself. He didn’t mean to lash out at you, to snap, but just seeing you again put him in confrontation with his past and his own feelings. It was more than he could handle. He grabbed a second bowl from the cabinet, ladling the stew between the both of them. Even after all this time, he took care to give you more potatoes than beef and half his carrots.
“Come sit at the table. Don’t want soup on the damn couch.” 
You moved quietly, always did. It unnerved him when he first met you. Your mutation lets you float more than walk and never hear any footfall when you move. He sat across from you, and you could finally get a good look at him. The years had never been kind to him, but he seemed older now than ever. The past three had been the worst of his life. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and the wrinkles on his face seemed more pronounced. 
The silence between you was thick with unspoken words, cut only by the scrapping of metal spoons against ceramic bowls. The sound echoed in the quiet house with the TV now shut off.
As you finished up your food, he looked antsy. His left leg bounced up and down, hand strumming on the table.
“Thank you for the stew.” you pipped up, breaking the silence. 
“Yeah, well, you look like you needed it. " Despite all these years, he still cared for you and loved you. It was evident to you. 
You both sat there momentarily, the silence returning but now filled with different tension. The possibility of reconciliation hurts more than anger.
“Why did you come here?” he puzzled. “After all this time, why now?”
You tapped against the bowl, inconsistent drumming on the sharp ceramic cutting against his ears. “I needed to see you.”
“Bullshit, what do you want”
“Jesus, Logan,’ you finally snapped, lightning crackling as you did. He acted like the wounded party when he was the one who had left you. “Am I not allowed to want to see you?” 
You didn’t mean for it to happen. Far past the age that your powers slipping up due to your emotions should be embarrassing. Static electricity builds up around you.
“You left,” you continued, to reel in your emotions, to keep them in check. “You left me without a word, without an explanation, and now you’re demanding an answer as to why I'm here? Do you have any idea what you did to me?” 
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as he looked to the side. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t have this conversation with you. Not now. The night he left, you felt like he was ripping out his own heart, running from his feelings and the truth about the world around him.
It was like he was on autopilot as he stood from the table, knocking his chair off balance as he went. Like a bull in a china shop, that’s how he moved. He could hear you talking and feel the vibrations in the air, but none of the words meant anything. You were begging him to just sit down and talk to you, a pleading whine in your tone. 
But he couldn’t.
Just like the last time he saw you, he walked out the door with nothing but the clothes on his back into the night down the porch steps. 
The screen door slammed shut as you walked out after him, your body trembling with the intensity of your emotions, your hair standing on end from the static. He never told you what was wrong or why he did what he did. He just left. Tears blur your vision as your back hits the siding of the house, sinking down.
“Logan!” you yelled, calling out after him, voice breaking. “Please just talk to me!”
He didn’t turn around. His figure grew smaller, illuminated by the porch lights flickering from your lack of control. It felt like your heart was breaking again. The ache of his absence, familiar and painful, made all the more unbearable by seeing him again. 
───※ ·❆· ※───
“I’m staying here till you talk to me.” 
When he finally came back to the house, knowing all too damn well, he had to take care of the ranch, that was the first thing you told him. He didn’t like it but found it hard to argue with you and Charles. It was impossible to change Charles’ mind; he knew you were too stubborn to leave. So he let it happen. 
Letting you sleep in the guest bedroom across from his was easier. It felt like he slept better since you had shown up. Even if you woke him up in the middle of the night, the floorboards creaking in protest under your weight as you went pee around 4:15 a.m. every night.
He’d lie in his bed, now fully aware of the space in it next to him, listening to the sounds of the house. The gentle rise and fall of your breathing, the ticking of the clock downstairs, the wind outside. He would never admit it, but you being there gave him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years. The night terrors that plagued him endlessly seemed to ease. For the first time in a long time, he could close his eyes without fear of being swallowed up and spit out by the past. 
During the day, you had a tentative routine with him, and he woke up earlier than you did. It had only been a week since you had shown up. You had left at one point to fly back to the school and get some of your belongings. Every morning, you’d go out to the chicken coop, collect the eggs, and make breakfast. It was nothing fancy, some variation of a bread product, eggs, and a protein. Sometimes, it was pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Other times, it was steak and eggs. Today, it was omelets. 
You’d help out in other ways, too. Go out and move the steer to a different part of their sectioned-off pasture. You were faster at de-ice the troughs, flying, and whatnot, so he let you take over that job. It was hard work, and your muscles ached like they hadn’t for a long time. 
Logan had to admit it’s helpful having you on the ranch. He’s got a greenhouse and some therapy project Charles talked him into, but that’s been looking worse for wear. The weather pattern changed the past couple of weeks, and there’s been an inversion that has left the valley with no direct sunlight. All the plants inside had started to wilt and were on the path to dying, not that he cared. He’d survive without some tomatoes. Then you threw open the door, solar energy pouring out from your palms, and they’d perk right up. You had that effect on plants, hell, people too. 
Something about you, even if you didn’t have your mutation, would have made you shine as bright as the fucking sun to anyone. All wild curls and big smiles, a helping hand to those in need—just one of those people who made the world a better place by breathing. You always said you were just doing your part, but god, there was so much good, so much sweetness in you. If he took a bite, he’d even get a cavity. Seeing you wrapped up in an old wool sweater of his, bent over coaxing a plant back to life, made him feel so ashamed of himself. 
“The plants in the greenhouse look a lot better this week.” 
Some of the leaves crunched underfoot, but most of them were soggy in the mud as you walked over to the steer barn where he was working. One of the steers had a rock impacting his back hoof, and he had to get it out. Logan had just finished spraying it with salicylic acid and wrapping it as you walked in. 
“Like I said, you don’t need to be doing all that.” He grumbled, standing from the stool and leading the cow back to the enclosure. 
Where he spoke dissent and anger, you heard what he really felt. Fear. He was still that little boy in his father's manor.
“It’s not a problem.”
It hurts to be this close to him and not have him, to know that things could just be better if he were honest. 
You'd cook him dinner in the evening, sit at the old wooden table, and comment about the school. About what you’d been up to. You steered away from the elephant in the room. It was best to talk about the mundane things. Sometimes, you’d slip and tell him something more personal than you meant to. He didn’t add much to the conversation because he hadn’t been doing much since leaving you, but he’d chime in about the animals. About the fox that kept creeping around the chicken coop.
Logan still had moments of withdrawal, times when he’d just disappear from the ranch, and you wouldn’t see him till the morning. It was hard on you, a reminder of just how much had changed between the two of you. You used to come home to him after a day of teaching and collapse into his arms on the couch. He’d offer you a sip of his beer, something dark and hoppy, and you’d taste it and declare it’s gross. Logan had told you one day, he’d find a beer you liked, and he’d stock the fridge with it. The closest you’d gotten was some Mangocart IPA that he told you was meant for 17-year-olds, and you told him to go fuck himself. 
Healing wasn’t a straight path forward. And healing couldn’t start until you cut out the festering parts. You can never go backward, but you must go forward while looking at the past. 
The two of you sat on the porch tonight, twilight hues, deep indigo taking over the sky, and the stars coming out. The first night you were out here with him, you couldn’t stop staring at them. Had a whole thing about them since they charged up your mutation, but he just thought you looked gorgeous. Older but still gorgeous. 
That was another thing that scared him. You are aging. He didn’t know how long he had left to live, hell, if he could even die. Some wounds should have killed him many times over, but they never did. They never do. But he's seen you bleeding out and broken after a fight with Magneto, a laceration so severe you had to self-cauterize the wound on the spot and passed out multiple times while doing so. You were getting older, and he was staying the same. 
You were 24 when the two of you first met. Your parents were good folks, never held any bias towards mutants, and helped you learn to control your powers and keep yourself hidden from the government when they were still rounding up mutants. The only reason you got found out was because of Cerebro and Charles. With so little training, it should have scared him how strong you were back then. A few years with Charles, and you were deadly. Deadly, but a pacifist. 
The air was cold. You could see your breath as you rocked in the rocking chair he had out there. Wafts of pungent tobacco hit your nose as he lit up a cigar. He had stopped when you lived together. You looked over at him, feeling the weight of his eyes on you. As soon as your own met his, he looked back out into the night sky. The silence was heavy.
“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly. 
“Miss what?” he drew another drag from his cigar.
“The school. The kids. The…purpose.”
“I think about the students daily. It was good work. Important work. But…” Logan trailed off, searching for the right words. What were the right words to say without telling you everything? “It got complicated.”
You nodded, understanding the unspoken part of his statement, drawing your knees to your chest. “It’s still important. And the kids still need you.” 
After all this time, you still wanted him. Despite every wrong he had done to you and all the harm he caused you. The most pathetic part of him was ready to take your kindness, love, and care and bathe in it. Draw you back into the bottomless pit of his life and ruin you like he had all the others. 
You saw him clench his jaw. A twisting wave of guilt and self-loathing ate him up. A man made to destroy and he was afraid to destroy you too.
“The kids will be fine without me.” 
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, they’ve been fine without me so far.” He shot back, but there was a hollow note in his voice. There wasn’t any gumption behind it. 
“They’ve managed, but that doesn’t mean they’re fine. You gave them something no one else could, Logan.  They relied on you, they needed you-they need you.” You corrected gently, reaching out to touch his thigh. He was always so warm.
He took another drag, blowing the smoke away from you. “They’ll move on. They’re better off without me.” 
“They didn’t move on, and they aren't okay without you.” 
Logan looked down at your hand on his thigh, his expression a mixture of pain and something else. Something so soft, buried deep beneath the layers of hardened exterior. He didn’t pull away, but you could see his temptation rising.
“I’m not me without you, Logan. Please just talk to me.” Your grip tightened, the denim rough under your fingers, and you begged him to let you in again. To tell you why he left you, why you haven't heard from him since.
He needed to keep you safe from himself.
“You should leave.” Standing from his chair, he threw open the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him as he walked over to the living room. 
You rose after him, chasing him into the house, your heart pounding in your chest. The floorboards cracked up the both of you, echoing in the house. He moved with a desperate, frantic everything. His broad shoulders tense as if he could outrun the conversation you were about to have.
“Why won’t you let me care about you!” You cried out, voice breaking, trembling with the weight of the emotions you've been holding back. He didn’t stop, didn’t turn around, but kept going, and your words spilled out like a damn bursting.  “I am begging you to let me in, to let me love you, to stop pushing me away like you do every time! You left me. In the middle of the night, you left. I woke up, and you were gone. And all I have ever asked of you is to let me love you.”
From behind, he looked like a man barely holding together as he reached the living room.
“I don’t want you to.” he ground out. Each word hurt to say, and he hated lying to you. 
“We both know that's a lie, Logan. I’m not stupid. I know you love me. Just please let me in. Why won't you let me in?” 
“Because I don’t want you to wind up fucking dead!” His voice reverberated off the walls. “Everyone and everything I have ever loved is buried six feet fucking deep, and I don’t want you to join the shithole graveyard that is my life.” 
Logan’s voice cut deep through the room, his shoulder hunched as he leaned over the back of the couch. The sob was settling in his chest as he tried to keep it at bay. He didn’t want you to see him crying. It was like he could see you now, lying in that grave, another name added to the long list of people he’d killed or gotten killed.
“You think leaving me is protecting me? You think that by pushing me away, you're saving me?” You hated being an angry crier, the tears welling in your eyes. “I’m already in this. I’ve been in this for years. You leaving didn’t save me—it fucking broke me.”
“I just,” his breath was shaky, knuckles white against the couch as the wood splintered from his grip. “I can’t lose you too.” 
You stepped closer, a hesitant hand hanging in the air a moment before it made contact. Slipping over his back, meeting your other hand in the front as you hugged him from behind. 
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, voice soft and thick with sadness. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I’m not letting you leave this time.” 
He shook his head, tilting it backward to keep the tears from falling. “You don’t understand. I keep telling you that I’m cursed, that everyone who gets close to me, everyone that I love,” the crack in his voice hurt you, “ends up dead. And I can’t let that happen to you.” 
“You’re not cursed,” you mumbled into his back. “You’ve been through hell, but you deserve a chance at happiness and love.” 
His shoulders shook as the sob he had been holding back finally broke free. He crumples against the back of the couch, wrenching at his waist as his head meets his hands. You went down with him, following the curve of his back with your front, holding him tightly as he cried. 
“I’m here,” you cooed into his ear, your tears cresting down your cheeks. “I’m here, baby.” 
“I don’t deserve you.” he choked out between sobs. 
You tightened your hold on him, wishing that the pressure could soothe his aches and worries and make him feel whole again. That it would wash away all the suffering he’s been through and wipe it from his mind, even if you knew that pain was part of what made him him. 
“Yes, you do. You deserve love and happiness and to find that with me.” 
“I’m just going to hurt you again, like I have before.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me-”
“God dammit, I’ve killed people,” he stood up straight to face you, his voice jumping in volume, shaking you off balance. As you stumbled, he reached out, a hand on your hip to steady you. “I’ve killed so many people that it’d take them years to find all the bodies that I’ve fucking piled up in my 230 years of life. I am a fucking mess of a man who is so goddamn broken, and I don’t want to drag you down in the mess that I have made.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting around your face as he did. His beard was grown out, the greys now outnumbered the black, jaw trembling as he spoke. 
“And just when I think I can start to be okay without you in my life, you show up, doll, and it ruins all that progress I made, if I even fucking made any in the first place. Make me realize just how damn much I need you. And how much I am so fucking scared of losing you because I can’t take it if I do.”
You reached up, hand cupping his face against the scruff of his beard. “I know that I’ve always known the life you lived before meeting Charles, and it doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the thought of you shutting me out and living out here on your own till you die. You’re not this terrible monster you think you are. Yes, you’ve done terrible things, but you’ve also done so much good in the world. You’ve saved just as many lives as you’ve taken.”
His eyes softened, tongue darting out to wet dry lips that stuck to his teeth. 
“I can’t change who I am. I can’t be someone you deserve.” 
“I’m not asking you to change.” 
His other hand met your hip, both of them squeezing them tightly as his body shook. “I can’t lose you.”
“You won’t,” you promised. It was easy to promise that to him. As much as he needed you, you needed him. “You and me, we’ll get through this, and all that's to come.” You wrapped your arms around his neck. 
For a long while, he just stared at you, listening to your heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, looking for any doubt or lie in what you said. Fearful you’d sweep the rug out from under him and leave. He couldn’t find any indication of the sort. All he could see was how much you loved him, how much the distance between you had hurt, and how badly you wanted him to let you in.
Logan let out a shaky breath before pulling you into a kiss. His facial hair tickled your face as your lips met. It was intense as his lips moved against yours, his hands sliding down to your ass to pick you up and hold you. You could feel all his longing, desperation, and the despair he had been holding back. His lips were chapped from working outside, not caring for for himself like he should be, but you didn’t mind.
It sent a shiver down your spine, having him so close after so long. He was so warm against you. Your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Logan groaned as you did, parting his mouth enough that your tongue could meet his. 
The kiss deepened. You could taste the salt of his tears mingling with your own. His grip on your ass tightened, pulling you flush against his body like he was afraid you might disappear. His mouth moved hungrily against your own tongue, nearly forcing yours into submission as he held you close.  He felt like a man starved. 
You matched his intensity, trying to pour all your love and care into the kiss, your lips moving together in a way that felt both familiar and new. Hoping that enough of your love could spill into his cup and fill him so full it didn’t matter what spilled out his cracks. There’d be more poured in every second. A rediscovery of what the love between the two of you had been. 
The two of you have to part far sooner than he liked, your lung capacity smaller than his own. His eyes were still wet with tears as he watched you, your chest rising and falling as you gulped down the air. 
He leaned in towards you, placing a small kiss on your forehead as he rested his head against your own, moving your ass to rest against the back of the couch. You had changed your conditioner; it smelled like honey now, but no matter how fragrant it was, it couldn’t cut through the smell of you to him. You smelled like home. 
“I’m sorry, doll.” his voice was a murmur against your scalp, heavy with regret. If hammer home the point, he’d bend nail after nail into soft wood, splitting it down the middle with how much metal he’d drive into it, just how sorry he was.
“I forgive you.”
Somehow, he gripped you tighter.“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“I know you will.” you pulled away from your position tucked against his chest to look up at him. “Kiss me again?”
He compiled without hesitation, his lips finding yours so tenderly. It was slow, deliberate, a melting of his body with yours. A promise, shared understanding, a soul tie that bound the two of you together.
Pulling away, his eyes met yours, and all he could see was love. 
“You gonna take me to bed or what, big boy?” 
Logan moved quickly up the stairs, taking two of them at a time. The promise of having you again was all the incentive he needed. He missed you. The way you felt under him, the way your pussy felt against his dick. How you fluttered around him every time he angled just right, how you smelt. He'd been jacking off to the thought of you for years now, and finally getting to have you again was like a fevered dream.
It wasn’t graceful the way he swung open his door and tossed you on the bed. You bounced a few times, mattress springs creaking as you did, before propping yourself up with an eyebrow raised, questioning him. No doubt he’d never hear the end of it; could hear you nagging him now. “A spring mattress? Logan? You’re made of metal. You can't have a spring mattress. You know this.” 
You raised a finger, curling in towards yourself, beckoning him closer. He was a dog on a leash for you, moving like a well-trained animal. If they’d found you during Project K, he would have listened to every command they gave. Hell, he’d roll over right now if you told him to. 
His knees enclosed your legs as he crawled over you, dog tags slipping out from his white tank top and dangling in your face. You smelled like him. His body wash and house, mixed with your fruit conditioner. Underneath it all, he could just smell you. The salt on your skin, the heady scent of your arousal. Logan lowered himself, tucking his head into your neck, and took a deep breath, groaning at the smell of you.
“Need you logan.”
That was something he’d missed. That pitched whine in the back of your throat you got when you were all horny and needy for him. Your voice turned raspy and low, caressed his ears so smoothly, and it made him want to purr like a fucking cat. The cadence just scratched an itch in his skull, setting his nerves on fire. 
With a low growl, he cradled your face in his hands, thumbs tracing over your cheekbones, relishing the heat coming off your skin. The little bumps and scars that crossed your skin felt like home to him, a map he’d always know how to read no matter how many years passed. He leaned in, lips meeting yours, and it just felt right. It always felt right. He was stupid for trying to run from you all this time. 
Your fingers laced in his hair on the nape of his neck, fingernails scraping his scalp. He groaned low,  wanton, animalistic, your tongue meeting his own in a warm, wet dance. Logan devoured your lips, his hunger for you impossible to sate. It was messy, desperate, the way he clung to you. Grabbing your waist and lifting you closer to him, you felt like a feather to him, all soft flesh and curves against his hard angles. 
He pulled away from the kiss, moving along your jawline and neck, stubble brushing your skin, making it more sensitive than it already was. Not stopping at your neck, he continued down over your collarbones and the expanse of your chest, all the skin he could access in the v-neck you wore. His fingers tugged at the hem of your sweater, pulling it over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra, perfect fucking nipples already perking up for him.
Logan leaned forward, his lips closing around your nipple. You gasped, back arching off the bed, the cool metal of his dog tags stinging against your skin. His tongue swirled around your nipple, fingers digging in at your waist before he pulled away with a pop, your chest heaving. You always looked so beautiful coming under him, over him, beside him, any position in which your naked body was near his and your flesh met in sinful desire.
“Oh,” his voice was ragged like he had fought all his battles and wars at once. “Oh god, doll…”
Testament and faith could be read about in books and studied. The Bible could teach you of Jesus’ preaching, but true faith, true trust in the unknown, could never be read about. It had to be felt and experienced. Logan slid to his knees, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed as he went. The fabric of your leggings felt too thick, separating him from his worship. He could smell you through them, through the lace of your panties. Heady, musky, a whine rumbles through his chest as his face falls against your thigh, nose pressed against the fast of your pussy. He breathes in deep, savoring your scent, his mouth watering like he can taste you.
“Doll, please,” he begged, opening his bloodshot eyes, his voice needy. “Let me taste you?” 
“You don't have to ask, Logan,” you replied, smiling. “I’m yours, always yours.” 
Logan hooked his finger into the waistband of your legging and panties, tugging them down in one swift motion. The cold air of the room met your skin as he did, but you didn't have long to think about it as he parted your legs, and his hot breath made contact with your pussy. His mouth hovered above for a moment, just wafting in your scent, his eyes fluttering closed. 
“Fucking love the smell of this pussy.” he murmured to himself, a low growl, before he dove in, tongue parting your folds.
Wet muscle slid between you so easily before swirling around your sensitive clit, teasing it. His hot breath ghosted over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers flew to his head, trying to find purchase in his hair as he went. Logan was ferocious. He went from your clit to your hole, delving inside you, trying to taste every inch of you. He grabbed your hips, tilting them upwards, making you squeal as he opened his mouth wider on you. Working himself into a frenzy, growling, the vibrations amplified by his adamantium skeleton. It rumbled through you, low and deep, like the base setting of a vibrator.
He takes a second, not quite remembering the perfect rhythm for you right away, but he gets to it quickly. Starts playing with your pussy like a fine-tuned machine the way he has you gushing in minutes. Your wetness coats his tongue, and that engine is firing.
Each stroke, each flick of his tongue on your clit brought you closer to ecstasy. The stars might power you, but he’d have you see them tonight. He devours your pussy like a man starved, primal hunger driving him. You couldn’t fight back, not that you wanted to. All that you could do was let him keep going. Let him take you to the edge. Push you past it. Over it. Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your chest so hard you feel it in your temples.
You push his head back, abdomen muscles flexing, a thick line of spit and arousal connecting Logan’s mouth to your pussy. His pupils were blown wide, eyes unfocused, hungry. A red, ruddy color spread across his cheeks. He felt hard enough to cut steel with his length, rutting against the bed. They move on their own accord, desperate for friction. There’s a growing wet spot of precum at the front of his darkening blue jeans.
“Cum for me, doll, please, I need to taste it.” That low vibration of his voice made you whine, hips bucking against him.
Logan spread his tongue flat and mercilessly kept going at your clit. Your moans grew louder, fingernails digging into his scalp as he manhandled you around like you weighed nothing. He gripped your hips tighter, tilting them further, ensuring he had better access to your pussy, before taking your clit in his mouth and sucking on it. An involuntary squeal came out of you as the added pressure made your back arch. 
The suction made your stomach drop, and your toes curl. He kept swiping his tongue side to side, little pulses of suction in time. It left you writhing and gasping. One of his hands released your hips, moving so that he could slip two fingers into your wet hole. You were so soaked he met no resistance, walls clenching around his digits as he slid them in, desperate for something to clamp down on. The pads of his fingers brush against your G-spot, and the lights of the room glow brighter as you begin to lose control. You’re so close so quickly it feels like you can’t breathe from how overstimulating it was. 
You push his head back, abdomen muscles flexing, a thick line of spit and arousal connecting Logan’s mouth to your pussy. His pupils were blown wide, eyes unfocused, hungry. A red, ruddy color spread across his cheeks. He felt hard enough to cut steel with his length, rutting against the bed. Your vision blurred, light filling your eyes, your only point of focus in the world, his mouth on your sensitive pussy.
“Taste so goddamn good,” he licked his lips, breaking the strand before diving back in. Your legs shook, thighs clamping down around his ears. You were so close, you could taste it. Logan picked up the pace, his tongue rapidly flicking over your clit, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering hole. 
The room was filled with sloppy, wet sounds of Logans eating you out mixed with your cries of pleasure. He presses your pussy harder against his face, moaning as he does. You clench around him, body drawing tight like a bow as your release nears, his fangs scrape on the fat of your pussy lips.  It's like you leave your body for a minute, your ears ringing and your heart pumping. Every nerve in your body is lit up.
Logan reaches up to grope at your breasts, and with a pinch of your nipple, you cum with a loud moan that startles the cows, the lightbulbs exploding as you do. Your body trembles and shakes, juices gushing onto his palette like a tall glass of iced tea after a long day of work during the summer, and his thirst is quenched, but his appetite is only hungrier. You felt like you were melting, pleasure pouring out of you.
“Fuck,” you sound winded, “I haven’t had that happen since I was 24.” Your smile shows crow's feet, crinkling comforts near the sides of your eyes as you smile, really smile at him for the first time this week.
“Getting old, kid.”
“Oh, shut up!” 
He ducks to the side to dodge the pillow you throw his way. 
“You want to keep going?” 
“With you, I don’t ever want to stop.”
His eyes go all soft at the corners, caught up in his feelings. “Promise you won’t ever have to again.” 
“Good.”
He picks you up and places you up on the center of the bed, grabbing the pillow you threw at him to place under your hips for support. His clothes come off, and his blue Wrangler jeans drop to the floor with his tank top and boxer briefs. The dog tags stay on. He knows you’ve got a thing for them.  They glint in the dim light, steel catching your eye.
Rough, calloused hands slide up your legs, starting at your ankles, and he kneels between your legs on the bed. He folds you nearly in half, hooking your knees over his shoulders, his hip meeting yours. You feel the curling wisps of his pubes tickle against the back of your thighs. Always been a hairy guy, told you it's how he was so warm all the time. It makes your stomach flutter.
Logan leans down, capturing your lips against his own in a kiss before lining up his pre-cum soaked tip with your entrance. He eases into you with a hiss, your walls squeezing him tightly. The length was never an issue, he was only about an inch and a half above average, but it was the girth that made your jaw go slack and droll pool out the sides as he fucked you. The stretch is delicious as he slides inside you.
The first inch yielded a slick gushing sound from your pussy, while the second made you gasp, and the third had your walls tighten around him, taking his and your breath away. The stretch felt so good with how fat of a cock he had. One that felt so much girthier than you’d ever imagine it to be. His cock twitched, heavy, inside you, his pulse beating in time with yous.
“Jesus, princess, you’re squeezing me so tight. Relax,” he rolled his hip about halfway in and still meeting resistance.  Relax.” It came out like a pant. Fuck you were so tighter, like a vice around him. He wanted to take it slow, cherish you, show you how much he’d been missing you, but he was an old dog, and he wouldn’t last that long with how bad you were squeezing him. 
Your hands gripped the sheets, nails cutting the threadbare cheap cotton ones he’d been using for all these years. “Too much Logan.” You could barely breathe, let alone get the words out.
“You can take it, doll, remember?” he groaned, finally sliding in, flesh meeting yours in a wet slap. Your poor little hole stretched to the max as you whimpered. “See? You can take it.” Logan emphasized each word with a thrust of his hips. 
He felt his control slipping, thrusts starting to pick up, super strength coming into play. It coiled deep in his belly as he buried himself to the hilt inside you. “Feel so fucking good. Oh fuck. You’re so perfect, perfect little pussy.”
Logan’s hands move to grab your breasts, pushing them together. He plays with your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and index finger. His pace is brutal, and the position allows him to hit that perfect spot on your gummy walls that has you seeing stars. He’s all grunts and whimpers, silver tips eclipsing the skin of his knuckles. It gets to the point he wants to go faster, the need to cum inside you far too great, and he lets go of your tits and balances himself on the bed. 
The base of his cock swelled, his knot beginning to grow. This was the part you missed the most. The way he’d stretch you out so good on his dick, only to then slip his knot inside you and stretch you even further. 
“Ain’t gonna last much longer, doll.” 
You moan, reaching down to play with your messy clit. It’s so wet between your legs it’s hard to find any purchase, and the sensitive nub slides back and forth so easily. The bed creaks, the wood floors groan, and the bed frame slams against the wall. He’s getting rougher by the second, his knot starting to press against you. 
“Give it to me, I’m ready.”
Logan thrusts forward, his knot sliding in with a satisfying pop, your words spurring him on. He pulses, cock swelling impossibly large before he cums. Thick, hot white ropes paint your insides as he stutters and groans, nearly growls, dropping to his elbows and forcing your knees to your chest. His hips don’t stop moving, still rutting up into you as you play with your clit. You just need a little bit more to push you over the edge. 
His voice is gravely in your ear as he careens over you, half squishing you with his weight. “I love you.” 
It’s the emotion of the moment that makes you cum. Tears in your eyes and love in your heart. Love is a lot like faith, blind trust in the unknown. A bishop can train his whole life, be a theologian, a scholar of the bible, know all of his god’s teachings inside out, and have less faith than a man who’s lived through hell. Putting your trust into the unknown and praying that good comes back to you. You felt like you were finally home, like that piece of yourself you’ve been missing for years is clicking back into place.
Logan didn’t know romance. He was gruff and awkward, snappy at the random way things. But he stood on the outside when you walked along the street, never let you carry anything, and opened every door for you. Never bought you flowers because he hated the local guy who sold them. But he picked them for you daily on his runs. Didn’t ever wash your laundry, but he folded every piece of clothing you owned and hung up all your shirts, all of it, just because you mentioned hating folding clothes to him once. 
He’d never be able to admit to you how much you meant to him fully. When you came into his life, he was close to ending things. There had been so many dark, endless days that only he remembered now. Horrors beyond human comprehension were his burden, shadowing his every waking moment until you came walking into his life.
There’d be a conversation in the morning that probably would rise into an argument. He’d likely storm off, and you’d be there waiting, telling him to get therapy, and this time, he would. This time, he’d go talk to a shrink about the mess in his head and sort it out for you, for himself. This time he wouldn’t fuck it up and leave you in the middle of the night. He’d have the difficult, uncomfortable conversations that activate his fight or flight. 
You were soft under him as he lifted off of you, still unable to pull out due to his knot. He rotated the two of you so you were on top, your chests pressed together as he lazily traced your spine. 
“I love you too.” 
“I love you more, sunbeam.” 
“Oh, absolutely not. You know I hate that name.”
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©️ uzuzrimisery
thank you @txjis for beta reading
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naffeclipse · 2 months ago
Text
Charm Brought It Back
Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse
Commission Info
I am so excited to present this Hocus Pocus inspired AU requested by the lovely @jackofallrabbits! The boys star as the witchy brothers who return once a fated reader lights the starry candle. They simply must show their gratitude! And what better day to post such a spooky and fun fic than on Friday the 13th?!
Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, and heavy touching.
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You turn the key and cut the engine of your car. With a flick, you turn off the headlights. The beginning of a sunset swoops down onto your ill-adjusted vision. The horizon is drenched in purples and oranges as shadows begin to crawl off of trees and their yellowed leaves. It will take a minute or two for your sight to adapt, but you have tilted and revolved the structure waiting just at the edge of the forest within your mind’s eyes for days now. It’s beyond the dirt road you’ve pulled onto the shoulder of.
Blinking slowly, you find the house’s dark silhouette through the boughs of clustered trees, and you sigh at the beauty of its preserved history.
The building is an artifact dating back roughly to the 1630s. A post-medieval English-style home, it contains two stories with an overhanging jetty and stunning clapboard siding that has survived a little under four centuries of existence. Your eyes catch on the windows and your heart sings at the sight. Diamond-paned casement. And there, decorative pendants of celestial bodies, including iron-casted suns, moons, and overlapping symbols of the two. The steeply pitched roof is common for the era and is more renowned in its descendant the saltbox form, but this style boosts its spooky aura.
The Puritan colonists were the ones responsible for importing the style to America as they landed here on the eastern coast. 
It’s no stretch of the imagination to think of witches and execution trials while gazing over the beautiful home. You’re particularly intrigued by the history of the Salem witch trials, and as a historian, you couldn’t deny yourself the chance to enter the building and feed the gnawing need to stand within a piece of history.
Stepping out of your car, a gust of wind carrying the bitter edge of autumn cuts through your brown sweater. You shiver and shut the door as quietly as you can manage. This is hallowed ground. This will supply your ever inquisitive mind which is always looking to the past with a curiosity most insatiable.
You face the home. A footpath lightly serpentines between the trees. Hooligans with destructive tendencies and teenagers on dares will venture here for a spooky, fun time, but are usually caught by the police because the building sits on private property. You asked for permission from the owner of the hundreds of acres of forest land that includes the so-called “Witch House” if you might enter the premises. Given your credentials, you were certain the owner would trust you with exploring the home.
Much to your relief, the owner agreed. 
You look up, arms clutching your knitted sleeves to fight the chill of an October breeze, in awe and reverence. 
From your pocket, you slip out a wrought-iron key with the symbol of the moon overlapping the sun to form a black eclipse and marvel again at the intricacy of ancient beauty. Your fingertips grow chilled in the late hour. The sun shifts from orange to dark, bleeding red like blood from a heart spilled across the horizon. You walk towards the home. 
Perhaps you should have arrived sooner. You were caught in another historical journal depicting the specific timeframe of when this home would have been occupied by its original inhabitants. 
The rumors even now speak of curses and cursed artifacts within the building. Some of it is true—you have confirmed with your own scholarly sources. The original owners were a trio of brothers. They were accused of witchcraft and hanged for the crimes. That much is historically documented and verified. 
What is fantasy is the tale of the brothers casting a curse with their dying breaths, declaring they would one day return if a virgin lit a starry candle on the anniversary of their executions.
Superstition. Most likely, the fear of the townspeople transcended to their children, and their children, down and down until it became a tale to spin on Halloween night around these parts. 
The door is black as you approach it. A stray branch catches on your sweater, pulling on a thread, and you yank yourself free and silently mourn the roughen fabric before returning your attention to what really matters. You must be careful. This entire place is iconic and in need of preservation. 
You slip the key into the lock hole and turn it with a thick, heavy click before the black wood door groans and slides inwards as if inviting you into its sphere. You take a breath. Your boots cross the threshold and you enter the home. 
As is typical of some homes built in the early seventeenth century, an open hall greets you. In the far back is the fireplace with a cauldron still sitting upon an ashy bed. An original wood-carve table and chairs are set to one side as a staircase climbs up into the darkness of the second level. What little red light leaks inside is narrowed and cut up into diamonds by the panes. To one wall, shelves contain dusty and forgotten cooking utensils, once glimmery copper pots, and dinner dishes with designs considered much too gawky in the Puritan era but it causes you to softly gasp.
Your hand covers your mouth as you gaze around you, overwhelmed with the beautiful intricacies of metallic chandeliers holding half-burned tallow candles, and to the other wall lies a bookshelf covered in cobwebs as if the spiders refuse to let anyone examine such precious reads. Your fingers already itch to gently pry out one manuscript and gaze at the original script of whoever wrote it.
But the light—it’s far too dark now. The red has given way to blue and pale indigo. You squint. You reach into your other pocket for a lighter and flick it on. The tiny flame spouts a delicate light. Never would you dare admit this out loud to a living soul, but you so desperately wish to see the home in its authentic state, lit only by the technology the brothers had at the time: fire.
There are thick, yellowed candles lying on the table and clustered together on the narrow window sills. You have no hope of reaching the metal chandeliers but you do spy a candelabra positioned near the bookshelf on a small end table. You light it first with a careful touch of your lighter flame. The wick catches, even after all of these years. You smile softly, your heart warm within your chest as you bask in the essence of this beautiful place.
A few more candles should suffice. 
You slip to the table to light the thick and tall candles. The flames bloom and warm the space in rich light, casting thick shadows from support beams. You almost set your lighter away when you spy one last candle set upon a golden candle holder. The fashioned metal twists and twines with elaborate engravings of shooting stars and slices of sun rays were placed in the corner of the room almost out of sight. The curiosity within you urges you to take a step, then another, and another. You stand in front of the almost forgotten candle.
The tallow is black as midnight. Strange. How did they color this? Embedded within the darkness are speckles of white, splattering the candle like an array of stars. Your eyes stray in search of constellations before shaking your head.
It’s true. There is a starry candle. Perhaps the brothers did dabble in the occult, playing with cards and fortune telling, and being punished with death for their interest in unholy magic. 
The wick is dark and untouched as if it were never lit before. You bring the lighter flame closer. Superstition might worry another, but you concern yourself with logic and reason—explanations of humanity rather than inexplicable forces beyond comprehension. 
Something stirs from a nearby corner shelf. Two long ears twitch. You catch a glimpse of a rabbit with creamy white fur just before it leaps off of the shelf and directly onto your arm. You yelp. Nearly dropping the lighter, you scramble back as the rabbit hits the floor, collects itself, and sits on its haunches.
Green eyes glare up at you. The rabbit, small and bunny-like, stays firmly between you and the starry candle.
You stand with your chest heaving and your lungs scraping out air, almost burning your thumb on the lighter flame before turning around yourself. Where did the woodland creature come from? Did it crawl its way inside like a rat and become trapped within the colonial home? The shot of adrenaline still flowing through your veins leaves your hands shaking.
The rabbit is still watching you with uncanny eyes. Prey animals so rarely stare back at bigger, larger threats. Perhaps it’s a pet. A runaway pet that somehow ended up here, of all places.
You slowly offer out your hand, keeping the lighter away in your other, as you take a step towards it.
It thumps a foot once, as if in warning, then bounds away. You watch it disappear into the house, still reeling from the fright it gave you. 
If Michael was here, he would have laughed and told you to leave with him, now. He never wanted you to go here, especially alone, but you shake such ominous warnings away. He said curiosity killed the cat. You disagreed. This house is a part of history, not a curse. Witches are mere stories, conjured out of historical unrest and the longing to blame bad luck and tragedies upon an individual or three. 
There’s always an explanation for fear superstition or mistrust. It’s far more sad than it is spooky.
You shake your head, smooth out the creases in your sweater, and face the starry candle again. The lighter flame flickers softly as you draw near it.
It is the anniversary of the brothers’ executions. You remember now as the shadows from other candles drape over you like a veil. You are also a virgin.
You laugh to yourself, covering your mouth as you do so. Look at you! You’re getting so worked up because a rabbit jumped at you.
It’s only hocus-pocus.
You tilt the lighter until it engulfs the wick. The flame catches, and you at last snap the lighter shut and return it to your pocket. Your eyes squint slightly at the candle. The wick snaps and bursts into sparks. The flame is not yellow or orange or even blue—it’s pure white like a comet streaking across the sky.
A crack of thunder splits the night sky with a bellow so monstrous, you feel like a child again, fearing a storm. You drop low to the ground, shielding your head as if the very world was going to fall upon you. A spark cracks in the fireplace, conjured out of ash underneath the cauldron before it burns hot and bright. The cauldron immediately begins roiling and bubbling with water. Laughter, great and terrible, and filled with the most jester-like joy sweeps over the room.
The pulse in your ears drowns at any sense but the need to hide. You scramble into the corner, tucking yourself behind the stand of the starry candle and hunker down. Holding your breath, you grab a fistful of your sweater while clutching your chest, and watch the door to the almost 400-year-old house fly open.
Three figures stride inside, looking about the place with wide eyes and disk-like heads framed in jutting adornments not unlike sun rays or shrouded in a heavy, dark blue hood.
“Brothers! We’re home!” The first one, tall and dark with deep red hues to his form, accent in sharp orange sun rays and an eclipse upon his face, turns to face his brother with bright, cat-like yellow eyes. “Isn’t it glorious?”
Another figure steps forward, yellow and off-white. Pale eyes beam. His head is crowned in bright sun rays as well. His spindly fingers twindle together in exuberant energy while he glances about the room eagerly. “Oh, yes, yes! More than anything! It’s as if we weren’t gone for more than a day—though the dust and cobwebs beg to differ.”
He draws a claw—you suck in a sharp breath—along the table’s edge and rubs his taloned fingertips together in disappointment. 
“We must get to cleaning at once.”
“No,” the last figure fixes his hood with silvery digits. Golden jewels hang down the back of his unusual skull, the last and most prominent adornment a thick, golden star pendant. His eyes cast around the room, scarlet, and searching. “We must thank the little mouse who lit the candle.”
He flashes sharp teeth within his wide mouth, shaping it into a hungry grin. You gulp.
“Where are our manners?” The red and dark one twists back to the room with a flourish of his arms. His yellow gaze sweeps over the shelves and floors with a blade-like glint. “Of course, we must thank one so lovely.”
A dark cape drapes about his person. Underneath, a white flowing shirt hangs loosely to his lithe and slender figure, causing you to balk upon staring at such an exposed chest. The other two are no different, wearing similar shirts and dark trousers, but the hooded one bears a thick, longer cape while the sunny figure shares a cape similar to the first.
The yellow one lifts his wrists and frowns at the red ribbons tied around them. Golden bells jingle softly in an ominous chord. 
“How terrible a reminder of our current impermanence,” he growls low in his throat, all cheerfulness lost and causing you to squeeze your ribs in fear.
“Patience, Sun,” the red one speaks, though he too casts a narrowed glance to the black ribbons and golden bells adorning his wrists. “We will affix ourselves back to this world in due time.”
“Eclipse, what a delicious creature I smell.” The hooded figure steps deeper into the home. Blue claws scratch at equally blue ribbons knotted to his hand bones but his attention is terrifyingly fixed on the candle stand just above your hiding spot. 
You shrink further into the corner.
“Yes, Moon? And how lovely?” Eclipse, you assume, asks. His yellow eyes flash.
“As lovely as the stars,” Moon answers.
You watch claws curl around the wooden side of the candle stand, scratching deeply into the wood before a half-moon face emerges from behind, teeth set like a predator’s upon the sight of a wounded animal. Your heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.
“Hello, little mouse. Won’t you come and play with us?” 
You scream as he leaps behind the candle stand, takes you by the arms, and pulls you to your feet. You struggle to free yourself, crying out as he grabs hold of your wrists and fixes you firmly in place. 
“My, how sweet,” he purrs in a dangerously low voice that rolls in the back of his throat. “You are the darling virgin who lit the candle, no?”
“Let me go!” You thrash but Moon grins in delight, as if you’re simply too precious. 
“You deserve proper thanks,” He lowers one hand, forcing you to submit with slightly bent knees. “Here is my gratitude, little mouse.”
You freeze as he brings your hand towards his mouth, and a hundred, horrifying visions of him biting your fingers off or sinking his teeth in your palm send your blood into a frozen sludge of fear.
The witch, however, presses a kiss to the center of your palm. The softness catches the gears in your mind and jerks them to a halt.
“Thank you for allowing us to return once more,” he rasps. His scarlet eyes find yours between the space of your thumb and forefinger, and a strange stirring takes hold of your middle.
“This isn’t real,” you breathe. Dizziness begins to take hold.
This must be a dream, a thought gone wild, or inhaled bacteria triggering hallucinations.
Moon’s grin widens. He lowers your hand, loosening his hold for one precious moment. You rip your hands free of his grasp. A low growl escapes him but you’ve already slipped away, your eyes upon the door and spilling with the need to rush out into the night, away from the impossibilities standing before you—
Arms snatch your waist and lift your feet from the ground. You gasp. 
Held in the air, you squirm before a hot breath dusts the shoulder of your sweater. You fall still, your throat bobbing as a mouth presses into the corner of your neck and lays a kiss on the sensitive spot. Gooseflesh prickles up and down your body.
“I assure you, I’m very real, little mouse,” Moon purrs. His hands squeeze your hips once. “And as nice as this… attire is, I would dress you in blues and silvers. You would look proper and powerful, like my brothers and I.”
A squeak escapes you. You shrink against him, caught in his embrace.
“Brothers?” The word rattles out of your throat. 
“This is our home,” Moon whispers. “And you are our most honored guest.”
You manage to pry off his hands from your waist. With a sinister chuckle, the blue and silver hands release you. Without looking back, you run, ignoring the twinge in your stomach that whispers it was too easy to get away.
You hardly get a few steps before the sunny one—Sun—steps into your path. He catches you in his arms and spins you in a waltz at breakneck speed, your feet never touching the ground, before stopping without warning as he dips you low. He looms above you, his smile filled with sharp teeth.
“Let me get an eyeful. Oh, yes, you look good enough to eat,” he simpers. His hand splays along the small of your back and you gawk up at him, still trying to regain your balance after the sickness-inducing whirl. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”
“I just want to leave,” you whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
“Hurt you? Sunshine,” he laughs, and it echoes with all of his heart—do once-hanged witches have a heart? There is no historical journey to give context to this very moment, you fear.
He lowers his sultry gaze to you. “I wish to only thank you. And I intend to.”
He pulls you back to your feet. You’re still clasped in his embrace like lovers on a ballroom floor. His hand hooks tight to your hip, and his other catches the side of your face. Heat spreads through the marrow of your bones.
On the tabletop beside you, something white moves across the plane of its surface, hunkering behind the thick stack of candles still burning.
His head lowers to your neck. You stiffen as he tilts your head away, opening you to his parting teeth. A tongue, dark and sinuous, flicks out of his maw. A gasp slips from your lips at the wet lick up the column of your throat. Eyelids fluttering, you start to sag as weakness fills your knees. He drags his tongue higher to taste your jawline and finishes at your cheek with a swipe for good measure. 
Your hands find him and clutch tightly to his slender arms. He presses his lips to your ear and with a misty warmth, whispers.
“Thank you for—Gah!”
The white rabbit leaps up from the table, squirming directly between you and his chest, breaking you apart. Instinctively, you jump away just as Sun snarls. The heart-wrenching sound shakes your entire frame as he snatches the rabbit by the scruff before it can scramble back from his wretched claws.
“I’ll boil you alive!” he thunders. He steps towards the cauldron, back where Moon leans against the wall, watching the spectacle with an amusing twitch of his grinning maw. Behind you, Eclipse stands at the door like a sentinel, his eyes still hungry and even furious as he follows his brother’s movement to the cauldron. 
Sun dangles the rabbit, now struggling and kicking but unable to find purchase against the witch’s hold, above the boiling water of the caldron.
“No!” you cry.
Sun’s eyes widen. He turns back to you just as you close the distance and scoop the rabbit in your arms. His claws, pale-boned and wickedly curved, clench around emptiness. Without thought, you turn and run again though there is little hope as you come to the door. Your boots stamp against the wooden floorboards.
The rabbit in your embrace turns its face up to you and mutters in a woman’s voice, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
You gawk, stunned before hands catch you by the shoulders. You’re brought to a dead halt. The rabbit leaps from your arms, drops to the floor, and races away into a shadowy corner of the room with only one glimpse of its fluffy tail before you’re left alone.
You twist and face the eldest witch’s attention. Eclipse. His yellow eyes go up and down your body, and you watch in muted shock as two additional arms emerge from the shadows of his cap. He forces you backward, one step after the other until your back is pinned against a dusty wall.
You stare into his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your pulse pounds in your eardrums.
“I don’t believe this is happening,” you utter.
The witch tilts his head with a wicked grin.
“We’ll make you a believer yet.” He promises, and his deep cords vibrate through your form. “My dear, we simply must thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”
His claws slip over your collarbones. Your breath quickens, a stirring you cannot name unfolding deep within your middle. His extra set of hands fall to your hips and begin caressing the bones. Daintily, carefully, his warm fingertips slip just underneath the hem of your sweater, touching your bare flesh. A shiver runs down your entire body, leaving you to squirm.
“Be a good little comet,” he says softly, “Let me pour my gratitude all over you.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t know it was true,” you stare into his face, marked with a red crescent over a dark shadow, and his eyes pierce into the very nature of your being. “You’re back.”
“Because of you,” he rumbles softly in his chest. His grin pulls higher at the corners.
His claws slip over the nap of your neck and card gently into the small, sensitive hairs at the bottom of your skull. You breathe in. His eyes brighten in pleasure before he slips his sharp but controlled talons over the shells of your ears and follows the arch of your cheekbone. His gaze drops to your lips. Your heart thumps and thumps against your sternum so powerfully, you fear he may hear it.
His lips pull over his razor-sharp teeth and you stop breathing.
His other set of hands begins working up the sides of your torso. He rubs slowly and gently, but you squirm despite this. He touches you far too intimately when you have never experienced such affections before. A mewl escapes your lips. You wriggle as he refuses to relent. 
In answer, his upper hands lower and capture your hands together in one, and pin them above your head to hold you in place. He coos, chastising. A great roil starts in your stomach and expands upwards until your face becomes pink and flushed.
“Hold still, little comet,” he chuckles, and you whimper. “I’m not finished with showering you in all my adoration.”
“Eclipse,” your breath is harsh and hot.
“It is good to hear my name upon such lovely lips,” his voice lowers, husky and scorching. “I knew a virgin would light the candle. I swore it to my brothers as they set us on the gallows and draped nooses around our necks. You are our light, our savior. How could I ever thank you?”
In his words, his burning stare that singes with sincerity, it clicks into place. All at once, you believe what you are seeing with your own two eyes. 
It’s true. He’s back. He and his brothers have returned with magic.
“I have questions,” you say hesitantly in your demureness, “I want answers.”
“Of course,” Eclipse agrees easily. “But first…”
A dark claw brushes your hair back from your face. The flutter in your heart can’t seem to hold still. Eclipse’s grin widens and his eyes soften.
“You have freckles like constellations,” he murmurs in the manner of one gazing at the night sky or one studying an ornate painting.  
Before you can shape words to reply, to say anything that might free you from his grasp, his mouth is upon yours. A sound softly catches in the back of your throat. You fall still under his caressing hands still moving below your sweater. He traces the row of your ribs. You have just enough mind to wonder if he feels your skin prickle in your sensitivity. His other hand clasps your wrists tighter. You gasp against his teeth. 
He pulls gently, hungrily, taking you as if a bite of honeycomb. You become melted honey, easily malleable between his teeth and then molded by his mouth. His tongue invades you. You moan softly at the claim he lays upon you until you become weak in the knees and almost fall. His kiss seals your fate.
He releases you from his maw. You sink slightly, and his arms fall out from under your sweater to properly catch you. He lowers your wrists, returns your hands, and brushes your hair once more from your face.
A chuckle emits from his lips, and you burn.
“You’ll stay with us, won’t you?” he asks, but he waits for no answer as he scoops you into his arms. Feet dangling, you have no choice but to cling to his shoulders and endure his brothers’ attention as he twists around and faces them.
The rabbit’s right. You are in trouble. Michael warned you. He said curiosity killed the cat.
But charm brought it back.
337 notes · View notes
ellastone-olsen · 9 months ago
Note
can you write a smut story where reader had to wait the entire ceremony (Golden globes) before she could take the gorgeous dress off of Lizzie. And Lizzie’s been just teasing her so when they get home reader rips the dress and takes Lizzie please 🙏🏻 I love your writing <3
Wicked game | Elizabeth Olsen
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★Pairing: Elizabeth Olsen x fem!reader
Summary: your girlfriend has gone too far with her teasing. that's what it says in the request
★Warnings: SMUT 18+, teasing, dirty talk, overstimulation, sex toys, strap on usage, praise, aftercare, fluff
★Word count: 1.8k
★AN: I have some kind of creative block, but I'm alive. I spent 5 days on this little thing instead of the usual 1.
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The car slowly cut through the road, drifting between streams of the same iron boxes on wheels. The interior of the black SUV was spacious, but you and Elizabeth still sat shoulder to shoulder as the pad of your thumb stroked her knee through the fabric of snow-white dress. "Am I look good?" such a simple question with an obvious answer, but she still needed your confirmation. You cupped her cheek with your hand and turned her head towards you. “You are always beautiful my love” You give her a quick kiss on the lips and then look into her big green eyes. An idea just came into her sweet head, otherwise you can’t explain the sudden change in mood. She takes your hand and places it on her chest. “Then can you show me how much?”
A shiver runs down your spine and you nervously look at the driver's seat, noticing how the man is looking at you through the rearview mirror. As soon as your gazes intersect, he immediately turns his eyes back to the road. “Oh don’t worry dear, he will have to pay dearly if he spills the beans about what he saw.” Elizabeth whispers in your ear, you hope that by pay she means money. She moves your hand further, under her dress so that you touch her bare breasts and moans softly in your ear, making your core begin to pulsate. "Babe." You're warning her not to start something she can't finish. Her teeth bite your earlobe and you want to pull her away by hair, but you remember about styling. "Elizabeth." Your stern tone and the full form of her name still have an effect and she moves away. You don’t respond to her sweet smile, the car is just stopping.
The Golden Globes look spectacular, but boring. You are absolutely not interested in the speeches all these people make when they receive an award. People you don't know say words of gratitude to people you don't know again. The waiters obligingly drift back and forth, serving glasses of champagne and appetizers that are inedible to your taste. You just stand on the side and look around while your girlfriend talks to other celebrities or gives interviews. When you finally sit down in your seats, you cross your legs and lean back, unable to sit up straight. Elizabeth sits in such a way that the Queen of England would envy her if she were alive.
Time passes and you drink your second glass of champagne when it seems to you that something is touching your leg under the table. You don't pay attention to it until the action is repeated. The head turns to your girlfriend, but it looks like Robert Downey Jr.'s award ceremony is the most interesting thing she's ever seen. However, where her hands are says otherwise. Elizabeth's right hand triples on your thigh, red nails lightly scratching through the thin fabric of your pants, sending shivers down your spine. You stare at her, but the older woman doesn’t even think of turning her head. "Stop it." Your irritated, harsh whisper flies past her. As a sign from above, the bell rings, signaling a break, and without wasting any time, you grab Elizabeth’s hand and drag her away towards the toilets.
She sighs when she suddenly finds herself pressed against the wall, of course you can be rude, but first cover the back of her head with your hand so that she doesn’t get hurt from the blow. “What games are you playing today?” A hot whisper near her ear makes the woman hold her breath for a couple of seconds. Her answer doesn't keep you waiting. “But you like it, don’t you?” Elizabeth puts her hands on your waist, touching you through your thin shirt and tilting her head to leave small, light bites on your neck. “If you continue, I’ll push you into the toilet, lock the common door, bend you over the counter and...” You lose your breath from the stronger bite. “And what, dear?” The bell rings again, signaling everyone to return to their seats. You stand pressed against her for a few seconds, then push yourself off the wall with your hands and rub your neck where Elizabeth’s lips were, erasing non-existent traces of lipstick. The two of you go to your seats and no one seems to notice your disheveled state.
The ride home is quick and quiet, for two reasons. The older woman realized that you would ruin her for all her antics as soon as she set foot on the threshold of the house. She was in anticipation and silently looked out the window, imagining all the options for the development of events. The second reason is what you said to the poor driver when you got into the car. “You have 10 minutes to take us back, Elizabeth is terribly tired.” The black car brought you home in exactly 10 minutes. You gave the driver a tip for being in a hurry, even though it was not customary. When the front door closed behind you, what the older woman expected and desired happened. You grabbed her hand and quickly led her to your bedroom. When the door to the room closed, in one motion you threw Elizabeth onto her stomach on the plush blanket of your large bed.
Your hands pushed her hair back, exposing her slender neck so you could kiss and bite it. The woman's hips shot up, but you blocked the movement by straddling her. “If you think that you will get what you want quickly, don’t hope.” The zipper of the white dress was pulled down, almost breaking the zipper. Her dress and panties disappeared from her in record time, and you somehow managed not to tear them.
When you took a few steps back admiring the picture in front of you, your gaze caught on her wet shiny folds. She had definitely been looking forward to this all day. Elizabeth turned her head to the lack of action on your part to check the situation and saw you taking out from the nightstand the black compact vibrator that she loved so much. There were two scenarios in her head: either now she would get the best orgasm of her life, or she would die from overstimulation, but she really hoped for the first.
You returned to your girlfriend and moved her hips closer to the edge of the bed so that she rested her knees on the plush pile of the carpet and exposed her ass to your view. Your hands stroked her soft thighs, you couldn’t resist and leaned towards her dripping center to run your tongue along the entire length, tasting her. A shaky sigh escaped the woman's mouth above you and you repeated the action, gripping her hips even harder (there might be bruises there later). A mixture of pleasure and slight pain made her unconsciously lean back for closer contact. In what seemed like such a simple and innocent action, your palm landed on her ass with a loud slap. "No, no, don't you dare move." There was the first warning, which caused a groan of pain to escape from the older woman.
After you were satisfied with her taste, two fingers slipped inside her so easily, stretching the velvet walls. The second hand pressed the toy’s power button and you set the speed to medium, bringing it to her pulsating clit. "Hold it." Elizabeth reached underneath her and grabbed the silicone object, holding it in place. “If you disobey me, an even worse punishment will follow. You understood?" The older woman's mind was clouded with pleasure, but she hummed in agreement anyway. Her thoughts were confused by the way you moved inside her, pressing on a sensitive spot. Another slap to her ass. "Use your words." Her back arched and she was ready to swear that she would cum from such rough treatment. “Yes, I understand...please Y/N.” With every thrust, you felt her walls squeezing tighter around you. Elizabeth could no longer find words and shouted curses into the emptiness of your house. “Fuck...I'm going to cum...please can I?...” You cut her off. "No. Take it away."
She obediently removed the toy from her throbbing clit, stopping any stimulation. You were still moving inside her, but it wasn't enough to make her fall over the edge. “Oh fuck...fuck...so good...please can I continue?” You were silent for a minute before you gave her permission, making sure she didn't cum instantly. The woman's hips jumped as the stimulation began again. You pounded into her at a fast pace and after a couple of minutes you felt your orgasm approaching again. "Elizabeth stop." Oh how she didn’t like it when you called her by her full name, it never meant anything good. She put the toy away again and you pulled out.
The woman heard the chest of drawers open again behind her, the sounds of the harness, and then the cold tip of the faux cock pressed into her dripping entrance. You spread her natural lub along entire length and pushed the thick toy into her in one motion. Your girlfriend’s mouth opened in a silent scream, her hands grabbed the sheets as if they would tear them. "OH FUCK ." You returned her hand with the vibrator to the right place and pounding at her at a fast pace. “Do you like my cock baby? Mmm? Is this what you wanted all this time? So that I could fuck you like the whore?” Your dirty words turned her on even more. "Yes! Yes! Y/N can...can I cum?” She was ready to cry from overstimulation and you took pity on her. You leaned down to leave a kiss behind her ear and whispered. “Cum for me baby.”
Almost immediately, the woman fell over the edge, screaming your name mixed with curses into the softness of the mattress. You continued to fuck her through her orgasm until a small whine was heard from her. You pulled out and took off the strap, throwing it somewhere deep in the room, thinking that you would take care of it later.
Your arms grabbed Elizabeth and you helped her climb onto the bed, lying on her back. Her knees were red from standing on them for a long time and you gently rubbed the skin in the hope of relieving the pain. "My good girl, Lizzie." The lips began to pass everywhere you could reach, starting from the neck and ending with her cute tummy that you loved so much. When you looked up at her again, you noticed that the woman had begun to fall asleep.
“Baby, don’t sleep, you need to take off your makeup.” A hand covered her cheek and the pad of her thumb gently rubbed her cheekbone. “Mmmmm but I’m so tired, it can wait a couple of hours.” She mumbled sleepily. You gave in and covered her naked body with a plush blanket, setting the alarm for 3 hours. When the light in the room went out, Elizabeth had already fallen asleep and hugged you, breathing steadily into your neck.
Your fingers played with her blonde hair until you fell into the realm of Morpheus after her.
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