#what do you do when he’s gone and your hands are still bloody

[manicpixievixen]

Open arms

Jason todd x gn!reader one-shot

Warnings: None really, the reader is still referred to as smaller than Jason and wearing a 'small pajama set', but other than that, it can be read as any gender.

Summary: Another one of Redhoods visits to your place, and he was always welcome. You give Jason a little talk about what you are to each other.

Wc: 2.1k masterlist

Jason had been stopping by your apartment for so long you could barely pinpoint the day it'd started. Like clockwork at increasingly late hours of the night, he would climb in through a purposefully open window and make his way inside. Sometimes getting caught in the drapes and hoping you hadn't noticed him clumsily swatting them away like a cat with its claw stuck in the window screen.

The memory of how this routine started was almost blurry in your head. It was so normal now, expected even. You'd known Jason separately from redhood for a while. One night, he couldn’t be bothered to go home and change just to keep his alter ego in hiding. You'd freaked out at the supposed stranger in your house before he took off the mask. And then it just kept happening.

Tonight was no different. In fact, if he hadn't shown up, you would've been concerned considering his recent consistency.

He grumbled some obscenities at the curtains that had gotten caught around him once again with the help of a gust of wind from the open window. Then once he'd escaped he stared down at the welcome mat you'd placed under the window, an amused sigh escaping from under the deep red helmet that's so often hiding his face.

He guessed maybe you'd gotten tired of his boots dirtying the floor when he visited, but not tired of him.

He limped ever so slightly as he left his boots behind on the little mat you'd layed out, moving towards the couch and shedding his helmet and gloves once he got there. They were supposed to protect him, but his bloodied knuckles said otherwise. Later, it would make you question just how overboard he could get on anger alone. You'd supposed it wasn't quite a problem in your circumstance, Jason almost made too much of an effort to be gentle on your part. He settled into the couch, not feeling too ashamed to be the occasional freeloader.

You emerged from your bedroom, having heard him curse a couple of times on his way in. “You need somethin’?” You asked quietly, entering with a blanket still wrapped around you. Formal greetings were long gone between the two of you.

He looks up at you, eyes half lidded. “Food.” His tone is tired. He's happy to see your face, the first friendly one in a while. He wonders if eventually he might poison your sweet attitude towards him, just by being around you, like maybe you might realize he's horrible and broken and not so apologetic for his actions as red hood.

"Please?" You ask, wrapping your blanket tighter around you as you look at his pale blue eyes for a response. He smiles at your encouragement, muttering a quiet but gruff ‘please’

You left him to settle down, returning with a plate for him. Nothing special at this hour, a sandwich would do. "Thanks." He spoke, taking the plate from your hands and practically shoving half of the sandwich in his mouth, from what you could observe he hadn't eaten all day.

"No one's gonna take it from you Jay." he'd forgotten how long he'd been waiting to hear that nickname again.

Jason freezes, he mumbles something unintelligible with a full mouth, finally swallowing and clearing his throat before replying. "Yeah, well. You never know in this city."

You'd been settled beside him, picking up his red hood helmet and inspecting it. As he ate his food, you slipped it on yourself. At first, he was going to ask you to take it off, and he still might. But you looked oddly cute with it, accompanied by a small pajama set.

He visibly looked you up and down, placing the plate down on the coffee table. His usual frown had softened slightly along with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Cute.” He finally mumbles, quiet as his eyes wander before meeting your own again.

"Really?" You ask, sort of encouraging, as if to tell him,'say that again.' He rolled his eyes at that, but his softened frown turned into a smirk pretty quickly. He shifted on the couch, pulling you to sit on his lap. His larger frame easily engulfed your smaller one as he held you.

One of his hands slowly traced the curve of your hip, sneaking under the hem of your sleep shorts just a little bit. “Yeah, really.” his eyes showed he meant it.

You reached both hands up to pull the helmet off, messing up your hair a little when you did so. “Things fucking uncomfortable.” You discarded it on the opposite side of the couch, enjoying your spot in his lap.

His hand moved to your hair, attempting to untangle a few pieces, pushing them away from your face. It eventually turned into a gentle caress of your cheek. “you looked cute though.” He teased, holding your hips gently and helping you straddle his lap, legs on either side of his thighs.

"What are you doing Jason?" You hadn't asked it like you were oblivious to his intentions or innocent. Just a sort of reality check, you'd been teetering on the edge of friends with benefits for a while. You were okay with letting him come and wind down and feel safe. You wanted him to be okay, but it was going to be rough if you only ever saw him during these times. Especially if you started really seeing each other.

He slung an arm around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and keeping you in place on his lap. "What does it look like I'm doing?" He said above a soft whisper, but he couldn't possibly put your current situation into words. There wasn't ever going to be a good answer for what you had or would have with him.

"Blurring the lines?" You'd offered, even though you were absentmindedly doing the same, picking up his hand and running your fingers over his bruised and bloody knuckles.

He watched as your smaller hand held his own, his rough and battered knuckles meeting your soft skin. The contrast sent something through him, something he needed to feel more often. “maybe.” He mumbled in response. He'd tried to pull his hand away slowly. The feeling was nice, but something deeply rooted in his chest made him cringe at the way you were so soft on him, like he didn't need that treatment.

You'd noticed, telling him not to, by bringing that same hand up to your lips and leaving a soft kiss on each knuckle, your eyes not leaving his.

Jason swallowed hard at the continued soft feeling. There was a hint of something vulnerable in the usually stoic expression he wore. His lips parted slightly, trying to let out words that were caught in his throat, leaving an almost whimper in their place. He allowed his eyes to close for a second, his other hand gently exploring your thigh.

"Jay," you said quietly, as you dropped his hand and picked up the other, repeating the same actions. "You can come in here every night and blur the lines until there isn't any," you whispered, "but you better make some time to be something other than a visitor.” Jason's eyes moved with your lips as you spoke, tensing up underneath your warm body, his hand twitching at your careful touch. He swallowed again, his gaze continued to follow your lips, then back to your eyes.

His voice was a bit hoarse as he spoke. “I will.” His hands continued to rub up and down your thighs. You pushed yourself off of him. He'd almost let out a whine at the sudden lack of contact.

“go shower.” You mumbled, pressing your lips to his cheek. He sighed, reluctantly getting up.

“Bossy.” He mumbled in response, heading towards the bathroom, already pulling his shirt up as you relished in the sight of his muscular back. It was adorned in a couple of faded scars. You liked to trace your fingers over them in the darkness of your room.

"This is my house." You justified, beginning to walk back to your bedroom. You knew he would find you there when he was finished. He rolled his eyes even though you couldn't see it.

"Then maybe you should show some hospitality." He teased, his voice slightly muffled by the sound of the running water.

The hot water was no match for your soft touch, but it still felt soothing to his sore muscles. His mind, however, was still somewhat occupied with your earlier words, going back to the feeling of your lips against his knuckles and your weight on his lap, and how your thighs felt resting against his own.

He left the washroom with a pair of sweats on and his hair sending water droplets down his toned chest. Jason paused outside the bedroom door, his hand hovering over the handle for a brief moment before he slowly opened it. He could see your figure laying on the bed, still awake, a lamp casting the most flattering warm light across your skin.

You lifted the blanket up, patting the spot beside you. Most times, he would sleep on the couch or leave before morning. Because of course, the odd relationship between you two was complicated. Sure, he'd spent a few nights on and off in your room, only in times where the city streets had been truly horrible to him. But you'd offered… He took a few slow steps forward, approaching the bed and joining you under the covers, accepting your invitation.

"Much better." You told him, running a hand through his damp hair, you'd always loved the bleached streak amongst the dark waves. He let out a barely audible grumble, shivering involuntarily at the feeling of your fingers running through his hair. Jason shifted, turning to properly face you. One of his hands returning to his favourite spot on your hip.

"You gonna come over some time that isn't some odd hour of the night?" You asked, continuing the talk from earlier. "Maybe not leave before morning?”

Jason's grip on your hip tightened at the question, his eyes darting away for a brief moment before he looked at you again. His bottom lip caught between his teeth as he thought, shifting forward and resting against the crook of your neck, his lips gently pressing against your skin. "Maybe." He mumbled against your neck, almost as if to hide his face while his other hand continued tracing your body.

"I'm serious, Jay." You said, all but ignoring his hand grasping underneath your shirt."If this is all it's gonna be, it's not gonna be anything for much longer.”

His body shivered at those words, and he pushed himself farther into the crook of your neck, his breath fanning over your skin. He understood what you meant, and yet, admitting he did would make things so much more complicated. He liked the way you were with him now. He didn't need to change that. "I know." His words a whisper against the skin of your neck, his hand continuing to roam under the loose cotton of your sleep top.

"Next time I see you, better not be twelve at night in that goddamned mask." You said, holding onto his wrist, stopping his hand under your shirt so he would look at you.

He stilled again, letting you stop him. The beauty of your dynamic was the way he could rip his arm away in one action if he wanted to, but he would let you hold him down like this. He took in a sharp breath before sighing, lifting his head from your shoulder. His eyes met yours for the tenth time tonight. His blue stare held a guilty expression. "I'll try." He mumbled.

"You will." You agreed, dropping his wrist.

His eyes stayed locked onto yours, his expression still a mix of guilt and something foreign. He swallowed hard. "Promise." He whispered, his voice still hoarse. You nodded in acknowledgment at him, less serious now that the two of you had that talk.

His shoulders slumped, letting the tension of the discussion go. Easing upon seeing your approving nod. He very gently pulled your figure closer to him, muscular arms making contact with the small of your back. He rested his head on top of your own, burying his nose in your hair, taking in a now very recognizable scent.

It was his choice now, to return as Jason again. No red hood in sight. Through the door this time and not the window. You hadn't seen his old self in a long while. He knew either way he'd be welcomed with open arms, it was just a matter of what you were to each other.

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Pride and Fall

Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: K+ Genre: Angst, Friendship Characters: Demoman & Sniper Fic Description: A few months after the events of the comics, after a lost match in the middle of a violent rainstorm, Sniper's mind is abruptly elsewhere. Demo gathers what might be wrong, and steps in to help. Warnings: TF2-typical violence, references to past character death. Beta Readers: @mechmolar and @gonturan0 ILLUTRATOR: @doctor-phil!!! Check out the illustration here! Notes: This is for the @tf2bigbang! Finally participating in one of these! (Do you ever think about the fact that Sniper died in Demoman's arms? Because I think about the fact that Sniper died in Demoman's arms a lot.)

---~~~---

Well, ye win some, ye lose some, was all Demo could think when he heard the telltale sound of an enemy spy decloaking behind him. The knife striking into his spine was excruciating, but brief, and expected.

The water immediately dousing him upon respawn was not.

With a cry of disgust, which was echoed by several other mercs who had also gotten picked off during the humiliation round, he stumbled out from the rain that was pouring through a hole in the spawn room roof. "Bloody rain season," he grumbled, wiping himself off for all the good it would do.

Soldier, who had respawned with him, crossed his arms. "We may have tasted bitter defeat, men, but that will only make our next victory that much sweeter!"

In spite of the chilly weather, Demo couldn't help smiling at his friend. "Aye, not a bad thought." He turned to see what the others thought of the sentiment: Spy was leaning against the broken spawn door, not seeming to care, while Heavy shrugged and gave a nod.

And then he saw Sniper.

The man had stumbled out from the rain, but was staring blankly at the water around his ankles, his face pale. For a moment, Demo wondered if Sniper was sick, only to realize just why Sniper might react poorly to the water everywhere.

Frowning, Demo reached out, placing a hand on Sniper's shoulder. "Are ye all right, lad?" he whispered.

"M'fine," Sniper grunted, his voice tight.

The others were saying something about the Pyro, but Demo ignored them for the time being. He kept his hand on Sniper's shoulder, his stomach sinking. "The match is over, lad. We lost."

Sniper did not respond.

"Better get yer things," Demo went on. "Ye know BLU's gonna pitch a fit if we dawdle."

Again, no response.

Sighing, Demo wrapped his arm around Sniper's shoulders. "Come on, lad," he murmured, guiding Sniper toward the lockers. "Let's get yer stuff."

Thankfully Sniper was conscious enough to retrieve his wallet and keys, and was able to carry his weapons without much of a problem, but still he never said a word. His steps sloshed heavily through the water on the floor, and he nearly fell as Demo guided him down the stairs. The others had already gone on ahead (aside from Spy, for some reason, but he seemed to know what he was about, so Demo let him be), and Demo grimaced when they finally reached the ground floor and faced the thunderstorm outside.

"Think ye can make it back all right?" Demo asked.

Sniper blinked wearily from behind his glasses. "Respawn'll send us back to base soon," he mumbled.

"Aye, if you're sure about leavin' your van behind."

Growling, Sniper threw himself forward, trudging out into the rainstorm, only to stop again, staring blankly ahead.

"Stay with me, lad," Demo grunted, throwing an arm around him again and marching through the rain, forcing Sniper's legs to move with him. He glanced over at him—not something he could do subtly with Sniper on his blind side, but Sniper was in no state of mind to notice—and frowned at seeing his companion with a hand digging into his chest. "No bullets there, friend."

Up ahead, he could barely make out blurry red shapes heading out of the sawmill territory. So they weren't impossibly behind the others—not that Demo wouldn't have been able to find his way back if they were. It might've been nice to catch up, but he didn't trust that Sniper's gangling legs would be able to keep up at the moment, with the way they were struggling to maintain a basic walking speed.

As the path led them out through the gates and turned downward, Demo winced; the path was even more treacherous here, with the rain mingling with the dirt path to create slick mud on an inclined surface. It was made worse by the others who had already traversed it. Heavy's footprints in particular were deep—he must be having a time crossing this place—and Demo took care to avoid them when possible.

"How're ye holdin' up?" he asked, raising his voice over the torrent of rain.

Sniper muttered something Demo couldn't catch.

"Aye, cannae argue with that." Sighing, Demo squinted through the rain, holding out a hand to his forehead to shield his eye for a moment. "We'll be there soon. Just hang on—"

And as he spoke, Sniper's foot caught on one of Heavy's footprints, and he slipped out from under his arm, crashing into the muddy ground below and letting out a strangled gasp.

"Aw—!" A streak of curses hissed its way out of Demo's mouth as he stooped down, preparing to lift Sniper out of the mud. "Are ye all right?"

The fall had knocked Sniper's glasses askew; his eyes were wide and unseeing, his hand gripping the side of his chest, his breathing rapid. He made no sign of acknowledgment as Demo struggled to pull him up to his feet.

"C'mon, Mundy," Demo grunted. "On your feet!"

"Th-they got me," Sniper panted between gasps. "There's no respawn."

"Sure there is, ya campy weasel! Ye were just talkin' aboot it!"

Sniper's feet scrambled and kicked against the slippery mud, and Demo heaved a sigh. "All right, lad, ye asked for this." With that, he lifted Sniper off his feet and threw him over his shoulder. "I'll carry ye back tae yer van like a sack o' potatoes if I have to."

Unfortunately carrying a grown man over his shoulder didn't exactly make the trip back any easier, but he'd navigated worse roads when intoxicated. (Speaking of, that didn't sound like a bad idea, but it could wait for now.)

But the feeling of Sniper's weight against his shoulder in combination with the humid atmosphere and rain brought another problem—memories of a doomed, underwater country, flooding with water, which was slowly turning red around him, Sniper's weight growing heavier against his shoulder, in his arms.

A sudden fear seized him, and he frantically patted Sniper's back. "Are ye still with me?" he asked, voice shaking.

Sniper did not answer, but his rapid breathing was at least not slowing dangerously, and he was not growing heavier, so, there was that.

...Not to mention they'd both just come fresh off the respawn, so neither of them would be injured. Somehow the thought was not helping as much as it should have. Demo shook his head. "Keep it t'gether, Tavish," he grunted, and kept going.

It felt like far too long before he heard the rumble of a car engine, and peered through the rain to see Engie's truck rolling out of a covered area. With a sigh of relief, Demo hauled Sniper forward and into the partially hidden area where they'd parked their cars. Only two still remained: Spy's sports car, and Sniper's van. Demo heaved Sniper onto his feet. "All right, lad. Here we are."

Groaning, Sniper stumbled where he stood before raising his head to see his truck. "...'Preciate it, mate," he muttered, feeling over his chest again. "I... uh. M'sorry about that."

"S' all right. Are ye in a state ta drive, though?" Demo huffed out a laugh. "I'd offer tae m'self, but, uh..." He tapped the side of his eye patch.

"Nah, s'fine, I can manage." Already he was pulling open the door and climbing in, and Demo joined him on the passenger's side. Only when they were inside the van did Sniper seem to finally relax, sitting back against the driver's seat, rainwater dripping off of him. He took in a few deep breaths.

Demo grunted. "Ye make it look like yer the one who had to haul yer own lifeless lump through a bloody storm."

Sniper cracked a smile, shaking his head. "Thanks for that, though."

After taking a moment to calm himself, Sniper whipped out his keys and started up the engine. With the windshield wipers slashing in front of them, they eased their way out onto the road, which was easier said than done with the muddy state said road was in. For once, Sniper pulled his glasses up, leaning forward as he squinted over the steering wheel, while Demo subconsciously gripped the door of the car to keep steady. For several tense minutes the van lumbered down the slippery, hilly road, and neither of them spoke.

It wasn't until the road leveled out that Demo let out a breath. "Glad ye shook that off, mate," he said with a relieved laugh. "I dinnae think I'd've managed."

"I can drive in just about any weather. 'Cept for snow, anyway."

Demo hummed, nodding as he watched the world pass by through the window. The rain pounding on the roof and the rumbling of the engine nearly lulled him into a doze until he took another look at the Sniper. Now that they were in a somewhat safer situation, Sniper had put his glasses back on, and was sitting back against his chair again. But he was not relaxed; he stared straight ahead at the road, not in concentration, but with a faraway look, as though he were looking at a different scene entirely.

"Ye got two eyeballs, mate," Demo said, and Sniper jumped in his seat. "Keep at least one of 'em on the road."

"Sorry." Sniper shifted uncomfortably in the rain-soaked seat. He was at least focused now, but his shoulders were hunched.

It was certainly strange seeing the man so tense, given how relaxed he tended to be outside of battle. "Are ye sure yer all right?"

Feeling over his chest and side again, Sniper frowned. "I'm not bleeding."

"That don't answer the question."

Sighing, Sniper tipped his head back. "Ask me again once we're back. After we've got a couple drinks in me though, all right?"

Any other time, Demo might have brightened at the suggestion of getting a few drinks. But in this case...

Well. He hadn't exactly become an alcoholic for the fun of it.

Nodding grimly, Demo faced the road again, feeling far too awake to nod off to the sounds of the rain and the car motor. They spent the rest of the journey in silence.

Eventually the van turned into the hidden entrance of the base before pulling into the garage. When Demo raised a brow at Sniper, he only shrugged. "It'd only get stuck in the mud if I parked it outside."

"Makes sense," Demo murmured, stepping out and heading for the fridge. Sure enough, they still had some bottles of Cerveza Royale left over from their last celebration, and he grabbed a couple plus a bottle opener before following Sniper into the base.

It was oddly quiet for a post-match evening, but then, they didn't have much to celebrate tonight. Presumably Medic and Engineer had retreated to their lab and workshop respectively, Heavy was probably eating a post-match snack, and, judging by the sounds coming from the lounge and the phone, Scout was watching TV while Soldier was on the phone with Zhanna. The mess hall was empty, but it wasn't the most comfortable place to get smashed. As it was, Demo suggested they head into the rec room, where a few couches sat in one corner.

The two of them plopped down onto the cushion. After whipping out the bottle opener, Demo cracked the bottles open and handed one to Sniper.

"Cheers, mate," Demo said, and the two clunked their bottles together before taking a swig. But, looking over at Sniper, he frowned.

Sniper took several deep gulps before pulling the bottle away and heaved a sigh. He leaned back, his head tipped up to look at the ceiling.

Silence settled over them for a moment.

"So... did ye manage tae climb on the roof o' that sawmill?" Demo ventured.

"Sort of," Sniper replied. "Turns out it has an attic space, so I crawled up in there. Not a bad place for a nest. No one thinks t' look up that high."

"Aye, that's what makes sticky-jumpin' work, too."

"Was a good spot for a while," he went on. "Got a few good shots in... 'til we lost." And then he dipped his head.

Both of them knew it wasn't the loss that bothered him.

Demo frowned, a memory striking him. "Ah, the BLU sniper, was it?"

"Yeah. Second he realized where I was, he shot at me through the ceiling." Wincing, Sniper rubbed his leg. "But that didn't kill me. The ceiling collapsing did, though."

Letting out a low whistle, Demo shook his head. "Rough way t' go, mate." He took another swig of beer. "Hate t' say it, but ye looked like death warmed over once ye came out of spawn."

Sniper snorted humorlessly. "Heh. Death..." Throwing the bottle back, he drank deeply from it before staring down at it, watching the remaining liquid swirl around within. "D'you... d'you remember New Zealand?"

Demo grunted. "Not much. I was still shakin' off that moonshine ye dosed me with."

Nodding grimly, Sniper continued: "Well... we met my parents there—my rea—my birth parents. N' they... they both buggered off."

Something struck Demo, and he sat back, brow furrowed.

"The place was flooding, my dad took the sub, and... we saw lights comin' toward us, and I thought it was my dad comin' back, and..." He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "I see the Medic, grinning like a madman and standin' with all a' Gray's men, and—"

"They shot you," Demo finished, his gaze distant. "I remember that. Remember holdin' ye above water. Didn't strike me 'til I heard the bloody grays boastin' aboot killin' ye, that there was..."

"No respawn." Sniper's head hung. "Yeah."

"I tried t' get ye to stop bleedin', but... Mate, ye were so heavy. I think ye were a corpse by the time they bullied us onto the ship."

Sniper did not lift his head.

Demo continued to stare into the distance. "I... I thought I'd lost ye." After a pause, he he took a longer drink, and belched. "Might've gone a bit mad after that. Was a right mess, cryin' and cussin' out those..."

Brows raised, Sniper turned to face him. "You were... upset over me?"

"Of course!" Demo exclaimed, swinging out his arm, and Sniper flinched back to avoid inadvertently getting hit by the bottle. "It's one thing when you're fightin' every day, dyin' and comin' right back from it, but when it's permanent?" Shaking his head, he leaned in closer, looking Sniper in the eye. "Ye think I wouldn't?"

Sniper shook his head, leaning back. "I'd captured you, mate. I poisoned you. I had a—"

Demo belted out a laugh, cutting him off. "With some o' the best moonshine I've ever had injected in me veins!" He slapped himself on the knee, grinning. "Wouldn't mind if ye shared some o' that again!"

For once, Sniper cracked a smile, letting out a huff of amusement as he shook his head. It lasted only a moment. "Didn't think anyone cared that much."

Quieting down, Demo lowered his head. "Wasn't alone. When those gray scum pried me from yer corpse, I saw the others tryin' to hold Soldier n' his lady back. They were furious, n' Spy and Miss Pauling were right torn up. Couldn't say for sure aboot the Pyro, but the thing is… I don’t think… any of us knew we cared that much aboot you.” He turned, looking Sniper in the eye. “Not until we lost ye.”

Sniper's only response was to stare forward into the darkened room, swallowing.

"...'Course," Demo went on, "I've no doubt it was worse for ye." Sighing, he studied his own bottle. "No respawn, and ye must've been out for hours. Can't imagine."

Once again, Sniper was silent, turning slightly away, his lips pulled into a tight line. He opened his mouth, shut it, then downed the rest of his bottle before saying, quickly, "I saw my parents."

"Aye, lad, we all saw yer parents. Terrible people."

"No." Sniper's voice was thick. "Not them. My real parents."

The words swam around Demo's head, their meaning confused by more than the alcohol in his system. They sank in slowly. "Yer... real parents," he repeated slowly, then blinked. "Yer adopted parents?"

Sniper nodded. "My parents." Gritting his teeth, he clenched his free fist. "You don't gotta believe me, but I know what I—"

"Lad, lad," Demo said, a chuckle shaking his words. He clapped a hand over Sniper's shoulder, and the other man jumped. "We've seen plenty o' magic, now, an' we've been ta' Hell and back. What makes ye think I wouldn't believe the opposite exists?"

Shrugging feebly, Sniper shook his head. "Medic didn't."

"Bah!" Demo waved a dismissive hand. "What's he know aboot th' afterlife?"

After heaving a long sigh, Sniper leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "Point is... I saw them, there, up in the clouds... and we talked, and..." His grip around the empty bottle tightened, and his voice became a low growl, "Dad says... says he was proud of me."

Despite the alcohol, a tension settled over the two, growing tighter and tighter. Demo swallowed, then opened his mouth to speak, only for Sniper to sit bolt upright and slam his empty bottle against the floor, shattering it.

"Bloody wanker!" he snarled. "Couldn't've said it when he was here! Couldn't've said it when we were both alive! All those years, yellin' at me over the phone, goin' on about how much he hates my job, my life choices, and now he tells me? Now? When I'm not gonna bloody see him again until—?!"

His voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, storming into the dark room.

Stammering, Demo stood up, setting aside his beer and wobbling after him. It would be hard enough to see with two eyes, but Demo had to take extra care not to bump into any of the equipment in the room, keeping a hand out in front of himself. He lost track of Sniper, and cried out when his outstretched hand collided with the side of the wrestling ring. He pulled his hand away, shaking the pain out of it, when a sound caught his ear—a faint sniff. Frowning, he headed toward the noise, and finally spotted the dim form of Sniper hunched over the pool table. He was quiet.

Demo crept closer, placing a hand on Sniper's back. He was trembling.

"Now, lad," Demo said, his voice soft. "C'mon, now."

Sniper's breathing hitched, and Demo wrapped his arm around him. To his surprise, Sniper did not pull away, but leaned into him as his shoulders shook.

As Demo held him, old memories arose—memories of standing at a funeral for two parents, throat torn by the apology he'd never be able to voice. Then came the memory of another funeral, for another parent—one as equally displeased with him as his living mother.

What were any of them saying on the other side? Did they accept his unspoken apology? Were they voicing the pride for him that they'd never expressed in life?

He cast a glance at Sniper, who was fighting a losing battle with tears against his side, and decided it was better not to know.

As Sniper's trembling began to calm, Demo rubbed his back. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'm proud of ye. And I won't wait 'til we're at no pearly gates to tell ye."

Sniper let out a snort, and Demo imagined a shaky smile crossing his face. "Thanks, mate."

"Anytime, lad."

[cowboyx2]

- on desperately wanting to be better but never quite reaching it (miya osamu)

Unknown | User @/stllbejeweled | Miya Osamu s4 | Chantal Akerman, from My Mother Laughs (2013) tr. Daniella Shreir | Fathers by Jose Olivarez | User @/inanotheruniverse | miya twins s4 x2 | thanksgiving 2006 by ocean vuong | normal people by sally rooney | Unknown

[joonieskinks]

I’m just imagining Simon who happens to stumble upon your roommate ad.

Of course, he thinks he’d be a perfect candidate. He’s clean, minimal and of course, gone most of the time. He’d still pay, he’s good mannered, quiet- he would absolutely be good for this pretty girl whose profile picture on his phone he can’t stop looking at.

He just wants you to be comfortable with someone like him, with someone who looks like him- but when he meets you, all those fears go out the window. You’re kind, so warm and open to him. You’re receptive and he’s so unnerved by it. You’re not what he was expecting at all, but he’s so in love with you right from the get go.

It makes leaving for missions so much harder. Especially on nights like tonight when you’ve made dinner for two, you’re looking absolutely gorgeous in your pajamas, you’re smiling sweetly at him. Bloody hell, the things he would do to you if had the chance-

It doesn’t really click with him until this moment that he actually can do something about it. In his head, he’s conjured you up to be so out of reach and untouchable. But that’s not true at all, it’s just a fear that he’ll overstep. However at this point, the night before he goes, it feels now or never. He supposes he can always move out if it doesn’t work, he’s just got to know.

“Simon? You okay?” You ask gently, taking your apron off and hanging it back up on the pantry door.

He gets up from the table and heads straight for you. You stand there in shock as he removes his mask, he takes your hips into his grasp and pins you against the door.

His forehead meets yours and he closes his eyes, inhaling your scent and enjoying this moment being so close to you. Your hands automatically latch onto this shirt, toying with the fabric, eyes moving to admire his face, his lips.

“…want you.” Simon murmurs out, his mind is reeling and he wants needs to feel you on him, to have you at least for tonight. At least to try. He just needs you to reciprocate, show him some kind of sign you want this too.

“Please”. You beg and just like that he springs into action. His lips latching onto yours, he’s shoving his leg between your own and you’re writhing against him and the door. Your hands in his blonde hair, exploring his chest, you go until you run out of air. He’s digging his thumbs into your hips, cherishing this moment and heavens above - you feel so good on his body, better than he could have fathomed.

Simon ends up making quick work, bringing you to your bedroom where he lays you down, his body on top. Grinding into you, his mouth never leaving yours, your neck, your breasts. He then moves to take off the remainder of your clothes, making his way down your body. Gently removing your panties and kissing your inner thighs, the scruff of his slight beard making your skin tingle.

He laps at your folds, his tongue circling your bud, his fingers deep within you. You cum around him and he’s in awe at the sight, your back arching in pleasure, mouth open. You glance down at him and he’s smirking, it makes him feel good to know he made you come undone like this, that you’re all his.

“You’ve got me all night, love. There will be plenty more of this when I get back.”

[bi-writes]

can't stop thinking about dark!simon with a sunshine!curvy!fem!reader, it's gnawing at my brain. (18+)

greeting him when he comes home in a little apron with dough smeared across your cheeks. you're bouncing in the kitchen, giggling as you wrap your arms around his neck. one burly arm hooks around your waist as he palms one side of your ass, and you kiss his lips over his blood-soaked mask again and again as you coo, "missed you so much, made you chocolate chip..."

you talk and talk and talk and talk. you're always talking. you're always whispering in his ear and chattering as he drives and telling him some story about something he missed while he was gone as you tidy up the flat. you never stop talking, never run out of things to tell him, and despite the monotone voice and the lack of response, he hears every single word that you say, and he forgets nothing. when he makes his way back on base, johnny is waiting, eager to hear an update about the receptionist at your work and if she is actually sleeping with your manager.

you wash his clothes without even blinking. you're at the sink, a bucket of cold, suddy water there as you scrub at his shirt. there's peroxide at the side, and you use a delicate hand as you scrub at the stains on it. ghost watches from the doorway as you hum to yourself, in a little pair of shorts with your hair tied up as you rinse the shirt clean. blood runs down the drain, and his shirt is clean as new.

you always find some kind of weapon around the house. you bend down to brush crumbs off the kitchen chairs, and you scold simon with a glossy pout because he left a bloody knife taped under the table. you whine when you find a grenade sitting in the same drawer you keep your tampons in. you complain when you take out the jar of rice to make dinner, and there's a small handgun hidden between the grains. but your face always softens when he cups your cheeks with two big hands, kissing you warmly, muttering, "gotta keep y'safe, luvvie...know there's a bloody line waitin' for a taste of y'r cunny, baby."

you visit him on base once in light wash denim and a white tshirt, sneakers hitting the linoleum and purse swinging as you wave at him. he's standing in front of a line of privates, watching them do jumping jacks, and his eyes light up a little when he sees you waving at him enthusiastically. when he finally makes it to you, he shoves you into the nearest supply closet and tugs your jeans down just enough to fit his cock between your thighs. when he's walking you out, the boys watch as you cling to simon's arm, a lovesick grin on your sweaty face as you flutter your lashes up at him.

he loves when your manicured hands touch him. scratching along his scalp, tracing the edge of his jaw, cupping the bulge in his pants. you're so sweet, the most giggly girl, and he loves tasting the strawberry of your gloss as you make him cum with your hand, cooing against his lips about how strong he is, how much you love him, how you would do anything for him.

he loves it most when you see him for what he really is. when he comes home battered and bruised, bloody clothes sticking to him, a snarl to his voice and the adrenaline of an op still pumping through his veins. he loves that nothing about him scares you. that even like this, you lean up on your toes and kiss him softly, that you get some of the blood and dirt smudges on the pink of your pajama pants, and you don't care, that he strangled a man with these very hands only hours ago, and you still want him to touch you.

he loves that you love him. that when he feeds his cock into you that night, in nothing but your baby pink lingerie, that you barely need any prep at all from how wet you are. thick thighs spreading apart, sticky slick shining on your skin, cunt nice and ready for him because you have missed him that much. he loves that no matter how ugly he feels, you always find him attractive, that no matter how many people he tells you that he killed tonight, all you do is smile and pucker your lips, and tell him, "it's okay, teddy bear, they deserved it, didn't they?" and yeah, they did, cause it is kill or be killed, and there is no universe where ghost does not fight to get back here, to get back to this pretty pussy, to get back to the bed he shares with you so he can watch those pretty tits bounce every time he fucks his cock into you.

ghost loves his pretty girl. all smiles. all soft, so cute, just perfect. ghost casts a shadow over the room, and you just brighten it right back up. ghost tracks blood into the house, and there you are to cover it all up with citrus and soap.

yeah. always just sunshine and smiles at home.

[eufezco]

BIRDS OF A FEATHER༄

the tva erased you from your timeline when logan died, you've been living in the void since then.

angst + fluff. no use of y/n. english isn't my first language (!)

you couldn't take your eyes off them.

you were at the table sitting next to logan, on his other side was laura. he held wade's dog while she played with it and you couldn't take your eyes off them. you couldn't believe it. you had to pinch yourself a few times to confirm that you weren't dreaming.

you thought you'd never see a scene like that ever again. the two of them together. how many times you had looked at the sky and cursed the universe for not giving the three of you more time?

when your logan died, the time variance authority decided that the sacred timeline didn't need you anymore so they erased you and sent you to the void. you preferred it that way, you didn't want to live in a timeline in which he was gone but you were also angry because they didn't have to drag little laura to that place with you.

you didn't remember how much time you spent in the void but seeing how laura had grown into a woman, you guessed that it had been a long time since you left your timeline.

when you got to that place, she was just a child. scared, angry, who had just lost the most important person in her life. and you were just the same, except that you were not a child and you had to take care of both of you. no matter how much you wanted to die, you had to stay alive for laura. but also for logan, for the way you both cried and held his bloody hands while he died and for not letting her be what they made her for.

and no matter how strong your mutations were, you didn't know how long you would have lasted there if it hadn't been for elektra, johnny, blade, and gambit. they found you when you were escaping from alioth and let you into their hideout. they explained to you how things worked there and eventually, they allowed you to stay with them.

until one day you walked into that same hiding place, and there he was, drinking gambit's alcohol and wearing a yellow spandex suit. you felt your heart beating so hard that it seemed to be fighting to get out and reach him. you brought a hand to your chest to feel it. it had gone so long without beating that way that sometimes you thought you left it buried with him in your timeline.

logan also felt his heartbeat accelerate but he quickly took his eyes off of you and drank a long sip from the bottle. he wasn't alone, a deadpool was with him, you recognized the suit, they were quite popular in the void. he shook his hands and gave little jumps of excitement. you looked at him confused, did you know each other?

—of course, you are here! there's no you without logan and there's no logan without you! do you know how hard it's been to find a proper wolverine? there are so many fucking timelines without one because you died! —deadpool exclaimed when he saw you. —and this one is not even a proper wolverine! you know they call him the worst logan? and he won't tell me why they call him that, can you believe it?—deadpool acted offended, you didn't know what to say. —wait... —he turned to look at logan. —was there a she in your timeline? i didn't get to meet her, they're usually nicer than you.

logan ignored the question and simply drank from the bottle again as he stormed out of your hideout.

he avoided you as much as he could. he did not look you in the eyes, he did not address you when he spoke. how could he? the last time logan saw you, your lifeless body was piled up next to scott's. shame consumed him even at the thought of just approaching you. his hands trembled, a knot formed in his stomach, his pulse quickened.

you came over to talk to him that same night.

logan was sitting in front of the campfire, alone, with a bottle of liquor in his hand. how many had he drunk? he saw you approaching and tried to convince you that he wanted to be alone but you still sat next to him.

—what was i like?

logan took a long sip of alcohol when you asked. he said nothing, just stared into the fire, so you decided to take the turn. —you were grumpy, i guess that doesn't change in any of your variants, and you wouldn't have worn that yellow spandex suit in a thousand years.

he looked at you with a frown when you said that. the same way your logan would have looked at you. you continued talking. —you were stubborn, never asked for help, and you were tired all the fucking time because you worked your ass off to get us out of the shitty place we were living in.

he stared at you in silence while you talked. the person you were describing definitely sounded like a version of him.

—you always said that i didn't need to wait up for you but i know you liked it when you came home late at night and i was there and i know you hated the way i folded your shirts but you never said anything because you knew i didn't know how to do it any other way.

you felt a lump forming in your throat. you turned your head, hiding your face from logan so he couldn't see how you used your thumb to wipe away the tear rolling down your cheek. —but you were so brave, and caring, and i loved you with all my heart. you always looked after me even when you were fucking dying with each passing day.

by the tone in your voice and how well you remembered every detail, he guessed that your logan was suddenly taken away from you. oh, he knew that feeling so well.

you were about to get up and leave, you didn't want to bother him anymore and you had already overshared enough with him, when all of a sudden, he started talking.

—you were the sweetest. fuck, i never knew why you were with me. i always thought you deserved better, but there was no way to get you off my ass —. he closed his eyes and shook his head. —and i tried, i tried to push you away and get you to find a guy who deserved you, but there was no way. and i didn't really want you to do it because i was so fucking in love with you.

logan drank from the bottle, trying to let the alcohol sliding down his throat drag with it the tears forming in his eyes. —you liked to read in the garden of the mansion on sunny days and when it rained you'd open my bedroom window to listen to the rain and get into my bed while i was sleeping so i could keep you warm.

there was silence as logan took another sip, almost finishing all the alcohol. —and i left you to fucking die.

the worst logan. at that moment you understood why he was called that, you didn't him to explain it. wade said that in all the timelines he had visited, there was no you without logan and there was no logan without you.

however, in his timeline there was logan but there wasn't you.

he was called the worst logan because he was doomed to live in his timeline without you.

you grabbed the bottle from his hands and drank the alcohol left. —yeah, i couldn't save you either.

you kept each other company that night. most of the time in silence, watching the fire consume the wood, other times you commented on the situation, you talked about cassandra nova, the people you had met there in the void, he even asked you about laura. and at the end of the night, you were sitting next to him with your head resting on his shoulder and him watching you sleep peacefully.

the next morning you headed off to fight cassandra nova. you knew that logan would end up joining you, it was in his nature.

you and laura managed to remove the helmet from juggernaut's head and you ran to give it to wade. when cassandra opened the portal using strange's ring you were there, you could've left with wade and logan, but you couldn't leave laura there. cassandra's allies had pulled themselves together and she was struggling to fight back.

before you went to help her and logan jumped into the portal, he wrapped one of his big arms around your waist and pulled you into a kiss. you rested your hands against his chest and closed your eyes, enjoying those few seconds of your lips pressed together.

—oh, fuck. seriously now? i know how important fan service is for marvel but we literally have a chance to get the fuck out of here—. wade complained.

—i'll get you out. you and the kid, i promise i won't leave you here —. he said as he started walking backward towards the portal. you nodded, if there was one thing you were sure of, it was that no wolverine in the multiverse would break a promise.

and just as you were right about all wolverines being grumpy, you were right about that too. agents from the time variance authority went into the void to get you and laura that same day and now you were having dinner with him, laura, wade, and his family.

you couldn't take your eyes off him.

he had the same look in his eyes. that little sparkle in his deep brown eyes. he was happy, smiling as he played with the dog and laura, calm knowing that you were by his side. you looked away from him when he caught you staring.

—what is it?

you shook your head and pressed your lips together, showing him a little smile. —nothing.

—come on, spit it out.

—it's just... i feel i could fall in love with every version of you.

logan nodded slowly, his eyes were now fixed on yours. —i've had the same feeling.

wade, who was distracted with vanessa but not enough to not be paying attention to your conversation, decided to intervene. —oh honey, wait until you meet the crucified one. you will want to take that back.

you and logan looked at each other confused.

[knightjpg]

Brick by Brick

You have his favourite tea on hand. You ask him what he'd like for dinner this weekend. One time you opened the door for him within seconds of buzzing, like you'd been as eager for his visit as he was.  And maybe most devastating of all: you routinely start making too much food for even Simon to finish. 

tags: 🔞construction worker simon/neighbour reader, unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), size kink, brief mention of simon's childhood abuse

part 1 | part 2

After that things shift, just a little. You still sit with Simon while he works, handing him tools he teaches you the names of; still try to convince him to get pay for his work around the house. 

But you have his favourite tea on hand. You ask him what he'd like for dinner this weekend. One time you opened the door for him within seconds of buzzing, like you'd been as eager for his visit as he was. 

And maybe most devastating of all: you routinely start making too much food for even Simon to finish. 

“Thought you might want some leftovers for lunch,” you tell him, holding out two tupperware boxes. “If you're working those long hours you have to eat right, you know?” 

When Simon opens them at home, just before tucking them away in his work bag for tomorrow, his chest clenches. It's not just leftovers. There's dried beef jerky, a pack of crackers that go well with coffee, and a fist-sized chunk of banana bread. And— 

A little note. 

His heart hammers against his chest when he unfolds it. It's nearly dark out, crickets chirping soft and low somewhere beneath the window. The only sound in his kitchen is the ticking of a clock. 

Good luck today! Don't work too hard :)  

“Christ,” he mumbles, fingers tracing over the ink. Pretty. Like you. Like every fucking thing you do. 

Summer is nearing its end, and Simon is running out of excuses. Part of him feels proud to see the house shape up to the best it can be, but over the months the boxes have nearly all disappeared. He knows—has helped you unpack God knows how many books. Helped you put together a new bookcase, even. 

But if he's no longer useful, what's keeping you from closing your door on him? Dread rises sharp and fast in Simon's throat when he thinks about a dark, cold home waiting for him as his only company. He passes your door on the way home, more often than not sees your silhouette against the warm light of your window. Illuminating the hard dirty edges of him.  

You've started feeding him, this big mean watchdog, and he might choke on his leash if you stop now. 

“Hello, what is that?”   

Simon sharply yanks his lunch away from Johnny's grabby paws.  

“None f’your business.” 

“Is that bloody banana bread? You've got to be fuckin’ me.” 

“That's homemade,” Kyle says unhelpfully from just behind Simon's shoulder. 

“Piss off,” Simon grumbles. 

Johnny does not, of course, piss off. Instead he grins, cheeky and wide. “Didn't know y’had a bird, Simon.” 

“Fuck,” Kyle groans. “Is that roast beef? That smells so good. Where'd you get this?” 

Johnny snorts. “More like who's he blackmailin'.” 

Simon glowers at Johnny, then says through a mouthful, “My girl.” 

If there'd been any hope of them dropping it, it's gone now. Simon realises his mistake as soon the words leave his mouth and Kyle and Johnny light up.  

They're incessant. Dog him at every opportunity—who is she? What's her name? What's she look like? Show us a photo, Simon, dinnae be so selfish. 

Simon suffers it for a week until he slams his gloves on Price's table and threatens someone's going to end up in the cement mixer by the end of the day if he doesn't do something about it. 

They quiet down after that, though they can't help but ask after you every now and then—even Price, who despite his congratulatory shoulder clap admits he wishes he had a sweet thing of his own. 

And the lunches keep going. As do the notes, every one of which Simon keeps carefully tucked away in a box at home. He didn't find one last night, and he suppresses the wave of disappointment. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you were just tired, and maybe he's grown too comfortable with your casual affection. 

So when a little piece of paper that was stuck to the bottom of the lid flutters onto the ground the next day Simon is unprepared. The two seconds of surprise cost him—Johnny dives after it like a hawk and scoops it before it's barely touched the concrete. 

“You little shit—” 

Simon's at him immediately, and Johnny, delighted by what he thinks is a funny fucking little game, twists and dodges while fumbling the note open with one hand. 

“Looking forward to dinner tonight. Be safe today,” Johnny reads before Simon snatches it from him with a hard shove to his head. “Aww, Simon, you lucky shite. C’mon, give us one o’ those cookies, aye? If you're goin’ home to a candle lit dinner.” 

“Get your own cookies,” Simon huffs, and curls one arm around his tupperware protectively while he eats. 

Looking forward.   

So is he. 

- 

“Simon!” 

Simon whips his head around and catches you stepping out of your car with a wave. You've arrived home just after him today, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees your dress flutter prettily around your legs. 

You're dressed up all nice today—must've been at university, then. Simon doesn't know which he likes better: the shorts you wear at home or the glimpse of cleavage he gets when you wear a nice work blouse. 

His dick throbs when he holds his own hand up in greeting, hanging back just to get those few extra seconds with you.  

He's not sure why today is especially bad. Probably doesn't help that every time he jacks off in the shower you're the one he thinks of, imaging your pretty lips wrapped around his cock. It's hard to resist the indulgence after a long hard day of sweating and laying brick, then coming home and only getting to look, not touch. He doesn't want to stain you with his filth, but what's he supposed to do? He wants you. 

And his desire has sat festering in the confines of his rib cage for months. It curls his hands in tight fists so he doesn't reach for you by accident the way he does in his dreams, keeps him from leaning in to taste your lips to see if they're as sweet as your cobbler pies. 

“Alright?” he asks when you get closer. You feel off, distant, and when you nod it feels like it's more for his sake than for the truth of it. 

“Yeah. Um.” You adjust the strap of the bag on your shoulder, shifting on your feet. “I wanted to let you know I can't do dinner tomorrow. I'm, um, I have a date, so...” 

The spin of the world stutters for a second.  

Simon sucks in a quiet breath. “That so.” 

“Yeah.” You look up at him with a sad little smile. Not the kind of face you'd expect from someone who just scored a date, but Simon is too wrapped up in his misery to notice. “How was your day?” 

Normal. Unsuspecting. Good, even, until you told him some twat is taking you out to dinner.  

“Fine,” he hears himself say. Adds, “Watchin’ a match tonight.”  

An excuse—an out for both of you. You won't have to feel obligated to ask him if he'd like to come ‘round for a meal, and he won't have to pretend he doesn't feel like throwing up. 

“Go Manchester,” you reply with a smile. 

Just like Simon, they don't score. 

- 

He waits up for you. It's pathetic, really—that of all things this is what gets him to dig around for a pack of smokes. Been mostly clean ever since you moved in next to him, his half-hearted attempts to quit finally mounting up to something with real resolve. 

He doesn't want to taste nicotine when he eats your meals. 

Even threw out his lighter. Which means when he finds a crushed, dust-caked pack with only one cigarette in it behind his couch he has to light it with a match and shaky hands. 

It tastes awful. But it's familiar, and sometimes he craves the burn even when he sees his dad putting out his own cigs on Simon's legs behind his eyelids. 

The evening grows colder around him, late summer skies tinted with dark purples and blues. It's quiet in the neighbourhood. He's the only one out this late—everyone else has retreated to the comfort of their homes, ready to turn in for the night. 

It should feel peaceful, but all Simon feels is anxious and on edge. Not even the smoke calms his nerves. 

Should he back off, leave you to the happiness you deserve? Throw everything away in one last shot, ask to take you out like he's wanted to forever? 

Words are no good, but he's tried so desperately to show you that he'd do just about anything if you asked. To let you know that underneath his gruff silences he doesn't bite the hand that feeds him and that he'd rip anyone else to shreds for raising a finger against you. 

Simon's head lifts when his ears pick up the rumbling of a car. Is it...? 

It is. 

Lamplight flashes over the cobbled street, and then the rumble of the engine turns off with a click. 

You're alone—thank God. Simon doesn't know what he would've done if you'd taken your date home. 

You look worn out, and not the happy kind after a successful lay. Just tired—to the point where you almost don't notice him and jump when you do. You take a startled step back from his hulking silhouette leaning against the stone little fence curling around all the houses along the street you share, before pausing and asking in a soft voice: 

“Simon?” 

And because he's a masochist he asks, “Y’have fun?” 

He expects a yes. At best a non-committal shrug—at worst an enthusiastic smile. But you look down at your shoes, chew your lip, and say, “No.” A breath. “No. It was awful. He was a twat, and he tried to feel me up under the table, and he's been hounding me at university for months, and I got so sick of it I just said yes but now I'm going to have to email HR and ugh—!”  

Your voice breaks on the last sentence and you sniffle, turning your face away from Simon so you can give it a quick wipe with the back of your hand. 

He's up on his feet in an instant, trying to take slow breaths so he doesn't act on the overwhelming urge to hunt down the wankstain and crush his fingers so he can never fucking touch you again. Your dog bites without warning or remorse, and everything in him wants to show your sad excuse of a date just how sharp his teeth are. 

But he can't. You're hurting, and that's more important than breaking some bloke's nose. 

And so Simon tries for softness as much as he's capable of it, large scarred hand hesitantly landing on your shoulder. It's all the coaxing you need to lean into his touch, and when Simon shifts a little closer your head falls on his shoulder. He burns with a different kind of fire. 

“Sorry,” you sniffle. “I'm okay, I really am, it was just such a—such a—” 

“S’alright,” Simon rasps. He pets your hair and strokes your back with a clumsy touch, unsure of how far he should, can, is allowed to go. “Y’should've called me. Would've come t’pick you up, maybe sock him a new one.”  

He'd do more than that if you'd let him. He'd take you home and made sure the only time you cried was when he worked his fat cock inside you. 

Christ, he's going to hell. 

“I didn't want to bother you,” you say in a small voice. 

“Sweetheart. You're never botherin’ me.” You let out a shaky sigh, and Simon tucks your head under his chin a little more securely. “Woulda made sure y’got home safe.” 

It's quiet, then, save for the sound of a car driving away somewhere down the road. Simon doesn't say anything else. He doesn't want to break the spell that you're under. You feel so soft in his arms, his sweet bird, finally come home to where you belong. 

“I kept wishing it was you.” Your voice is so soft he almost doesn't catch it, but before he can process it you pull yourself out of his embrace, cursing under your breath. “Sorry. Sorry—forget I said that. I'm... I'm gonna go home.” 

Simon's hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. You stare at him with big wet eyes that has the pit of his stomach swoop low. 

“Y’wish it was me?” 

His voice is low and rough, strained with want. 

Your cheeks burn and you avert your eyes, though you don't pull your hand away. “Sorry. Ignore me, I'm just...” 

“I'll take you,” Simon says a little too quickly. “Anywhere you wanna go. Dinner. Movies.” He pauses, trying to remember what people do for fun. “The library.” 

There. You hiccup a little laugh, finally, and the beginnings of a smile tug at your mouth. 

“The library?” 

Simon smiles a little, too. “Anywhere you want,” he repeats. Even the fucking library. 

Your gaze drops to your hands, and you carefully turn your palm against his. “I think I'd like that.” 

Simon swallows and lets his fingers intertwine with yours. “Yeah?” 

“I don't really care where we go, though. If it's with you.” 

Jesus bloody Christ. 

“Okay,” Simon says, voice tight. “Alright. We'll—we'll figure it out. We'll go somewhere.” A breeze hits you as he says it, and you shiver. “...Right now let's just get you home.” 

You nod, the fatigue overtaking your features again. Simon walks you all the way to your door, squints against the night sensor he installed himself. 

You hover in the doorway before opening your mouth, closing it, then take a small step forward to rise on your toes. Simon's heartbeat kicks up under your hand where you steady yourself on his chest, and then he feels your lips press against his cheek. It's his bad one, the one with the nasty scar from a bar fight long ago. 

“Thanks,” you say softly. 

“Yeah,” he manages, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “’Course.” 

The door closes with a soft click.  

- 

When you mention wanting to hike out on a trail nearby Simon, true to his word, makes it happen. It's not so bloody hot anymore and it's nice, hearing the birds chirp overhead. Nice to exist in a world where everything is washed in shades of mottled green, hearing the dirt crunch under his feet.  

It relaxes him. Makes his muscles untense. You promised him a picnic at the end of the trail, and to Simon's delight he succeeds in coaxing you to feed him bites of your homemade sandwiches in the midst of tall grass and meadow flowers. 

When you get home, sweat and sun lingering on your skin, Simon has full intentions of dropping you off at your doorstep and wishing you a good night. Maybe get another kiss if he's lucky. 

And he does—but you linger, soft lips hovering over his cheek. His fingers curl and uncurl against his sides, waiting and wondering. 

“Please kiss me?” you breathe on his skin, and that's all it takes. 

He surprises himself with the intensity of it, but fucking hell, he's wanted you for so long. His shoulders hunch, neck bent low, and he slots his mouth over yours. Your little fingers grab at his shirt for balance, and he pushes you against your doorframe. Every time he pulls away you make a small noise of protest and chase his lips, and though Simon hasn't had a drop of alcohol today he feels well on his way to hammered. 

“Do you want to—please come inside—?” 

Simon groans and rests his forehead against yours. Fuck. “I want to—want t’do this right,” he rasps. 

You exhale with a shaky breath. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes glittering like stars. Simon's stomach lurches at seeing you want him. “Right, um. Of course. I just—I've thought about... about you. For a—a really long timmf—” 

Simon groans into your mouth. He cups your cheeks, one hand sliding to hold you at the back of your neck. A sweat breaks out along his spine when he imagines you at night, in your bedroom, fucking yourself with your little fingers. Whimpering his name... 

“Yeah? Y’want me to take you to bed, sweetheart?” he murmurs, and you shiver. 

The two of you barely make it past the door until Simon is stealing the breath from your lungs again. He's wanted this for so long it's a little hard to stop, even if it's to break apart for air. Miraculously you seem to want it as much as he does, seem as desperate for his touch as he is for yours. 

When has anyone wanted him this bad? When has he ever felt like he'd die on the spot if he didn't get inside you right the fuck now? 

He doesn't need to ask you where the bedroom is. This place has felt his touch almost as much as yours, has shaped up into a cosy little home that is part of him, too. Like he wants to be part of you. 

Simon simply scoops you up and carries you straight to bed, forgetting to be gentle when he deposits on the mattress. His head is buzzing, his heart is thundering, and he needs you now.  

Fortunately you don't seem to mind much. Your hands immediately fly to his belt, tug at the metal impatiently, then fumble with his zipper with trembling hands. Simon pulls your top over your head, throws it somewhere on the floor without a care followed by his own. 

“Lie back,” he husks, and makes quick work of your trousers. Pauses just for a second to take in the growing wet patch of your panties. 

“Simon,” you whine softly. 

He drops to his knees and slides his large hands over your thighs, transfixed. He smooths over the goosebumps on your legs, presses a kiss to your knee. 

“Want me t’take these off?” he rasps, snapping the band of your panties. You lift your hips in silent assent. Simon helps you shimmy off your underwear and suppresses a moan when a string of sticky arousal clings to the fabric—then follows it right to the source. 

You gasp when he kisses your folds before gently spreading them with big warm fingers. “Sweet little cunt,” Simon mutters, and then he goes to town. 

He starts with slow, wet licks, feeling out what you like and what's too much. He keeps it light for a while just to feel you squirm and to hear your breathing turn ragged, then backs off just when your knees start trembling. He smiles when you whimper his name with a desperate little “please". 

“Such good manners.” His breath washes over your clit, and your hips try to twitch away from him. “Proper sweetheart, yeah?” 

It's great fun, playing with you, but his cock is throbbing painfully and he's leaking everywhere, and he very much intends for you to end the night feeling so blissed out you let him sleep next to you. 

So Simon hoists you closer, hooks your thighs over his shoulder, and sucks on your clit until you're sobbing his name. He holds your hips down by splaying one big hand over your stomach because you're a sensitive little thing, bucking away from him when he's not nearly done with you yet.  

It's cute, seeing you lose yourself to the pleasure. It's also really fucking hot. Simon slowly pushes one finger in you and groans when you clench around him. 

“Simon,” you whimper. “Oh, please, please—” 

Such a good girl, begging without him telling you to. Simon crooks his finger, and your next breath is a stutter of moans before your whole body tenses and you cum on his tongue. 

Simon hums approvingly, keeping his motions slow and steady so you ride it out all the way. When you whine and wriggle away from him he lets up, wiping at your slick covering his chin. 

Best meal you've cooked him by far. 

“Oh,” you sigh. “That was... Give me—give me a minute...” 

Simon chuckles and rises from his knees to crawl over you and steal a kiss. “Feelin’ good, princess?” 

“Princess—” you let out a breathless laugh, but even in the low light of your nightstand lamp Simon sees the colour rise in your cheeks. Liked that, did you? You blink up at him, a sweet satisfied smile on your lips. “Mhm. So good. Come here?” 

Your hands trail over his sides, stroke over the light hair trailing down his stomach. Simon shudders when your knuckles brush over his cock and he shucks off his trousers further to give you better access. 

When you wrap your hand around him he drops his head into the crook of your shoulder and moans. The twitch of his hips is involuntary, too desperate to chase his pleasure to stay put. 

“Next time,” you whisper while pulling him forward, spreading your legs wider to fit around his hips, “I want to feel you in my mouth.” 

“Jesus,” he groans. It takes everything in him to not just slide in. “We need a condom?” 

“I'm clean,” you murmur against his jaw. “On birth control. If you want we can—” 

“Fuck yeah I do,” Simon says, and you laugh. Soft eyes when your hands slide over his shoulders, brush through the short hair on his neck. Simon watches your face while he lines himself up without blinking, and he's rewarded with the flutter of your eyelashes, the parting of your soft lips. 

Your brows scrunch together at the first few inches, and he kisses you sweetly to make you relax. Simon knows he's not small, and he groans when you clench around him. 

“Good girl,” he whispers against your hair. “Good girl. Just like that, yeah? Takin’ it real well. Just like that.” 

He slides in a little deeper. You shiver and mewl and beg him for more, and he gives it to you. Anything you want.  

“Simon,” you whimper. “Feels so—oh, you feel so good. More, please, please—?” 

Simon brushes the hair from your forehead, keeping his thrusts long and slow and making sure to kiss your cervix each time, just because your breath stutters so prettily every time he does. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, you're so—such a tight little cunt. Couldn't wait any longer, could you? Jus’ had to have me?” 

You nod immediately and empathically, eyes glassy with arousal. You try to answer him, but the only thing you manage are airy moans that sound like his name. 

That's alright. Don't need to talk. He knows what you want to say; he feels the same. Simon catches you in a messy kiss while lacing his fingers with yours. Yours. Mine.  

He shoves his free hand between your two bodies and finds your clit, circling it until he's found the right rhythm that has tears gathering in your eyes. He could live on that for the rest of his life, of hearing you mindlessly stuttering his name while your body tenses up and your head drops back and those pretty lips part in a choked moan— 

“Christ,” Simon grits through his teeth, sweat dampening his brow. Your cunt flutters around him, soft little flower in full bloom that, with another thrust or two, has him falling apart as well. 

Both of you moan at the feeling of his cum spurting hot and thick in your waiting womb. Simon rocks against you slowly to make sure you get every last drop—birth control or not. 

He kisses you on the comedown. You melt into his touch, butter and honey, running your fingers through his hair until Simon shifts you around so you're curled up against him. 

In another minute he'll get up and get you a washcloth before tucking you in and kissing your bare shoulders. He'll wrap himself around you before sleep takes you, make sure that he's the last thing you see and hear and touch. 

For now he lets himself bask in the present. In having a sweet little bird clinging to him for comfort and giving him more than he could ever ask for in return. 

Simon doesn't think you quite realise what you've gotten yourself into, in giving this big ugly watchdog your affection. He's not a king or a prince; not even a knight, not like the ones you read so much about. Simon wouldn't exactly call himself chivalrous or genteel. 

But he's just as devoted and twice as vicious. He'll belong to you, and you to him, and from the moment he saw you he was oath-bound. 

He'll have to steal a ring or two to measure which size is right. It'll take some work to knock down the walls between your two houses, but he'll ask the lads for help. Simon knows you'll win them over right away if you cook dinner or bake them something sweet. 

And maybe in time he'll have to try his own hand at baking. He always did want to put a bun in the oven, and Simon just knows that if you're the one to do it with him— 

It'll come out perfect. 

[peachesofteal]

Light on - single mom/neighbor fic Simon Riley/female reader Prompt: Protective Simon. For the beautiful and talented @lethalchiralium

Simon’s phone is ringing. 

Price raises an eyebrow from the end of the table, pausing mid-sentence, confused. Simon’s phone never rings. It’s always on full volume, because he never gets phone calls, except for ones from the 141, and they’re all here. At this briefing.  

His fingers find the ringer, ready to silence what he’s sure is a nuisance call, some telemarketer or robot, when he reads your name across the screen. 

You’ve never called him before. Unease tightens across his chest, and without any explanation, he excuses himself from the room and the bewildered looks being cast his way. 

“Hey, you-“

“Simon?” You sound off. Like you’re trying to be calm, but there’s something lingering on the edge of your voice, something scared. His spine goes stiff. 

It’s enough to propel him into action, his fist thumping against the window of the brief room, jerking his head south. I’m leaving, the motion signifies. Emergency.

“What’s wrong?” 

“N-nothing. Just… there’s this guy that’s been like, half a block behind me since I got off the train.” He closes his eyes. The fucking train. He wants you to stop taking the train. He needs you to stop taking the train. 

“He followed you from the platform?” 

“Well, he could be walking this way too…” 

“Where are you?” His keys are already in his hand, and he’s running down the hallway, past bewildered administrative staff and everyone else, bursting through the back door and into the truck. His phone chimes with multiple text messages, Price, Johnny, Gaz. All wondering where the hell he ran off to. Only Johnny’s text scratches the surface: Is it your neighbor? He waits another second in silence, hoping you’re trying to get your bearings. “Sweetheart?” 

“I’m… I think we’re coming up on seventh and Warsail. ‘m not too sure. I’ve kind been walking in a roundabout way.” We’re coming up on seventh… we. 

The baby is with you. 

His foot slams the accelerator onto the floor, counting his breaths as he maneuvers each turn in the road. Do you have the stroller? Are you carrying her? Did this guy peg you as an easy target because he knows what Simon knows, that women are more likely to go along with instruction if their child is threatened? That you’d never leave Emmaline behind? That you’d do anything to protect her? 

He feels sick. 

“Are there other people around?” He’s calm on the phone, trying to visualize the street, the buildings, the alleys. Easy spots where cars could reach the highway in seconds, and then be gone. Cramped alleys that connect to others like tangled webs, able to swallow a human being easy, disappear them into the darkness. It makes his stomach turn over. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel so hard; it hurts.

“Yeah, it’s close to the end of the day, so-“ 

“Stay where others can see you. Are you sure you’re on seventh and Warsail?” 

“Yeah. We’re in that park. I-I… wanted to take Emma to see the ducks.” Your voice wavers. “Simon he’s still behind us.” He’s turning the corner now, a block from your cross streets, and instead of yielding for oncoming traffic like he should, he floors it through an intersection, abandoning the truck still on, half parked in an empty street spot.  “Stay where you are, sweetheart. Okay? I’m coming.” 

“You… wait, what? You’re what?” He doesn’t hang up, but keeps the phone against his ear, and takes off down the street in a sprint, fully subscribed to the worst-case scenarios that have been building in his mind, images of you and Emmaline bloody and bruised, or worse. He gets them confused for a moment, memories mixing with the present, two things swirling together until they become indistinguishable, noise and panic roaring too loudly in his head. 

It all comes screeching to a stop. 

He spots you in the park. You do have the stroller, and you’re by the little pond, headphones in, Emmaline in your arms, her little beanie pulled down over her ears. You’re glancing around, nervous, saying his name into the mic. He scans the rest of the faces, passing over anyone who doesn’t strike him as a creepy git, until he finds his target: a skinny, younger guy lurking on the edge of the fence line, watching you. He hangs up the phone and moves across the park involuntarily, rolling his shoulders, and he vaguely sees you from the corner of his eye, mouth dropped open in shock, faintly calling his name. 

“Hey, mate. C’mere.” He shouts, half the people in the vicinity startling in his direction. Everyone seems to move away, like a magnetic force, pulsing outwards as he overtakes the guy with an easy grab to his upper arm. “You like stalking women with babies?” He hisses in his ear, voice low with barely contained rage. The guy is younger than him, but rail thin, and coked out. Probably looking for money. Simon jerks him closer, and he actually yells for help, like he’s a victim. It’s enough to ground the situation, making Simon realize he has an audience, and he grits out a final warning before shoving him away. “I ever see you around my girls again… I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Piss off.” 

“What did he say?” You’re frantic, rubbing Emmaline’s back in a circular pattern, over and over like you’re trying to calm her, even though she’s perfectly content. It’s you who needs soothing, he realizes, and he takes your hand without questioning it, letting his instincts guide him in regard to you without overthinking it. 

“He was high, love. Looking for money.” He doesn’t want to scare you but… he doesn’t despise the idea of instilling some hypervigilance. Maybe this will convince you not to take the train. 

“Oh my god.” 

“Think I scared him off for good though.” He looks around, and then slips off his mask, wide thumb stroking a soft touch on Emma’s cheek before giving you a gentle squeeze. “It’s alright now.” You visibly relax, but don’t let go of his hand, tilting your face up to his, all bright and beautiful, still coming down from the adrenaline of your fear with a whisper on your lips, meant for only him to hear. 

“Our hero.”

[heavenbarnes]

Thinking of being Ghost's fiance and making invite the 141 over for dinner to finally meet them and he begrudgingly accepts because anything to make u happy and they're still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that he's engaged

mmm omg your mind 🫶🏼

finally getting older bf!simon to have the 141 around your dinner was the equivalent of pulling teeth.

come to think, pulling teeth would’ve been easier.

“well fuck me for wanting to meet the people the man i’m marrying spends 90% of his time with”

“sweet’art y’know i don’t like bringing work ‘ome”

then you’d gone and put your hands on your hips with just one (1) eyebrow raised-

and the lads were knocking at his fucking door.

“gidday- don’t fuckin’ start w’me”

“some bloody way to greet y’guests, big man”

as he corralled all their snide little remarks about “didnae know ye’ owned a nice shirt” everyone managed to find their best behaviour upon your appearance.

it might’ve had something to do with the stunned silence.

when he’d begrudgingly invited them, they’d all been in a little bit of shock- first of all, ghost had a fiancé? second of all, ghost is letting us into his home?

then it all round off with, third of all-

ghost’s fiancé was a fucking looker, that’s for sure.

sweet, nice, bloody easy on the eyes- how the hell had he managed that?

you were just happy to meet the closest things to friends that simon had.

price took lead by drawing you into a hug, thanking you for your hospitality. followed closely by a sweet talking gaz who was already making your cheeks warm with his manners.

naturally, johnny had to chime in with some stupid little-

“nae wonder L.t disnae want us knowing about ye’, i’d keep ye’ all t’maself too”

he’s too slow to avoid simon’s flat palm coming up the side of his head, but it doesn’t dissuade him much.

he’s peachy fucking keen to meet you.

simon eats his tea with a tense jaw, rolling his eyes every time someone makes you laugh a little too long, tells another ‘embarrassing’ story about him.

he also keeps his palm firmly on your knee, nervous twitch of a thumb running circles over your skin.

when you pop out to the kitchen to fix dessert, they’re on him like starved dogs.

“all this time and not so much as a bloody photo?”

“kinda’ photos i’m gettin’ aren’t f’you lots eyes”

johnny nearly falls out of his seat.

you can hear them whispering all the way from the kitchen, for a bunch of SAS guys- they’re not very subtle.

simon’s got one ear on the shit chatter coming from his team and the other on the kitchen, waiting for the slightest sign that he might be able to join you.

it comes- in the form of a gasp from you followed by “ow fuck”

simon’s out of his seat like a bullet.

“what’s wrong- what ‘ave y’done?”

you know the 141 are watching, doesn’t take a genius to see the way they’re all craning their necks around the kitchen doorframe.

“i’m fine, si- just a little burn from the pan”

“lemme’ see, gimme’ y’hand”

so the 141 see their ghost, unshakeable mountain of a man- a face they never see-

and they see his face, and they see genuine fear on it.

they see simon.

your simon.

“i’m telling you it’s fine, si”

“i’ll make that call, alright”

and they’re all looking at each other across the table, trying to decide whether to be impressed or even a little jealous- they’re leaning towards jealous.

so instead they settle on taking the absolute piss out of him.

not that he minds-

before you could even reach your chair he was pulling you into his lap- having you eat dessert perched on his thigh.

as you settle back into his chest, you could swear you feel him laugh.

that hand settles back on your knee again but there aren’t nervous circles anymore.

more like gentle squeezes.

your simon.

right at home.

[priniya]

˗ˏ` EMOTIONS! 🍵 ´ˎ˗

pairing. theodore nott x reader

summary. theo never handled his emotions right, and when his girlfriend shows up in a wrong moment, things escalate and theodore doesn’t know how to fix it.

THEO HAS BEEN A TICKING BOMB LATELY and you knew that. it’s been bothering you, but every time you tried talking some senses into him, he brushed it all off, saying something too stupid and reckless for you to hear, so the topic was dropped sooner than it was brought up.

it was one of those times again, when a recurring thought was planted into your brain that you didn’t know your boyfriend like you thought you would. theodore hasn’t been himself lately, which made you worry tons. he’s been smoking much more and getting into fights more often as well as getting into trouble with the teachers, losing the points for your house, which… well, you didn’t care that much about it. what you cared for was theo’s wellbeing.

since it’s been a christmas break, you had gone home to spend time with your family, which meant your contant with theo was limited to a few letters that he was doing somewhat fine, yet you’ve been smart enough to know that spending christmas with his father and grandfather could never make him feel fine, not even a little bit. it was the breaking point in you that you’ve decided it’s the end of brushing you off.

“riddle, berkshire – out.” you barged into the dorm, glaring at your boyfriend’s dormmates, causing the first one to groan in annoyance.

“jesus, can’t be in your own room anymore.” mattheo rolled his eyes at you, yet he knew it was coming, so he dragged his ass up, patting theo’s back. “good luck with that one, nott.” he muttered before leaving the room with lorenzo, who just sent you a sympathetic smile.

theo, on the other hand, just glanced at you for a second, knitting his eyebrows together. “what do you want, l/n?” he asked, his nose still burried in between pages of a book you gave him for christmas.

“oh, last name basis, al–fucking–right.” you grumbled, grabbing the book away from his hands, your body trembling with fury. you hadn’t had a proper conversation in over two weeks, yet he couldn’t bring himself to be a decent man towards you. “what’s going on with you, nott?”

“get off my dick, y/n, really.” he rolled his eyes, expression matching the one his roommate had a few moments earlier. “i don’t have fucking time for this shit.” theo added, clearly agitated.

“well, you want it — you have it, i’m not getting on your dick anytime soon.” your voice was thick with emotion as the mention of celibacy earning you a look. “i know something’s going on. i know that, because i’m your girlfriend and i care about you. just trust–” you started, but the sentence wasn’t meant to be finished, because nott cut you off.

“then don’t. merlin, i don’t need a fucking babysitter, hoovering over my ass all the time. you’re not my bloody therapist, l/n. i don’t fucking need you to stick your nose into my business 24/7.” theodore stood up, his nose almost brushing yours before you took a step back, startled at the sudden outburst. “and sex? don’t amuse me, for merlin’s sake. i could leave the dorm right now and find someone to bone if i wanted to.” his tone was harsh, while his words were like knives thrown at you as a reward for being a caring girlfriend.

your boyfriend looked at his knuckles, his gaze focusing on the ring as he begun to take it off, making your pupils widen. “go. give it to someone who’s gonna be crazy enough to put up with your obsession about emotions. i’m not doing that anymore.” he muttered, pushing the ring into your palm.

“fine.” was the only thing that came to your mind after his words. your body continued to tremble and at this point, you couldn’t have been sure if it was your annoyance or broken heart that he just broke up with you. “just keep your promise and stay away from me. maybe join the death eaters too, for all i care, you’ll fit in perfectly.” with that, you left his dorm, slamming the door behind you as you fought with tears flowing down your cheeks.

“troubles in paradise?” mattheo grinned at you playfully, not noticing your tears-stained face as you were storming through the common room to the exit of the room.

“go fuck yourself, riddle.”

it wasn’t even five minutes later, when mattheo entered his shared dorm, his expression utterly confused as his mind was doing its best to connect the dots. “what’s with that gal of yours?” he asked theo, plopping down onto his bed, lightning up a cigarette right after.

“she’s not my gal anymore.” nott mumbled in response, almost untouched by the entire thing that just happened and that took his best friend by surprise.

“what do you mean she’s not your gal anymore?” he asked, his frown deepening. “lad, don’t tell me she broke up with you, you love this girl to death.” riddle added, scanning his friend’s face for any sign of uneasiness or a clue to understand all of it.

“i broke up with her.” theo replied with a shrug.

“merlin, man, why?” mattheo asked another question, this time being left without an answer as nott shut the curtains of his bed, putting on a silence spell.

IGNORING THEODORE ALL WEEK HAS BEEN EASY as you weren’t in the same year as him. you’ve been grovelling inside about the break-up, but from what your mother had always told you, when you were younger, you remembered that all the teenage boys were shitty and you couldn’t — by any means — let him know how much hurt you were. ignoring him was easy, all because, in your eyes, he didn’t even take any effort to show you remorse for what happened, from what you’ve known, he didn’t even look at you once.

the worst part of loving theodore nott was not being able to brush off all the concerns and worries that lived rent free in your mind, whenever you’ve noticed him walking through the hallways. nevertheless, he didn’t want you to care about him at all, so that was what you were planning on doing. kept your head high and your feet steady on the ground.

what you didn’t know, was that it wasn’t pride that made him keep his eyes away from you, but guilt. from the moment he woke up the day following your argument, his organism was flooded with guilt and shame to the point, where he couldn’t look at himself in the mirror.

he fucked everything up just like his father always told him that he would. he broke the promise he’d made to himself that he wouldn’t drive you away, wouldn’t hurt you like his father hurt his mom, yet he did. you were the only person in his world that made him feel like a normal human being, one, who could love and be loved, but he had to ruin it all, because his pride wouldn’t let him to open up to you.

it’s been already a week since the biggest mistake of his life, as he called it, and theo’s entire body hurt. he was popping pills with blaise like candies, because sobriety and consciousness made everything worse. he couldn’t stop thinking about you — about your expression, when he broke things off with you, the hurt in your eyes and the way you were holding yourself after that.

people, not close enough to you, might’ve been fooled by the facade you’ve built around you, though not theo. he’d known you for years prior to your relationship, he’d seen you both happy and miserable and now? now, you were beyond miserable. you might’ve kept your head high with the biggest smile on your face, but he’s known. he always would — whether you wanted him to or not.

quidditch practices were the worst, all because you were always there, yet never watching him. it wasn’t even up to you to be there and theo was certain of it. you were there, so your best friend wouldn’t have to sit through an entire practice alone, while she watched lorenzo with starstruck expression all the fucking time.

“lad, you have to apologise to her, sort it out.” enzo sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “aoife’s worried about her. ‘m not really surprised, though, she started smoking weed on daily-basis again. aoif’s saying she can’t remember, when she saw her sober for the last time, but it’s better than bawling her eyes out over some asshole, aoif’s words, not mine.” having a friend, who was also somehow close to you and your best friend was a blessing in disguise. lorenzo kept him updated, not leaving out all the insults aoife lynch threw at him for breaking her best friend’s heart.

a loud sigh left theo’s lips as he leaned over the table, his forehead falling onto the wooden surface as he let out a groan. “i don’t even know what to do, enzo.”

“my suggestion? get your shit together.” mattheo chimed in, a playful grin on his face. “i mean it, theo. the gal of yours keeps showing up to my spot and i can’t deal with her tears anymore. get your shit together and fix it.”

“the problem is, matt, i don’t know how.”

the opportunity, although being totally… stupid, occurred at the end of another week during a game with hufflepuffs. theo’s entered another stage of grief and has been going around the school angry at everything. so, when the game came, he was playing rougher than usually, because he needed an outlet to the built-up anger.

of course, you’ve noticed. how couldn’t you? you’ve been keeping an eye on him for the entire two weeks. despite your promise to aoife, you couldn’t let it go. no matter who he was, your boyfriend, a friend, a stranger or an enemy, you couldn’t stop worrying about him and doing your best to look out for him. so… when he was forcefully pushed off his broom by diggory, you were running down the stairs before he even hit the ground. you needed to be beside him or it would kill you.

he was unconcious for almost two more days, making it a sixteen days without hearing his voice and you were going crazy, spending every single second, occupying the tabletop placed next to his bed. his hands in between yours as you kept it close to you. did he deeply pained you with his words? yes. would you let him be alone in the hospital wing? of course not.

“y/n/n.” he whispered suddenly, his voice breaking. “i’m so sorry.” nott let out and you weren’t sure if it was some kind of sleep talking or your delusions leading you on. “i’m so sorry, baby.” he repeated his words with a term of endearment, squeezing your hand weakly.

“theodore…” your words hitched in your throat as you moved the hair aside from his forehead. “don’t think about it now.” you whispered in a coy manner. “it doesn’t matter.”

“i can’t.” he coughed out. “i can’t stop thinking about it. about you. i’ve acted like a dick, but i didn’t mean it. you’re my world, baby, i’m so, so sorry. you were right all this time, i build up my emotions inside of me and let it get the best of me in the worst moment. i’m so sorry i hurt you, i swear i hate myself for—” he continued his rambling, slowly opening his eyes to have a look at you.

“hey, teddy, please, don’t think about it now.” you pleaded, still holding his hand. your thumb caressing his palm. “just rest, okay? please. we’ll talk about once you’re well-rested and out of here.” your voice was gentle.

he shifted in his hospital bed, hissing as his ribcage hurt immensely. “no, cara, please.” he muttered, bringing his lips to your palm. “listen, i can’t get over what i told you. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” he whispered.

“teddy…” you started, but he cut you off.

“no. i’m sorry i said all those things to you, you didn’t deserve all the shit i gave you.” he let out a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “you need to hit me. for all the pain and suffering. oh god, and the tears. you should just kill me at this point.” theo muttered, and honestly? he did deserve the beating for what he’s done, but the three days of unconsciousness due being knocked off the broom, you could let it go. it could be his fate share of beating.

“just shut up, will you?” you sighed, planting a tender kiss on his lips. “we’re fine.”

[theosbaby]

sundress

theodore nott x fem!reader

masterlist

summary; you wear a new sundress to your date with theo, knowing that he loves them on you, and he cannot resist the temptation.

warnings; google translated italian, dom!theo, sub!reader, SMUT without a plot, public sex, praising, pet names, lots of kissing and groping, choking, neck grabbing, hair pulling, fingering, heavy dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink... overall, pure filth.

author's note; english isn't my first language, so you might find mistakes. "helping hand" has reached over a 1.000 notes, TYSM! i'm so happy! hope you enjoy this 🤍

you were trying to hold back your playful giggles as theo pushed you inside the three broomsticks bathroom, his large hand covering your mouth to muffle your cute little laugh so that the rest of customers didn't hear you both sneaking into the ladies restroom.

'what had brought you two there?' you might be wondering... well, that's actually a really short story.

as every saturday, theo and you were in hogsmeade, having a date. it was may, the weather was warm and the sun was shining in the sky, so you had decided to put on a new sundress that your mother had bought you for your birthday a few weeks ago —knowing that theo loved seeing you in that kind of clothing.

the dress was white, with a flared skirt and a corseted body which ended in a low and flattering neckline. it made your body look stunning and theo had almost gone crazy when he saw you earlier; the soft fabric hugging your curves, bringing out the light tan of your skin... he had been literally drooling over you the entire date, and now, he couldn't hold back anymore: he needed to fuck you.

and he couldn't wait until you both were back at hogwarts.

he kicked the bathroom door shut behind you both while peppering kisses along your slender neck, gently sucking and biting your skin to mark you all over; at the same time, his hands groped your body almost desperately.

"you look so fucking beautiful today," theo whispered in your ear.

he tugged at your earlobe between his lips before turning you around to push you against the sink and you hissed when your body hit the cold hard marble kind of roughly.

you chuckled, tilting your head to the side to kiss his cheek as you tangled your fingers in his light brown curls, his hands grasping at your slim waist.

"just today?" you whispered back teasingly, looking up at him with a smirk on your red painted lips.

he chuckled lowly, pressing himself against you as he slipped his hands underneath the hem of your dress to run his hands over the smooth skin of your legs slowly, pulling the fabric up just enough to expose a sliver of bare thigh.

"always beautiful, but today... fuck," he muttered, nuzzling his nose against yours; the smell of his cologne filled your nostrils, making you feel light-headed, "this bloody dress is driving me fucking crazy, cara mia."

"i knew you'd love it..." you couldn't help but giggle against his lips, giving gim a chaste peck before pulling back slightly. "i put in on just for you," you murmured, kissing his neck softly; your red lipstick left a faint stain on his flesh.

theodore smirked, his hands sliding up your thighs to cup your bare ass through the laced fabric of your panties.

"you're a fucking tease, do you know that?" he groaned before leaning in to claim your crimson lips in a scorching kiss.

your eyes fluttered shut, your body melting into his arms at the intimate contact, which made you gasp against his eager mouth. your lips brushed together in a mind-blowing dance while you ran your fingers through his soft hair absentmindedly.

theo broke the kiss just a moment later only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin as his fingers worked to lift your dress higher up, until it was pooling around your waist, his body still pinning you against the sink.

"i need you," he whispered in your ear, his voice thick with desire, "need to fuck you so badly, principessa."

you gasped once again when he pressed his hardening cock against your pelvis, grinding against you in slow motions. you grasped at the sink countertop, your head falling back as he placed wet kisses all the way down to your cleavage.

theo groaned at the sight of your perfect breasts almost spilling out of the neckline of your dress and his hand cupped one of them through the thin fabric, squeezing it tenderly.

"sei bellisima, amore mio," he muttered in italian, his lips pressing against yours hungrily once again. (you're beautiful, my love)

you whimpered into the kiss, feeling your wetness start to pool around in your panties as his thumb toyed with your perky nipple over your clothes until it hardened; your shuddered in his arms.

"theo, please," you stuttered into his lips, words coming out as broken sobs.

theo broke the kiss, his eyes darkening with lust as he looked down at you while his other hand slipped between your legs. his fingers traced along the damp fabric of your panties, feeling how wet you were for him.

"merlin... you're fucking soaked, principessa," he growled, his fingers teasingly brushing against your clit.

you moaned at his action, but quickly nipped at your plump bottom lip to try and hold back any sound that may escape your mouth, not wanting anyone outside the bathroom to hear you... though the thrill of getting caught was indeed turning you on.

theo withdrew his hand and kneeled in front of you, fingers gripping at the waistband of your panties to slid them down your legs while he peppered wet kisses all over your belly and hip bones, slowly moving down.

"we have to make this quick, bella," he whispered, placing one last kiss at your smooth mound as he looked up at you with those deep set eyes of his. "but i promise i'll eat your pretty little pussy later on, yeah?"

the smirk he gave you while he stood up made you weak on your knees. he pulled you into a kiss, hands groping at your thighs and ass cheeks avidly as he practically devoured your mouth —at that point, your red lipstick was smudged all over your faces. he grabbed your wrist to guide your hand towards his crotch and you palmed him delicately, feeling his hard dick twitch at your touch.

theo groaned against your lips, breath hitching in his throat. his hand released your wrist and slid between your legs once more, this time slipping two digits inside of you, gently stretching your tight hole.

"fuck... so wet for me," he whispered against your mouth, teeth tugging at your already swollen bottom lip. "you're fucking dripping onto my fingers, principessa."

his free hand wrapped around your neck, choking you lightly while he moved his digits in and out of you in scissor motions to prepare you for his cock. you gasped for air, letting out a needy cry as you worked to unfasten his belt with shaky hands.

"need your cock, theo... please," you breathed out, cheeks flushed.

theo's hand released your neck, his fingers withdrawing from your pussy to help you slide his pants and boxers down; his throbbing cock sprung free, standing tall against his flat stomach, and your mouth watered at the sight. after that, he grabbed your hips, turning your around and pushing you forward until you were bent over the countertop.

"keep your eyes on me, amore mio," he commanded, his voice rough.

he grasped your hair, tugging at it to pull your head back until your eyes met his on the mirror. his rough grip made you whine and you writhed when you felt the tip of his cock brushing along your slick folds, teasing you.

"theo, please," you whimpered desperately.

he positioned the head of his cock at your entrance, slowly pushing inside while his free hand found purchase at your hip. he groaned loudly, the feeling of your tight heat welcoming him nearly overwhelming.

"so big, oh merlin," you whined at the stretch, letting out a little cry that echoed through the bathroom.

"oh fuck... I love being inside you," he murmured, his eyes piercing yours through the mirror. "che piccola figa così stretta... all fucking mine," he grunted, starting to pound into you. (such a tight little pussy)

you reached to cover your mouth with one of your hands, your palm muting the moans that inevitably left your lips when he began to fuck you against the sink roughly. your other hand gripped at his thigh, your nails digging into his flesh, and you couldn't help but close your eyes tightly, face contorted in pleasure.

he released your hair and his fingers curled around your throat instead, applying light pressure as he groaned; his digits dug into your skin, leaving bright red fingerprints on it.

"look at me while i fuck you," he ordered, forcing you to open your glazed eyes and look at him through the mirror.

his grip tightened on your throat as he slammed his hips against your ass, his cock buried balls deep inside your cunt and hitting all the right spots within you. the mirror reflected his flushed face, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and eyes locked onto yours as he took what he wanted from you, making a moaning mess out of you; thankfully, your hand covering your mouth muffled the sounds.

"damn it... so fucking tight," he moaned, picking up the pace of his thrusts, "pussy feels so good around my cock." he leaned down, his lips meeting your ear as he whispered his filth into it.

he left a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your neck while his cock made you see stars, his free hand finding its way between your shaky legs to rub your puffy clit, causing you to squirm.

"you love this, huh?" he taunted, smirking against your flesh, "you love it when i'm rough with you, don't you, principessa?"

his hand slid up from your neck to grab your hand and pull it away from your mouth, pinning it behind your back, so that you could answer him. though you struggled to do it; the way he was rocking his hips caused his cock to rub against your g-spot with every single thrust, making you feel like your insides were being torn apart in the best way possible.

"hmm, yeah," you cried out in response, "love it when you fuck me hard."

his lips captured yours again and your walls clenched around him as you moaned into his lips, the kiss muting the sounds of your pleasure. you felt the coil in your belly tightening and your clit pulsed underneath his fingertips, signaling your impending orgasm. he broke the kiss, his eyes dark and hungry as he looked down at you.

"you close, bella? he panted, slapping your ass hard enough to sting.

you nodded in response, blubbering incoherent words, unable to form any sentence as he ruined your cunt.

"that's it, baby... cum for me," he grunted, pushing deeper and harder, the sink creaking due to his harsh thrusts. "i want to see your pretty eyes roll back into your head when you cum on my cock."

his filthy words triggered your orgasm.

he watched with satisfaction as your eyes indeed rolled back, your back arching and nails digging into your skin as you covered your mouth once again, trying to silence the moans and cries that slipped from your lips.

"such a mess... so fucking beautiful," he praised.

he bit down softly on his lip before letting out a rough, guttural groan, the feeling of your cunt engulfing his cock too much for him too handle.

"i'm gonna cum inside you," he warned, "gonna breed this tight little pussy, amore."

you let out a whiny moan, your breathing coming out in sharp pants as your walls clamped around his cock in response to his dirty words.

"you want that, huh?" he mocked you, his hand grasping and pulling at your hair to push you back onto his chest. "want me to make you pregnant with my fucking child?"

"yeah," you whimpered pathetically, "want to carry your child, theodore nott."

"fuck," he cursed, letting out a long, low moan as he unloaded his cum inside you, the warm sticky liquid filling your pussy. "buona ragazza," he whispered, wrapping his arms around you to keep you from collapsing. (good girl)

your legs were completely shaky, making it hard for you to stand up, so you supported yourself on the countertop as you felt him pulling out slowly, his cum dripping out of your abused cunt.

he placed sweet kisses over your back and shoulders as you recovered from your orgasm, whispering soothing things to you while he grabbed his wand to mutter a cleansing spell and get you both all cleaned up.

after composing yourselves, the both of you walked out of the bathroom quietly to not grab any undesired attention, unluckily, pansy parkinson was waiting out of the bathroom, arms crossed and smug grin tugging at her lips; you blushed.

"finally," she claimed, laughing, "you two had fun in there?"

"shut up, parkinson!" theo shouted, grabbing your hand and hurriedly guiding you outside of the three broomsticks.

'we sure as hell did, pansy', you thought as you both walked away.

[bookofbonbon]

ours is the hunt - daemon targaryen.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

Warnings: 18+ Cheating. Hunting. Death/Killing. Mentions of pregnancy/ending a pregnancy. This is kinda fucked up, read the summary. Probably major spelling and grammar mistakes. Tense/POV mix ups.

Summary: Based on a request from the lovely @holy-minseok. like how westerosi kings warn the people of the consequences if they move out of line, reader presents daemons mistress to him on a spike with her swollen belly as a final warning for his betrayals.

Word Count: 2.8k+

A/N: This took on a life of its own and didn't play out exactly as the request but, hopefully it's still enjoyable (well... as enjoyable as it can be). Italics section is a flashback.

The Kingswood is eerily silent in the minutes before sunrise. The party, like many of the woodland creatures, still slept, peaceful in their oblivion as servants moved quietly around the camp to prepare for the rush that daybreak would bring. You take a deep breath, the crisp forest air a welcome change from that of the stench of King’s Landing; the smell of the previous afternoon’s rain also lingers but it would dry with the promise of good weather and a bright sun. 

“My Lady,” Ser Eadric Qyle calls, your most loyal, your sworn sword. “Everything is prepared to your instruction.”

“How many?”

“Three total. Two in the woods as we had hoped now, one. We will release the last one on your instruction.” 

The snap of a twig, a slight breeze, the distant wail of a wounded animal and the flutter of wings as the early morning bird sings its song as it flies across the waking sky. The forest whispers your name and you answer its call. 

“Let the hunt begin.” 

-

Your horse slows to a trot and eventually, to a stop as you approach the camp; an accompanying stablehand taking hold of the reins as a stool is brought to aid your dismount. 

“I had wondered where my wife had gone,” Daemon’s voice comes from beside you with a hand held out. “I should have known to check the woods.”

Your smile is wide, eyes lighting up at his presence as you take his hand and dismount. He is still dressed in his sleeping robes, the Targaryen Prince having obviously just woken not long ago. The thought that he immediately came to seek you out upon waking endears you. 

Steadying yourself with a hand on Daemon’s shoulder, you find your balance and firmly plant your feet on the stool; with the added height you find yourself at eye-level with him and greet him with a kiss to the side of his head. 

“Good morrow, my love.”

Daemon returns the greeting by leaning into you with a groan, head dropping into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, his arms wrapping around you. 

“Remind me again why we must be here at this bloody thing?” 

You wrap an arm around his shoulder, hand soothing his back. 

“You cannot get out of this, Daemon,” you tell him with a small laugh. 

Daemon groans again, his breath hot against your neck as he attempts to burrow his face deeper, grumbling all the while. He doesn’t get far however, when you thread your fingers through his unruly hair and pull. 

“What was that, my love?”

“When you said you arranged a hunt for my name day, I thought it would be just us. Not a whole fucking camp for a Royal Hunt.” 

While Daemon was content to revel in celebrations of his victory, a Royal Hunt and a Royal Tourney were two entirely different things. Besides, he could think of much better things to do on his name day and he makes it known, allowing you to hold his head in place, a familiar glint in his eyes that you force yourself to ignore.

“Did you really think your Lord-King brother would allow that? You have him to thank for-” you release his hair to gesture at the several tents. “-this.” 

“Hm. How generous of him.”

You hum in agreement, adjusting the top of his robes.

“Very but, worry not, my love. Despite reports of only one stag, Ser Eadric and I managed to gain the trail of one other.” 

A grin pulls at the corner of Daemon’s lips.

“The Royal Hunt will track one stag and we will hunt the other,” you finish. Using your grip on his robes to pull him closer, you brush your nose against his, before pressing your lips to his for a brief moment. He tries to deepen the kiss but you don’t allow him. 

“Now, come,” you step down from the stool, taking his hand in yours. “Let's get you ready for the day.” 

“Very well,” Daemon agrees, pressing a kiss to your hand with a charming smile. 

You return the smile before turning and leading him back to the centre of the camp with a tight jaw. 

Daemon’s mood lightens considerably thereafter. The Rogue Prince noticeably happier after you broke the news that the two of you would separate from the Royal Hunt because while Daemon loved to hunt, he hated not being the one to actually do it. He didn’t need someone else to track down the game just for him to land the final blow in some false display of strength and authority. He could do it himself. He wanted to do it himself. He liked to do it himself. And though his mood had lightened, you noted that it didn’t stop his eyes from wandering around in search of someone else.

-

By mid-morning, the camp is teeming with life, the several Lords and Ladies of Westeros who gathered in celebration of Daemon’s name day dotted all over the grounds and inside tents. You yourself enter the main tent with Ser Eadric, the grand structure larger than that of most of the homes of the smallfolk. 

You don’t have to look far to find Daemon, Viserys’ great laugh leading you right to him; the two brother’s seated beside one another at a long table surrounded by other lords. 

Turning to Eadric, you place a cloth in his hand. “Release the last stag and give this to the bloodhound,” you instruct. He nods, taking it in hand and departing.

Taking a deep breath, you roll your shoulders back to loosen them, a delightful smile gracing your lips as you approach Daemon and Viserys. Daemon immediately reaches out for you out of habit once you're seated, and you cradle his strong hand between your own. 

“Ah my Lady,” Viserys greets you and you, him, with a bow of your head.

“Your Grace.”

“I have been meaning to offer you both my condolences following the death of your brother and my congratulations, I hear you have been named heir of Blood's End.”

You tighten your grip around Daemon’s hand then loosen it, both hands releasing his as you begin instead to fidget with your own fingers. Daemon notices immediately, taking hold of one of your hands in his, his grip firm in silent comfort as he sends you a reassuring look. 

“A regrettable hunting accident,” you pull at the collar of your riding jacket. “But, please, accept my thanks for your congratulations, Your Grace. It is an honour and I can only hope to be half the ruler my Lord-father is of Blood's End.”

“Well, I cannot say what type of ruler you will be but, from what I heard you are double the hunter of that of what your brothers were and rival even that of your father-”

“Better,” Daemon interrupts proudly with a squeeze of your hand. 

“Better?” Viserys’ repeats in amusement. 

You breathe a laugh at Daemon’s antics, “I am able to hold my own somewhat.” 

Daemon scoffs at your downplay of your skill, “my wife is humble, brother but, I am not. She is the better between her and her father. Perhaps one of the best in all the land.”

You make a show of balking at the declaration, forcing a meek laugh “I- that is not-”

But, Viserys’ cuts you off, holding one hand up in surrender, “if Daemon says you are one of the best then I believe him. I mean what good is it if House Chase’ words are ‘Ours is the Hunt’ if they cannot do exactly that?”

Viserys’ laughs heartily at his own joke and you spare a glance at Daemon who grins at you playfully.  

The conversation teeters off soon after that as Daemon and Viserys’ listen to the report sent by the Royal Huntsman. You in turn, turn your attention to one of your Ladies-in-waiting, Lady Millicent. While the custom of having Ladies-in-waiting was unusual outside of the Great Houses, the custom was needed within your own House as it was in fact greater than even that of your liege lords, House Baratheon. House Chase commanded both a larger army and fertile lands that weren’t felled by the terrible weather that surrounded Storm’s End. House Chase was second to Baratheon in rank only. 

“My Lady, I’ve been meaning to ask but, where is Lady Gwendolyn? I’ve not seen her around the camp all morning, I fear-”

“Yes,” Daemon interrupts abruptly. “Where is Lady Gwendolyn?”

You delight at the question, ears burning as you turn your attention to Daemon about your newest Lady-of-waiting of six, maybe seven months. 

“I did not know you had such a keen interest in my ladies of waiting. Husband.”

“My only interest is that she attends to my grooming every morning and yet, when I needed her this morning, she was nowhere to be found.” 

Daemon shrugs the question off with a practiced ease while your lips almost pull dangerously downwards, mask hanging by a thread and nearly slipping completely at the brazen statement. Instead you fix your smile, reaching across to smooth the neck of his hunting attire. 

“I have given Lady Gwendolyn leave while we are here, she is likely with her kin in the woods.”

-

A dull light permeates from the lantern in your hand, bathing its immediate surroundings - including yourself - in a warm glow as you carefully navigate the unfamiliar bed chambers that your husband had come to frequent as of late. Shadows bouncing off of the walls, the silhouettes of the two figures in the bed become clearer the closer you get. 

See, you weren’t naive to the ways of men and their crude sexual appetites; the way they would seek out other women when their wives could not sate them. 

‘It is the way of men, he will have his whores and his playthings but you are his wife and no whore can take away from you.’ is what your mother had told you but, you would not heed her words. You would not lay down while your husband took mistresses and whores alike and you had told him so, warning him once of the consequences.

Placing the lantern down on the bedside table, you peer down at the Baratheon beauty laid in the bed with your husband; a few drops of milk of the poppy in their goblets and it was keeping both husband and whore sedated. 

The mattress dips slightly under your weight as you settle yourself beside her sleeping figure, hip to hip as you take a closer look at your Lady-in-waiting, who had also taken up position as Daemon’s mistress, stealing both his time and attention from you. 

Lady Gwendolyn of House Baratheon, the niece of a cousin of a second son nobody; a distant relative carrying the Great name of the Great Stags of the Stormlands. 

“Ser Eadric,” you call on your sworn sword; fingers ghosting over her abdomen. The swell is slight but it is there. “Our Prince’s name day is fast approaching. Ensure arrangements have begun at first light. We will celebrate like none before.”

-

The sun sits at its peak in the sky, streams of its light filtering through the tops of the forest's trees. The crossbow is heavy in Daemon’s hands as he sits astride his horse, sweat gathering on his forehead as he watches his surroundings; the reins of your own horse in his other hand. He had led the first few hours, and now you had taken over. 

As planned, the two of you went out with the Royal Hunt and eventually broke off under the guise of returning to the camp. 

Daemon’s ears perk at the sound of a nearby wail and the flutter of several wings as a group of birds seem to scatter. Dismounting, Daemon joins you on the ground, coming to stand behind you as he scans the woods for any signs of danger. There is no danger however, just your blood hound.

Daemon moves past you and calls the hound to heel at his side. 

“We’re close,” you toss the hours old droppings back onto the ground and pick up your own crossbow. “These droppings are fresh.”

“Very close.” Daemon calls you over to where the bloodhound sits obediently by his feet. There is blood around its jowl. A thrill goes down your spine at the sight, knowing that the two of you were close now. 

“We go on foot from here,” he declares, trying the reins of your horses to a nearby tree and you agree.

Moving silently ahead through the Kingswood, what was once vibrating with life, has now come to standstill with your approach. All the woodland creatures recognising the two predators hunting in their territory. 

Your eyes flitter from the ground to up ahead as you follow the Stag’s tracks, Daemon trailing behind you and then- the sudden trample of hooves to the left of you and a blur of brown and then silence. 

“Daemon,” you whisper and nod up ahead. 

There in the distance stands the Great Stag the two of you had been hunting for the better part of four hours, its mammoth antlers moving frantically as it turned its head over and over. 

Daemon places a hand on the small of your back and you turn your head toward him. 

“From here?” you ask and he nods, stepping carefully in front of you.

The Stag stumbles around clumsily, which Daemon can only assume is from when the bloodhound must’ve sunk its teeth into it but it otherwise remains in the same area, believing itself to be safe.

“Let us test out the might of these crossbows from here,” Daemon croons quietly. The armourer had declared it the single most powerful crossbow, capable of bringing down the greatest creatures from an even greater distance. 

Positioning himself, Daemon presses his body against yours, your hand touching his collar before you slide it down and place it on his waist. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of both of your breaths as you watched over his shoulder. He lines up the shot, finger on the trigger, your breaths in harmonious sync, his back against your chest as your hearts beat as one. You slide a hand underneath his arm, steadying his hold and with a kiss to his shoulder blade, he pulls. 

Thwack!

The recoil is slight as the sound reverberates with a sickening crunch. The Stag cries out but, before it can make a move to run, you’re passing Daemon your own crossbow and he sends another arrow straight through its neck with perfect precision. 

There’s a beat of silence as the entire woods including yourselves come to a halt, your breaths the only sound that could be heard. It’s soon broken however, by your laughter, the sound building into something hysterical as you step away from Daemon. Catching Daemon’s attention, he turns to you, initially in concern, it doesn’t take long however for him to join you when he sees how delighted you are. Catching you by the back of your neck, Daemon pulls you into him, his mouth covering yours in a searing kiss which you happily return. 

“Shall we claim our prize?” you break the kiss, foreheads pressed together.

Daemon nods, taking your hand into his and eagerly leading the way. 

You hum happily beneath your breath, keeping a keen eye on him as the two of you get closer, watching and waiting, watching and waiting until finally- there’s a catch in his breath, footsteps faltering as his head tilts, bemused. You feel the way his hand twitches in your hold, grip loosening as he glances back at you, confused until- a sharp intake of breath and the realisation of not, what he has killed but, who.

You slip your hand from his hold as he chokes on a gasp at the sight of his mistress, his whore, the Lady Gwendolyn. She is covered in a layer of mud, her usual gown replaced with a dirty and ripped tunic and pants, a strip of cloth tied around her mouth and gagging her. One arrow shot through her chest, nailing her to the tree behind her and the second through her neck; on the floor beside her lies the head of a stag. 

Three total. Two in the woods as we had hoped now, one. We will release the last one on your instruction.

“What is this?” Daemon speaks in abject horror.

“The last one,” you tell him grimly. 

Daemon continues to stare at Gwendolyn, dazed and not understanding what was happening as he watches blood drip from her wounds and onto her swelling belly.

“What have you done?”

“What have I done? What have you done?” you tut, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Do not fret, I granted her this small mercy, my last mercy,” you inform him, hand adjusting his collar. “A quick and clean death.”

Your words seems to bring him back to himself, horror and confusion short lived and replaced with a fury you had never seen before. It does naught to frighten you though.

“She was with child,” he turns on you, jaw impossibly tight as he spits the words at you; crowding you against a tree. “My child.”

“I know,” you tell him softly with a nod.

Your placidness unsettles him. You can see it in his eyes and the way he flinches at your touch when you brush his hair back from either side of his face.

“So heed this as my final warning for your betrayals. I won’t be so nice if there’s another one.”

Steadying yourself with a hand on his arm, you reach up and press a kiss to the side of his head, “happy name day, Daemon.”

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2024. All rights reserved.

[oceantornadoo]

you: an absolute teeth-aching bone deep want to be loved and to give love. that hollow feeling behind your chest is too familiar and you want it gone. you just want to be in love, to treat someone with gentleness and to be wanted.

your 141 bae who has been in love with you since the moment he met you: ...i'm right here

gn!reader headcanons below the cut:

childhood best friend simon: let's say you knew him before he lost his family. a scrawny-limbed blond, always willing to extend a trip to the park or a cigarette behind school - anything to not go home. you'd visit him when he started part-time as a butcher in high school, wrinkling your nose at the smell of bloody meat but staying anyways, doing your homework at the singular table in the shop. he was there when you moved away from town, for college or a new job or any life-altering decision that he was secondary to, something simon could only hope to grasp. once he leaves for the military, you mourn your relationship and move on. simon is a blur in your mind, a reminder of snow days and sweet tea summers and leaf piles and dandelion picking, on a nostalgic shelf in the untouched corners of your brain. ten years later, you've finally made a name for yourself and truly gotten out; grown roots. but you still have this soul-deep yearning, some unfamiliar-shaped hole in your chest that miraculously fills when you open your door to simon, a grown man who's tired of wanting you from afar. tired of stalking your social media and writing fantasies in his head. tired of picking people to fuck just because they look like you, then going soft halfway through because their voice isn't the right pitch. he's here, and he's ready to do whatever it takes.

best friend gaz: now this is different from a childhood best friend, so keep that in mind. gaz is always this guy-next-door type with a panty-dropping smile and impeccable manners. this notion does him some good, helps him avoid some deep-rooted british military prejudices, but it also turns you away. you check him off as nice and place him in the best friend box. you don't understand how he tracks your every move on a mission, almost always getting caught by johnny or price. you miss how he grips his pint ten times harder when he sees you on the pub floor, dancing with some stranger whose hands are a bit too low. he tells you he gets rejected for being "too nice", but really, he ignores his 27 unread DMs and flirty cafe eye contact in favor of movie nights, prank wars, your shitty reality shows. he's grasping onto straws, can't you see sweetheart? when you're drunk and turn into a cuddler, he can pretend just for a second that you truly mean it. gaz lets your hands wander under his shirt, lets you murmur your darkest fear of never being loved into the quietness of your room, leaving you to sleep on top of your covers with a kiss to the forehead. he doesn't know what's pushed him over: you almost dying on that last mission, you making out with a stranger in a bar, you you you in those pants and that shirt and that's it. he has to say something. has to put it all on the line because gaz can't live like this anymore.

best friend's brother price: it was some one-sided crush, your best friend's brother with his suave teenage ways as compared to your brutal tween phase, acne and braces on the way. it had dissipated quickly, john never the wiser, his presence substituted with trendy band obsessions and first kisses. instead, it happened at your best friend's wedding. you were both in the wedding party, some object of fate throwing you together as your best friend forced you two to dance. you were tipsy on champagne, on the happiness of marriage, that you giddily admitted your fleeting childhood crush and how much john had grown since then. and that was it. john was always going to settle down, always going to have a pretty thing waiting for him back home, he just didn't figure out until right now that it would be you. he tries to hide his affections under friendliness, not wanting to ruin your friendship with his sibling, but john has never been discrete. he's suddenly invading your life with offers of fixing your kitchen sink, painting that one spot you can't reach, moving your couch to fit your latest pinterest board. you're practically family, love - which kills all your hopes for something more, feeling like a familyzone. but john means it differently, means you're predestined to be his, already accepted and loved by his loved ones and how could he not see it before? you refuse to accept his kindness and it absolutely kills him, so he scares off potential dates and any chance of meet-cutes with an arm around your waist and why can't you see him the way he sees you?

friends with benefits johnny: it was just sex, right? you'd been the one to say it, the one to set that boundary with your fellow sergeant. you didn't think johnny was capable of more, mistaking his cheeky smirks and booming laugh for being unserious, when in reality, johnny is as serious as it gets. he tells himself he can fuck you because he'll marry you one day, that cross sitting heavy under his shirts. he doesn't wash his sheets for weeks after that first fuck, too busy inhaling the scent of you cumming around his mouth, his cock. that is, until, you tell him his sheets stink and refuse to fuck him and he pretends you're having an argument as a married couple, all intimate and bored. johnny sees a recruit getting too flirty and pulls you into a supply closet using his best distraction methods. he sways you from joining a month's long solo mission, some stupid excuse about missing your lips too much when really he knows it's a suicide mission. johnny forces you to stay over after a midnight fuck, some bullshit about simon being up at that time and seeing you in the hallway on base. in reality, he treasures cuddling you with his brawny arms, pretending you're his willingly. pretending he's made peace with you, this wild creature, never tamed but understood. he can't force himself to ask for more, too scared to lose the crumbs he's holding onto. johnny tries to hide it with a fiery personality and a thick accent, but inside? he's a complete goner.

[kaznejis]

Make it Fun, don't trust anyone- Erik Lehnsherr x Reader

“I can feel it.” He spoke, refusing to meet your eyes as he visibly failed to prevent his thoughts from spilling, “I could sense the metal as soon as we left the building; I could sense your necklace, the rims of your sunglasses, the iron in your blood, and that ring.”  His words turned to venom at the procurement of the final item, you watched as he grit his teeth; smoothing a hand over his head as his jaw clenched. Anger bloomed at the pits of your stomach in response, anger at his audacity to attempt to stake such ownership over you, “You were gone, Erik.” You spat, turning to him, anger blazing in your eyes; as reflected by the shock upon his face, “What? Did you expect me to wait around like a child? Wait for you to come back on the slim chance that it would happen?”

A/N: Hello! If anyone sees this, I hope you enjoy! If not, this is entirely self sufficing and I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. Just to note, sorry if the scenes taken from the movie seem a little..rushed? If there's one thing I do not enjoy it's working out how to incorporate existing scenes into canon compliant fanfiction. The struggle.

Word Count: 6,692 / Read it on AO3!

If you'd like to see more from me about Erik- please feel free to send in any requests! :)

The Cuban sunlight had acted as the perfect antithesis to your situation; the gaping hole that had formed and taken a residual spot within your ribcage as you knelt beside Charles, screaming and crying at the lack of feeling in his legs. 

But your eyes had not been upon him. 

You had stared up at Erik, stomach collapsing at his stoic gaze; only remnants of his grief were prevalent to yourself, the person that had known him most in the world. That wretched helmet had sat upon his head, his eyes empty with the melancholy of his own steadfast determination. 

“Join me.” He had whispered, his lower lip trembling as his eyes finally landed upon you; the first time since you had boarded the plane to Cuba. He had reached out then, his palm splayed towards you; hope swimming in his eyes as he beckoned you forward. 

You had simply shaken your head, lips tight and breaths heaving as you held his gaze. You watched as his heart broke, as his eyes glistened and bloodied hands trembled. You watched as he nodded and as he turned away from you. Turned away from the love that you had shared, choosing his own foolish endeavours of revenge over you. Allowing grief to swallow you, you had ducked your head; unable to watch as he walked away, unable to face Charles, writhing in the pain of your lovers’ actions. 

That had been it- you had returned to the school. Welcoming and accepting prospective students; working as an administrator and overseeing the school’s board. It had been good, amazing- supplying a necessary distraction to the heartbreak you had endured and a chance to improve your powers, learn from the experiences of others. There, in your reluctant state of happiness, you had met Adam. 

Adam, the school’s mutant psychology teacher; specialising in mind-based and largely telekinetic powers. Your curiosity regarding Erik’s powers had led you to him, sitting beside his desk; asking question after question. Questions soon turned into conversations and you soon found yourself being courted. All the traditional romances that had never crossed your mind when with Erik had become your reality; constant flowers, gifts, candle-lit dinners as your heels caressed his leg beneath the table. 

Your family had loved him, adored him. They had never met Erik, for obvious reasons, and whilst they were more supportive of your mutant gene than the average family; they had hoped that you would still be able to live the average life. Meaning, that you would acquire the average husband. Your family had practically demanded that you married him despite only being a year into the relationship, the pointed remarks about you being ‘unwedded at such an age’ a constant force at each gathering. 

So, you had. You had adorned the white dress, the large diamond ring, and Charles had granted his blessings by allowing you to host the wedding on the school’s grounds. Everyone and anyone that could have possibly been there had been in attendance, a day simply to forget about the wrongdoings of the past, the present and the future. 

On paper, everything was perfect. 

“Do you ever think about him?” Charles had asked, the night before your wedding, the two of you nursing a glass of scotch each within his office. 

You had exhaled through your nose, a lodge forming at the base of your throat, “No.” Despite the pronunciation of such a small, singular word; your voice had croaked, your chest trembling pathetically. 

Charles had simply nodded, his eyes flickering; his powers catching your obvious lie. “He’s in prison now, you know?” 

You nodded, humming affirmatively, your gut twisting at the reminder. 

“Are you sure you want to go through with tomorrow?” 

“I do.” You smirked, a failed attempt at humour as Charles had only looked back at you with sympathy, “I can’t sit here and say that Erik is never on my mind but… this is for the best.” 

Charles had only nodded, his face twisting as hair fell before his eyes, “He will never bother us again, I will make sure of that.” 

Whilst you had thanked him, smile wide and eyes crinkling as you both raised a glass; you couldn’t ignore the way your stomach had swooped in disappointment. The way your chest had heaved with unbridled pain, simply at the thought of never seeing Erik again. You would wrestle with it for the years to come- the guilt of constantly thinking of another man as you lay beside your husband. 

Your love with Erik had, to simply put it, been enigmatic; fuelled by passion- both by the mission at hand and the way you felt for each other. There had been awful, screaming fights on the worst days and entangled limbs with scratches lining his spine on the best. You had loved him with every ounce of your being, cared for him, yearned for him when he wasn’t there. Whilst you had endured the worst pains of your life with him, you had also been at your happiest. 

It had been toxic, ferocious, you had never known what would come next. 

You missed it every day. 

You passed the feeling off as pure delusion, your mutant gene playing cruel tricks on your mind as the years passed; as you grew bored. Bored of the same mundane life every day, bored of the simple forehead kisses, bored of that house. You and Adam remained within the dark confines of the manor instead of finding a place of your own following the fallout of the war in Vietnam; acting as support for Charles, who had steadfastly begun to dwindle in both his morality and his health. You had used this as an excuse every time Adam had attempted to introduce the necessary conversation of moving on, settling down. Children. You had deflected his attempts every time, claiming that you needed to be there for Charles, that you weren’t ready, that it wasn’t the right time. 

You knew for a fact that the reality lay within your inability to let Erik go, your inability to potentially miss the opportunity to catch a taste of his mere presence again. As the breadth of time since he left and the distance with Adam widened, you thought of Erik more and more. His serrating blue eyes and wicked charm haunted every moment, both awake and unconscious. You yearned for him, worried for him, hated him. You hated him for giving you up so easily, your lack of support in that specific moment signifying the end of everything, defining the status of the rest of your life. Sometimes, during the darkest of nights, the ones where you felt so alone, the nights where the wind howled and the trees drew vines and branches upon the walls- you imagined what it would have been like to join him, to have clasped his hand against yours and allowed him to lead you into the darkness.

Secretly, you knew that following Magneto would have led to your early demise, sometimes you pondered on whether that could have been a better end to your time together than your reality. 

But then, as Spring turned into Summer; as the grounds of the manour flourished in their unkempt state and the sun cast illuminations through the large windows- Logan arrived at your doorstep. A mission from the future, unbelievable if not for the pure conviction in his eyes. Unbelievable if not for the grief that haunted his strong features. 

You had been completely unprepared when Logan had stood from the chair you had offered him, yourself having been perched on the edge of Charles’ crumpled couch; your legs crossed and hands clasped with worry as he had detailed the horrors he had experienced, the horrors that he was there to prevent. He had paced the length of the table, surveying each resident of the room; you hadn’t missed the way his eyes had flickered between you and Adam; his forehead scrunching before his brows raised in amusement. 

“Ah…he warned me about this.” He grinned, flicking a finger between the two of you and scratching at the base of his head. “Kinda weird to see actually.” 

“Sorry?” You smiled politely, head swarmed with confusion, you looked over at Adam only to see he bore a similar expression, “He?” 

“We need to find Magneto,” Logan spoke determinedly, his gaze fierce, his voice taking a tone of finality. He was serious, conviction overtaking the air as the gravity of the situation dawned upon each resident.  

You knew that he was right. 

In that moment, you had been able to do nothing but stand and promptly leave the room; abandon the sound of Charles’ manic laughter that followed Logan’s words, Hank’s doubt that tended to suffocate a room. But most notably, you were abandoning your so-called husband’s silence.  

Somehow, you found yourself curled beneath your bed covers, arms crossed over your knees like a small child; your form shrunken in your fear and heartbreak and doubt, tremors racking your shoulders. As you attempted to steady your breathing, a knock sounded at your bedroom door. Expecting it to be Adam, you promptly rose from your position; scrubbing furiously at your swollen eyelids. 

But to your shock, Logan entered the room. 

“I’m sorry to barge in like this,” He held his hands out placantingly, slowly approaching you as if you were a timid animal, “I know you don’t know me, but I know you, Y/N, very well and… I wanted to check you were okay.” 

You nodded, crossing your arms and biting your lip as you mulled over the words he had spoken since his arrival, “It’s okay… I just- haven’t heard his name outside of my own head in a while.” 

“Erik?” 

You smiled, your heart blooming at his real name, the name you had known him by, “Yes… I’m assuming you know about us; I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve witnessed one of our messes for yourself,” He had smiled at that, his teeth glinting as he chuffed in amusement, though you could only stare at Logan, building the courage to ask what you desperately wanted to know, “When, you know, you were sent here… was Erik there?” 

“Yes.” Logan nodded. 

“Was I?” 

Logan nodded once again, though opted to do so silently this time. 

“What did he tell you about us?” 

Logan laughed properly then, a smile finally breaking across his face, “He told me not to meddle, that your situation is especially… sensitive, at this point.” He scratched a hand across his chin, his expression filled with nothing but pure mirth as he spoke, “Which I can see, seeing as though he’s locked one hundred feet underground and you’re married.” He finished that with a pointed look at your ring finger. 

You nodded, that you found yourself unable to match his amusement, unsure of exactly what it was he found funny, “I haven’t seen him in almost ten years.” You shrugged, “When I try to think about it, I don’t even know what he looks like anymore.” 

“But you still think about him?” 

You sighed, lowering your gaze to pick at the loose threads upon your old bed sheets; you had always been reluctant to get rid of them, the memories that they held with Erik remained too precious. Slowly and timidly, you spoke, “Every day.” 

Logan could only nod, an exhale sounding from his nose, “Well, if I can trust anything from my time knowing you; it’s your ability to give that man hell.” 

So, the following day; with an overly-energised, overly-excited teenage mutant in tow; Hank, Charles, and Logan had embarked en route for the Pentagon.

“Stay safe.” Adam had spoken as he leaned against the entrance to the house, having opted to stay behind; claiming that the house needed to be watched despite Logan being the first visitor in years. You had simply smiled at him, waving goodbye before turning towards the car; you didn’t miss the way the door had immediately slammed, Adam having chosen to waste no time in ensuring your safe departure. He had been quiet since Logan’s arrival, especially since the mention of Erik’s name and your obvious upset in response. 

You feared that despite his promise to protect the house, he would not be there upon your return. 

“I can’t believe you even married that guy.” Logan had mumbled, chuckling to himself and shaking his head as he slid into the car’s driver's seat; you could only manage a meager glare- your doubt regarding Adam had been clear even to yourself. 

Whilst the others performed the monumental task of attempting to free Erik; you had been tasked with organising the transport from the Pentagon and away, far away. You knew that Charles had orchestrated this purposefully, giving you the chance to see Erik as little as possible if necessary. You had accepted without a fight, you feared that if faced with Erik in a dire situation; you would act impulsively, irrationally. You feared that if faced with Erik, you would be able to do nothing but throw yourself into his arms. 

“Not appropriate.” You had mumbled to yourself at the thought, tapping a hand against the car’s wheel; dark aviators high upon your nose as you awaited. Your other hand hung from the drivers-side window, a dwindling cigarette balancing lazily between your fingers; it had been a nasty habit you had picked up in your adulthood, largely to Adam’s chagrin who had banned you from doing so indoors. You began to recognise that the stress of marriage had aged you significantly; the existence of service had overtaken your life in a way you hadn’t predicted. 

Just as you had begun to dwell upon your own disappointing life decisions; a loud bustle of noise exploded from the doors exiting the building’s kitchen; you only had a second to rescue your cigarette and balance it between your teeth before the group rushed to the car. Peter immediately sped ahead and claimed the passenger seat, grinning at you cheekily as he slid beside you; though this was quickly diminished when Logan slammed the car door back open, promptly gathering the teenager by the lapels of his jacket and ejecting him from the seat. You could only guffaw as he promptly plucked the cigarette from between your teeth, taking a hasty drag as the rest of the group piled into the back. 

You refused to glance at the rear mirror.

“Seriously Y/N?” Charles huffed exasperatedly from what you could assume was the seat directly behind you, the rustling of his jacket prevalent as he attempted to get comfortable in the tight squeeze of seats, “This may be a getaway car but it doesn’t mean you can abuse it to your will with your smoking.” 

You gritted your teeth, slamming your foot upon the pedal and pulling out onto the road; en route to the airport. Erik’s presence behind you plagued your mind, causing your fingers to tighten upon the wheel and your toes to curl within your shoes, every hair upon your neck stood ramrock straight as you waited, yearning for him to acknowledge you. 

This was what you had dreamed of, every night for years, and now you couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him. 

A gleam caught your eyes as you drove, suddenly all too aware of your left hand rested on the steering wheel. Your wedding ring still adorned upon your finger, glistening obnoxiously in the afternoon sun. Risking a glance, you rose your eyes to the rearview mirror- only to immediately flick your eyes back to the road before you. 

There, in the middle seat, sat Erik- his cheeks sunken, hollow; the effects of years in confinement were prevalent in his every feature. His skin was pale, almost ghastly; his haircut was shaggy, uncaring. But what shocked you the most, what made you pull your eyes away from the man you loved so suddenly- was the way his eyes, those hauntingly blue eyes, stared straight at you, straight at the ring upon your finger. You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from squeaking in response, the taste of blood plaguing your mouth as you willed yourself to focus on the road, focus on the mission at hand. 

You knew that Logan had witnessed every moment of that encounter, his dark eyes sunk into the side of your face as you determinedly stared forward, refusing to acknowledge any of the people around you. Alongside the stench of smoke, the air in the car was thick with tension- the aura of unspoken words choking every passenger. Even Peter, the usual chatterbox and the one who had spoken your ears off the entire way to the Pentagon had opted to stay silent; instead staring out of the window, his lips twisted in his own display of tension. 

As you drove in silence, you became all too aware of Erik’s presence; you found yourself pinpointing his specific breaths, the crinkle of his prisoner-assigned uniform, the shuffle of his legs against the side of your seat, the nervous tap of his finger against his knuckles. 

It was a miracle you managed to reach the airport. 

Upon saying goodbye to Peter, you determinedly pushed past the front-row seats of the private jet, opting to sit at the very rear of the plane alongside Logan, of which had simply raised an eyebrow and sighed as you lowered yourself before him, “You two are more pathetic than I expected.” He exhibited an air of nonchalance as he lit his cigar, despite the plane now very much being in the sky, and propped open a newspaper upon his lap- though it was prevalent that he found delight in watching the entire situation unfold. 

You raised your eyebrows, shrugging your shoulders stubbornly and sliding back against the base of the chair, “There’s no ‘us two’,” To which you complimented with the use of air quotes, “I am married, Logan.” 

Logan could only laugh at that, shaking his head, a habit he seemed to have picked up in his exasperation at what was unfolding before him, “You do realise I’m from the future right?” 

Scowling, you crossed your arms and opted to sulk at the back of the plane; still determinedly refusing to look Erik’s way- who was now engaging in a heated argument with Charles.

“Do I at least age well?” 

“Of course,” Logan smirked, holding his cigar up in a toast; though he was quickly interrupted by the creaking of metal as the foundations of the plane shook; Erik. Logan jumped forward and immediately threw the two of you to the ground- acting as a human shield as the plane began to tip sideways; Erik’s passion overtaking all rational thought as plates and glassware shattered beside you. 

“You abandoned us all.” He spoke with finality, Charles lay splayed across multiple seats, his hair a tangled mess as he gaped at Erik. You could only pull yourself back into your seat as Charles left for the cockpit, both you and Logan gasping at each other as you attempted to regain your stolen breath.

“So,” Logan grunted, fetching a new cigar and lighting it, “You were always an asshole then.” 

You could only scoff as Erik turned, facing you for the first time since boarding the plane; you noted the way his eyes landed upon anything, anywhere but you. 

“I bet we’re best buds in the future,” Erik smirked sardonically, his voice rough with the sudden severity of his outburst. 

Logan hummed, puffing on his cigar before offering you a puff, to which you politely declined, “Not like me and your old friend Y/N here are.” 

At the mention of your name, his hands spasmed at his sides; his fingers convulsing in a bodily reaction at the mere recognition of your existence. You would have felt excitement, love; if it weren’t for the way his eyes told a different story- cold and piercing as they landed upon you, his cheekbones twitching as he allowed himself a second of eye contact before he abruptly turned, returning to his seat across the plane. 

“Jesus,” Logan mumbled to himself, reclining in his seat and widening his eyes at you; you could only nod. Jesus.

With Erik and Charles opting to keep to themselves, the rest of the journey went swimmingly- immediately upon landing you wasted no time in departing from the suffocating air of the cabin; luxuriating in the deep breaths of fresh, evening air that greeted you. 

“We need to find somewhere to rest.” Charles spoke from behind you, “The drive to the next spot is too long and we’re all exhausted.” He glared pointedly at Erik then, who simply sighed; as you allowed yourself a glance at him, it was prevalent that he too was plagued by fatigue. His cheeks were more sunken than before, his eyes drooping as he visibly struggled to hold himself up. You yearned to reach out, place a hand on his spine and simply hold him, aid him as he wrestled with the weight of the world upon his back. But then, as his eyes turned towards yours, the weight of the wedding ring upon your finger prevailed once again; you could only turn away. 

Hank managed to find a group of last minute rooms at a nearby motel, though as he returned to the reception's waiting area, keys in hand, his nerves were ever-prevalent. “I only managed to get three rooms; two have two beds and another has one, I was thinking-” 

“I’m taking the solo room,” Logan ordered, snatching the key from Hank’s hand and sauntering down the hallway, though not without sending a wink over his shoulder at you. Bastard. 

“Oh-” Hank froze, the other keys dangling from his fingers- you could only watch as he winced, practically praying for you to forgive him with his eyes, “Charles, I doubt it would be safe for you to be with Erik, so I guess…” 

You could only sigh, electing every ounce of confidence you could embody before standing, cutting Hank off once again before retrieving a key from his hand, without turning you spoke, “Well, come on then, Erik.” 

You felt his presence behind you, each of you electing to say nothing as you unlocked the haggard wooden door; its hinges creaking as you pushed open the door. Before you stood two double beds, an only-just-comfortable distance between the two. Nodding to yourself, you entered the room, your fingers twirling the keys nervously as you surveyed the room; you felt the air thicken as the door slammed behind you- you felt like prey finally being cornered by the predator. 

Erik cleared his throat behind you, the sound thick and grating, “I’ll take the bed beside the door; would you like to use the bathroom first?” 

You turned towards him, shocked by his kindness; he could only stare back at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and exhaustion tinting his features. “I- Sure.” You could only croak, opting to briskly enter the bathroom; afraid of irrationality taking over your lovesick mind. Reaching behind the shower’s curtain, you turned on the water before stripping off your clothes, the sound of your ring clattering against the sink as you placed it down caused you to flinch, knowing that Erik would be all too aware of your every move from the other side of the door. 

You took your time in the shower, breathing in the warm steam and collecting yourself after the events of the day, collecting yourself in preparation for the events of the night that was to come. You could do this, even if it meant a sleepless night whilst Erik lay only feet away; whilst the object of all of your nightmares lay only feet away. It reminded you of a night, a night a long time ago; in a motel room just like the one you were in, his skin against yours; his breath hot against the base of your throat as he had slowly stripped you of your clothes, as he had kissed every inch of you. It reminded you of his pants as he pushed into you, his groans as he buried his sweat-coated forehead into the skin of your shoulder, biting and licking and sucking there as you became one. The way that he had moaned his love for you into the skin there, your responsive moans loud and uncaring as you had clawed at the skin of his back, gripped at the hair upon the base of his head- 

Stop; you shut off the hot water, stumbling from the shower as you panted, your cheeks and chest red with warmth as you desperately attempted to remove the memory from your mind. Gripping the porcelain of the sink, you eyed your pathetic reflection; willing, begging, yourself to let this go, let your silly daydreams go. This was reality, your reality. Getting through the night was the only necessity you needed to accomplish, then you could avoid Erik and promptly never see him again. 

You could go back to your husband, back to your life. 

Undeniably however, you couldn’t ignore the way Erik made you feel, the way his mere presence made you feel. Adam’s influence upon you paled entirely in comparison, your obligation to return to him simply one of duty, one to appease your family, one to live the ‘perfect’ life- be the perfect wife. But you craved more, you craved better; for years you had chased and yearned for the way Erik’s slightest touch had made you feel- the way that his love encompassed every molecule of your being; the way that he had branded you for life, rendered unable to ever feel the way you had felt with him again. Your thoughts of Erik made you all too aware of how long you had spent in the bathroom.

How long you had spent, very obviously, avoiding him. 

You emerged from the bathroom in nothing but the oversized shirt you had packed hastily to sleep in; swiping it from the bed due to the short notice you had received in regards to this trip. You felt bare, naked suddenly as you left the bathroom to Erik’s piercing gaze. He sat, fully clothed, lounging against the headrest; allowing a pen to swirl around his fingers, dancing from pointer to thumb as his wrist spun. Entrapped, you could only stand there and stare; stare at the beauty of his powers, at the beauty of him. 

“It feels good,” He spoke slowly, carefully, allowing the pen to drop onto the sheets beside him, “To use my powers again; to feel metal.” 

You nodded, smiling politely, unsure of exactly what to say in response. You opted to stay silent, allowing yourself to walk past him and into your own bed, the crinkle of the duvet loud in the silent room, loud within the silence that was swelling between you. 

“You aren’t wearing it,” Erik spoke suddenly, his voice slicing through the silence; to your shock. Once you recovered, you simply crooked an eyebrow at him, to which he spoke; swallowing his words audibly, “Your ring.” 

“Oh,” You shook your head, staring down at your empty finger, remembering that you had placed it on the sink, “I usually-” 

“I can feel it.” He spoke, refusing to meet your eyes as he failed to prevent his thoughts from spilling, “I could sense the metal as soon as we left the building; I could sense your necklace, the rims of your sunglasses, the iron in your blood, and that ring.” 

His words turned to venom at the procurement of the final item, you watched as he grit his teeth; smoothing a hand over his head as his jaw clenched. Anger bloomed at the pits of your stomach in response, anger at his audacity to attempt to stake such ownership over you, “You were gone, Erik.” You spat, turning to him, anger blazing in your eyes; as reflected by the shock upon his face, “What? Did you expect me to wait around like a child? Wait for you to come back on the slim chance that it would happen?” 

Slowly, at the pit of his lungs, he formed a laugh; his head shaking as his fingers trembled once again, “You think so lowly of me, Darling.” 

“You left me!” You were yelling now, rising from the tangled bed sheets as your chest heaved with anger, heaved with the heartbreak and sadness that had plagued you for the consequent years following his departure, “You left me.” 

“I gave you a choice, Y/N. You chose Charles, you were more than welcome to come with me.” 

You shook your head, scoffing, “Well… if I had gone with you; I would be dead by now.” Your tone held a sense of finality, as supported by your return to the bed as you promptly turned your back to him, curling up under the duvet and refusing to face his reaction to your words. His response followed in the slam of the bathroom door as he promptly left the room; leaving behind the stale air of your own regret. 

It felt like hours as you waited, wondered; hoped for him to come back. Hoped for the two of you to forget the words that had been said, to sleep comfortably in your separate beds and complete this mission as peacefully as possible; to go your separate ways and live your separate lives once again. 

In the depths of these daunting thoughts, you fell asleep; the exhaustion of the day’s tensions taking hold as your eyes slipped closed. You woke, hours later, to the moon’s rays spanning throughout the room; a ghostly glow hanging in the air as you rubbed at your eyes, glancing to your side, Erik was fast asleep; his sharp edges and soft hair illuminated in the scant light- you allowed yourself a moment, just that moment, to take him in. Drink in the features you hadn’t faced in almost a decade, the features you longed to reach out towards; to trail a finger down his jaw or scratch a nail upon his hair. His hair was wavy, a slightly damp smell filtered throughout the room told you that he too had taken the opportunity to shower. 

The thought of his broad shoulders and lean back illuminated by the spray of hot water did nothing to help the swarm of doubt swirling within your gut. Shaking your head, you reached into the bag beside your bed; fetching the box of cigarettes stashed within one of the inner pockets. 

Then, barefoot and in just a shirt, you shouldered open the room’s door, balancing a cigarette upon your lip as you did so before promptly lighting it, traversing the motel’s corridors silently before reaching the fire escape. Hoisting yourself upwards, you climbed up the ladders before finally reaching the building’s roof. The night was clear, quiet; the only sounds emerging from the distant highway and subsequent traffic- you listened out for any signs of disruption as you lowered yourself to the roof, allowing your legs to dangle from the side of the building. 

The silence of the night and the goosebumps prickling at your bare arms allowed the tears to emerge; it allowed them to pour down your cheeks, for snot to bubble at your nose and for your lips to tremble with unkempt sobs. You allowed for your hurt to take hold, for your hurt at Erik’s words and actions and simple presence to take hold. But then you allowed your hurt towards yourself to unfold; for allowing yourself to end up here, in this situation- living this life that you had manufactured for yourself. 

You couldn’t go back to that motel room, but most notably you couldn’t go back home. You couldn’t bear it anymore; the stresses of being within that barron manor were becoming too much to bear. If you couldn’t be with Erik, then you would rather be alone; somewhere far away, far away from here. You stewed upon this thought for a long time, as you lit your second, third and fourth cigarettes; it prevailed. 

Just as your fourth cigarette began to dwindle, the slam of a door sounded below you before hasty, alert footsteps lined the hallway. You rose, walking back towards the highest entrance of the fire exit before looking down; listening as the hurried steps continued, haggard breaths accompanying it. Opting to investigate, you lowered yourself onto the platform below before descending the stairs; entering the residential hallway of the hotel. There, at the end of the corridor stood Erik, the obvious source of the worried footsteps as his chest heaved; he was turning in place, visibly searching for something as he rushed down the hallway. 

“What-” You mumbled, slowly walking towards him as he had not yet spotted you. Finally, you decided to catch his attention; concerned as to whether there was some form of danger, “Erik?” You called, a hand shielding your eyes as you peered down the dark hallway. You watched as he froze at the sound of your words, his head snapping towards you as he drank in your presence, your appearance. 

“What the fuck-” He breathed, immediately shaking off his shock and advancing towards you, practically running as he reached you. Entirely unannounced, he swept you up into his arms; shaking as he lowered his head to your shoulder, practically breathing you in as he tightened his hold by the second. 

“Erik, what-” 

“What is your problem?” He pulled back almost as soon as it had begun, his breathing staggered as a blush covered his cheeks; he wore only the black tank top and sweatpants he had been asleep in, his hair a mess upon his head; as if he had just jumped from his bed, “I woke up and- and you were gone, your bed sheets were practically stale with how long you’ve been gone I-” 

“I’m fine.” You assured, catching his hands between your own as an attempt to calm him down; the worry he had been feeling now prevalent within the staggering of his chest and the blush at his cheeks, “I just went to have a smoke I- let’s get you back to the room.”

He nodded, his glassy eyes immediately beginning to droop as he allowed you to use your grasp on his hand to pull him down the hallway. Upon depositing him into his own bed, as you left to enter your own, a tight grip latched upon your wrist; you turned, only to be met with those blue eyes swarming with desperation, “Stay?”

You sighed, nodding reluctantly before crawling in beside him; allowing him to drape an arm over your waist, allowing him to rest his head upon yours. Before your departure, before the decision would be set; you could allow yourself this one thing, this one night of unplagued sleep as his comfort would ward away the nightmares that tended to tinge your nights. 

But, before you could fall asleep; Erik’s voice rumbled above you, “I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

You could only shrug, pressing your nose to his chest as you listened to his heartbeat, “Me too, Erik.” 

He moved backwards then, settling so that his face lay directly before yours; the tip of his nose rubbing against yours with each second breath. It seemed that he could only muster a whisper as he continued to speak, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes grew wet as he spoke, his head shaking slightly as he smiled sadly. 

“Erik.” You whispered, your voice soft with contempt as you raised a hand to his cheek; brushing away the tears that had begun to fall there. Feeling him swallow against your wrist, you could only watch as his eyes flickered downwards, just as your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip. Before you could register, he had moved; his lips pressed to yours as your cheeks grew wet with his steadily falling tears. Your mind allowed nothing else but to kiss back, to shift your leg upwards and to caress his cheek with your thumb. He kissed you earnestly, slowly; as if approaching a terrified fawn, testing the waters as to what you would allow him. You could practically taste the desperation perspiring his tongue, as you assumed he could yours. You would take anything, trade any parts of your wretched souls if it meant that you could feel this forever; feel the warmth of his tongue sliding against yours for every waking moment that remained. 

Erik pulled back then, only to lower himself; his mouth hot and needy against your throat, his hands trailing patterns against the skin of your stomach; becoming exposed as your shirt had rode upwards. His ministrations rendered you only able to lay there and pant; to bask in the feeling of being needed, wanted. Truly, ferociously. 

As he began to paint a trail of kisses down your stomach, something changed; something shifted in his demeanour. His hands, beginning to pull your thighs upward, were shaking and whilst his lips were forming kisses, they were forming words too. As you raised yourself to rest against your elbows, you finally heard the words forming within his mouth, “Please don’t go back to him.” He was whispering, pairing the almost unspoken words with a gentle kiss to the nearest area of skin; he was crying again, his eyes glistening with fresh, unshed tears as he burrowed his face into your skin. It seemed as if he was afraid to let you go, practically burrowing himself into your being, with the hopes that you would stay. 

“Erik, Erik wait-” You spoke urgently, lowering your hand to his chin before pushing him away; he stared up at you through his glassy eyes; his hair ruffled and cheeks rosy. Confusion graced his features at first, though he soon registered the concern in your eyes and realisation visibly dawned upon him. 

He removed himself from you then, moving to sit at the end of the bed; the duvet splayed around his waist as he sat with his legs crossed. He seemed to take a moment to compose himself, wiping at his mouth and running a finger over his teary eyes, “I’m sorry Y/N, I- it’s not my place to tell you what to do.” 

Instantly, you crawled towards him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and settling yourself into the space between his legs; you felt his cheeks crinkle as you pressed kiss after kiss to his face, but you could still sense his confusion, his doubt. “I knew I would be leaving him the moment Logan mentioned your name, whether you were coming with me or not.” You stroked his hair as you spoke, caressing your fingers through the thin tendrils of oaky brown hair that adorned your lover's head. Erik grinned then; his teeth shining as he practically mooned up at you, he kissed you again then; pulling you in and deeper into his lap. 

Before you could push him onto his back, before you could lower yourself upon him and mobilise the groans that would fall from his mouth; he abruptly straightened up, untwining his hand from beneath your shirt and raising it in the air- your wedding ring flew towards the two of you, hanging in the air before Erik made a flicking motion with his fingers; you could only gape as the ring flew through the open window and into the darkness of the night. 

“Erik!” You squealed, hitting at his chest as he laughed loudly, unabashedly. Despite being secretly pleased, you couldn’t allow him to know that. “That was expensive!” 

“I can find you better,” Erik grumbled against your chest, burrowing his head into your shirt and inhaling unashamedly, “That one wasn’t you anyway, I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that ghastly thing on your finger.” 

The only response you could have mustered in that moment was to shove him back against the bed; silencing him with the warmth of your own mouth.

[lovebugism]

OMG Stevie helping his shy!girlfriend with a bloody nose while at school just ☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️

steve promises a good time in exchange for skipping class with him. you end up with a bloody nose. (established relationship, hurt/comfort-ish, 0.8k)

“Missed you,” Steve slurs against your mouth, pressing your body between his towering one and the cold bathroom stall.

You manage a quiet giggle between his sloppy kisses. He swallows the sunshine sound with his plush, pink mouth. “It’s only been three hours,” you tell him as you twist your hands in his wild hair. The chestnut strands feel like silk between your fingers.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” the boy mumbles before pressing his smile to yours. He licks into your mouth and sighs at the taste, almost like he’s never felt you before — like he hadn’t kissed the breath from your lungs all lunch period.

He’s insatiable, your beautiful brown-eyed boy, and he kisses you with haste accordingly. He’s always seemed to touch you that way. With a hunger, like every time he’s held you is the very first time. And with an eagerness, like any time could be his last.

Steve gets all boyishly aggressive beneath the weight of his yearning. And you, warm and fondly held by his swollen mouth and wide palms, can’t help when your head gets all swimmy about it. It’s a horrid combination, really. 

‘Cause when he ducks down to kiss your neck, you rise to the tips of your toes to swallow him whole. Your faces bonk rather gracelessly together accordingly — like a couple of poorly aligned planets.

“Oh, shit!” Steve exclaims as he pulls back from you, rubbing at his aching forehead.

“I’m okay!” you blurt — not because you entirely mean it, but because you feel like it’s something you should say after being so carelessly clumsy.

The boy’s face twists with a puppylike pout. His jutted lips are rosier and very ardently kissed. His honey eyes flit rapidly across your features, glazed over with leftover longing. You look about as far-gone as he does now.

“Are you sure?” Steve presses. Because you’ve got a tendency to downplay the severity of certain situations for the sake of being a burden. It’s a whole thing. You’re still working on it. “I know that had to hurt, babe.”

“I’m fine,” you insist despite the distant throbbing between your eyes. Shaking your head with so much vigor doesn’t help. “I promise. I’m good… I think.”

Steve peers down at you, visibly unconvinced. His narrowed eyes widen when blood drips slowly from your right nostril, trickling like a river of crimson down your cupid’s bow.

Your brows furrow at his suddenly concerned gaze. “What?” you wonder as you reach for your mouth. His eyes are very obviously pointed there, and you’ve got a weird itch now, anyway.

“Nothing! It’s okay, just— Maybe don’t touch it,” Steve blurts before ducking at your side. He unravels cheap toilet paper from the dispenser beside your thigh and wraps it around his hand. He rises again to wipe the nosebleed, only to find that you’ve smeared it with your fingers.

Your eyes go glassy at the cherry-colored blood staining your fingertips. “Gosh…” you murmur as your heart swells into your throat. You blink slow, head all swimmy — and not in the good way.

“It’s okay. You’re alright, babe,” Steve insists as he smooths a softly calloused palm beneath your jaw. He guides your chin softly upward and presses the tissue to your nose. “Here. Just tilt your head back. Hold this ’til the bleeding stops, yeah?”

At a loss for what else to do, you listen to him. You press the crown of your head against the stall wall and wrap a trembling hand around the boy’s wrist. You can feel his racing pulse beneath your thumb.

“This is the last time I’m skipping study hall with you,” you announce with an icy glare that’s hardly intimidating. “Ever.”

Steve’s lip quirks into a sheepish half-smile. “I figured,” he replies.

When the bleeding doesn’t stop, he takes you to the nurse’s. 

He sits with you in the concrete room, beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights and the overwhelming scent of bleach. His hands tremble with the longing to touch you while the nurse checks you over. She shoves a cotton ball up your nostril and a bulky icepack in your hand.

Steve would help you hold it if he didn’t think it would be the worst idea ever. He’s already gotten you into this mess — he figures it’s best to keep himself out of the rest of it for now. He idles in the corner, instead, and plays the innocent bystander.

“How did this happen, exactly?” the woman asks as she scribbles out a report. The pen against the clipboard sounds much louder in the quiet.

You glance over her shoulder at Steve for an answer. He shrugs with panicked eyes. The nurse peers at you over the frames of her cat-eyed glasses with a most impatient glare.

“I, uh— I just wasn’t paying attention,” you stammer less than convincingly. “Slammed right into a wall. Guess I should watch where I’m going, right?”

You force out a giggle while the older woman flashes Steve a deadpanned glare. “And I don’t imagine that you were the source of this distraction. Were you, Mr. Harrington?” she montones.

“Me?” he scoffs with a lopsided smile. “Of course not.”

[yandere-daydreams]

file #2: the amputation fic.

part of the FREAK SHIT MARCH evidence packet.

pairing: yandere!gojo satoru x reader (jjk).

length: 2.9k.

warnings: non/con, amputation, unhealthy relationships, abusive relationships, obsessive behavior, amputation (no injury to reader in fic), handjobs, masturbation, and unbalanced power dynamics.

“Babydoll? You wanna let me in?”

A beat of silence, a light knock. You stayed where you were, crumpled on the bathroom floor, and Satoru sighed.

“C’mon, angel. I can’t help from all the way out here.”

You clenched your bloody arm closer, pulling your knees up to your chest. An orange-tinted, half-emptied pill container sat lidless and on its side next to you. Shoko’s pills took care of the worst of the pain, but a steady, persistent throbbing had lodged itself in the knob that used to be your wrist and refused to let-up. It probably wouldn’t for the next hour, if not the next day.

“I can’t take you to see Shoko if you keep me locked out.”

At that, you relented, uncurling with from your self-made bundle. It took a second to shift yourself onto your knees, another to find the doorknob with your remaining hand, but Satoru himself in as soon as the lock clicked out of place. Thankfully, mercifully, he gave you time to skitter back to your corner before crossing the threshold, but that didn’t stop you from withering as his eyes raked over you, as he evaluated the damage. Eventually, he collapsed against the adjacent wall and sunk to the floor, letting out a raspy groan before tossing you a familiar, crooked smile. You didn’t return it. “That mad at me, huh?” You didn’t respond, gaze dropping to your decimated hand – or, rather, the mangled stump that used to be your hand. His smile wavered, but didn’t fall away. “Yeah, no, I probably deserve that. Does it hurt?”

You didn’t indulge him with an answer. “Did you call Shoko?”

“On a mission,” he said with a slight shrug, a strong note of ‘what can you do?’ in his tone. Like this was some minor inconvenience, annoying but ultimately trivial. Like like you weren’t missing an essential part of yourself. “She said she’d swing by as soon as she’s done, but I’d give it another hour. I think she’ll kill me if I keep asking her to make house calls.”

Another beat of silence, another deafening failure to respond on your part. Finally, he turned to face you properly, leaning forward. “…can I?”

He always did this – paused like that, smiled like that, tried to make himself seem so gentle, so loving, so considerate. It might’ve been well-meaning, an attempt to let you know he was sorry without having to swallow enough of his pride to actually apologize, but all it ever seemed to make you feel was cold and alone, stuck in a shell of an apartment with a shell of a man. It was always the same. It was always going to be the fucking same.

And, like always, you relented, looking away as you nodded stiltedly. Satoru’s smile brightened as he closed the distance between you, his thigh pressing into yours as he settled against your side.

When you’d first gotten into a relationship with Gojo Satoru, you told yourself that if things ever so much as seemed like they might be going south, you were gone. You hadn’t known anything about cursed energy or sorcerer hierarchies or malevolent spirits, but you didn’t have to – even if you hadn’t watched him obliterate monsters the size of apartment buildings with a snap of his fingers, he still would’ve been the strongest person you’d ever met, a man capable of shattering bones with his bare hands and breaking open skulls with all the effort it would’ve taken you to swat a fly out of the air. He was dangerous to be around, even if you doubted Satoru could ever intentionally hurt another living, breathing person. He was rich, and pretty, and strong, and used to getting his way. You loved him, but you needed to be able to leave if it ever seemed like that love was going to put you in danger.

And you did leave. The first time you argued, the first time he lost control of his temper and you were left sobbing on the floor with nothing below your left knee, you’d gotten as far as you could as quickly as you could. It’d taken him a full week to track you down, another to convince you that one of his bizarre friends could heal you, and roughly half a minute of Satoru sobbing and clinging to your (newly restored) leg for you to forgive him, to write it off as an accident – just the kind of risk you took when you got into a relationship with someone who could deadlift armored tanks. The second, you’d stayed at a friend’s place for a few days before coming back on your own, as desperate for his miracle-cure as you were for the pet comforts that came with Satoru’s bottomless fortune. The fourth, you’d barricaded yourself in his bedroom for sixteen hours and only come out for Shoko, who’d muttered about your ‘wreck of a boyfriend’ as she rebuilt the three missing fingers on your right hand.

Now, on the ninth, you’d barely managed to keep him locked out of a bathroom for all of five minutes. It was embarrassing, more than anything. You wanted to be able to hate him, you wanted to be scared of him, but it was hard to be scared of someone you loved. Someone you loved as much as Satoru, especially.

You shook your head, dragging yourself out of your own spiraling thoughts. Your attention, instead, moved to Satoru – still slumped against the tiled wall, his head lulled back and his attention focused pointedly on the ceiling. You were dressed to go out, uncomfortable jeans and all, but Satoru looked like he just rolled out of bed – a plain white shirt pulled tight over his broad chest, a pair of pitch-black sweatpants falling low on his waist, the lights dim enough to mean his piercing blue eyes didn’t have to be locked behind tinted glass or thick fabric. That was what you’d been arguing about, even if it was hard to remember why it’d seemed like such a big deal. He had the day off, no class and no cursed spirits to slaughter, and wanted to waste his morning in bed, with you wrapped in his arms. You’d tried to tell him, as slowly and as tenderly as you could, that you couldn’t, that you had an important early-morning lecture, that you’d be back by the time he actually wanted to get up, but he’d whined and pouted and you’d lost your patience when he reminded you that you could ‘always drop out’. You tried to leave, and he tried to catch your hand, to make you stay for that much longer, and—

“Can I see it?” You were almost thankful to hear his voice, if only for the distraction. “Your hand, I mean. If you’re comfortable with showing me.”

You weren’t, but you were desperate not to sink back into your own head, either. Slowly, cautiously, you shuffled that much closer to him, folding your legs underneath you as you gingerly held out the arm you’d spent the better part of the last few minutes cradling. It made you sick to look at a part of your own body so violently distorted, so violently wrong, so you didn’t – keeping your focus trained on your knees as Satoru took up your shortened limb. His own healing abilities had taken care of the worst of the gore, but even with the open, gaping wound at the end of your arm closed, there was still a ring of bruising around your wrist, streaks of dried blood running down the length of your forearm, a raw quality to the skin where his hap-hazard repairs hadn’t quite taken. His touch was feather-light, skirting around the worst of the remaining damage and lingering near your elbow, then your bicep. Acknowledgement came in the form of a low whistle, an airy sigh. You tried not to let his casualness get to you. Sorcerers must’ve seen injuries like this all the time. This was the end of the world for you, but Satoru would be just fine. “I’m not going to let you lift a finger after this. You know that, right? I’ve gotta make sure my pretty baby’s still nice n’ spoiled, even when I go and fuck everything up.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was as close as he’d ever get. You grit your teeth and nodded, taking a second to find your voice. Even with the delay, it came out as a croak; almost too low and too ragged to be coherent. “This can’t keep happening, ‘toru. I love you, but this can’t keep happening.”

“I know, baby, I know.” One of his hands remained wrapped around your arm while the other, unoccupied, fell between his open legs. “I don’t mean to. If I had it my way, nobody would be able to touch you, but…” A pause, a laugh. “I just get so stressed out when we start fighting, like that. All I can think about is someone hurting you when I’m not there to keep you safe, and I forget how delicate I’ve gotta be with you. It feels like I’m not in control of myself.”

Despite your better judgement, you felt a deep, churning well of guilt open up inside of you. It was your turn to sigh, now, to slump, to let your eyes fall shut. “I love you,” you repeated, like it was the only thing you knew how to say. “It’s just— It scares me, when you get like that. I know you’re just trying to be protective, but it hurts.”

You heard his breathing pick-up, his grip tighten ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel. “I know, sweetheart. I’m just trying to take care of you.”

“You do take care of me, but—” You were cut off by a breathy swear, a throat groan. Momentarily, your fear and self-loathing gave way to irritation, a frown tugging at the corner of your lips as you opened your eyes and snapped towards Satoru. He was still focused on your arm – what was left of it, at least – but his gaze was glazed over, far away, and his hand was moving between his—

You put it together too quickly, the force of the realization leaving no time for numbing shock or dampening confusion. He was touching himself, grinding the heel of his palm into the base of his cock. You could see the outline of his shaft against the dark material – already half-hard, if not worse.

If you’d been able to feel anything, you might’ve felt sick.

Reflexively, you tried to pull away from him, but his hold on your arm only tightened, fingertips digging into your bicep as Satoru laughed, the sound strained and airy. “Sorry, sorry, my bad. I know you like a head’s up, but…” Now, he looked at you, but it was too late, too much, too sudden. All you could seem to think to do was gape back at him, unmoving and unthinking. “Guess it’s just what you do to me. I’ll try to make it quick – all you’ve gotta do is sit there and look pretty.”

It was a familiar line, a familiar excuse. You’d heard it a thousand times – mumbled into your neck as draped himself over you in the early hours of the morning, spouted off as he dragged you back to his car halfway through dinner at a restaurant you’d been looking forward to visiting for months – but it didn’t seem to make sense, this time, didn’t fit with the image of your missing hand hovering a few inches above your loving boyfriend’s erection. The dissonance only seemed to get worse, more dizzying as he shrugged the waistband of his sweats past his hips and down to his thighs, freeing his stiff cock. You’d been too generous, before; he was already hard, his tip flushed a dark pink and leaking thick beads of arousal. Again, you tried to get away, and again, he only pulled you closer, until your side was flush against his. There was a deep grunt, a hazy grin as he wrapped a fist around the shaft of his cock, his grip almost painfully tight. His eyes never left the dull stump on the end of your left arm, his raspy breathing soon turning to a deep, heady panting as you watched him pump his fist over his cock, his pace slow and methodical – a far cry from the spontaneous, erratic Satoru you were used to. A soft voice in the back of your mind, awful and treacherous, suggested that he might be trying to savor it, and a dozen more screamed loudly enough to drown it out.

“Satoru,” you said, nearly surprising yourself with how distant you sounded, how detached. You didn’t feel detached. If anything, you almost felt too grounded in the feeling of cool tile against your back, the heat of his body where it pressed into yours. “Please, stop.”

“I don’t really have a choice, babe.” He shot you a playful grin, and for a second, you could almost imagine hating him. “It’d go a lot faster if you helped me out, though.”

You didn’t answer, but he didn’t need you to. His hand was already groping for yours, already forcing your reluctant participation. The position was awkward, your body half-bent over his, but when you shifted, Satoru’s thumb dug into the bone of your wrist and instantly, you went still. This was bad. Not having control of your only remaining hand was bad. But having your only remaining hand taken away from you would be worse.

Satoru didn’t seem to see it that way. Sounds of aching pleasure bubbled past his lips shamelessly, turning the abruptly claustrophobic bathroom into an echo chamber of pitchy whines and raspy groans and the slick, wet clicks of his cock fucking into your balled fist. It was terrible – being able to feel how his cock pulsed against your palm, being forced to acknowledge the little, stilted movements of his hips whenever he decided your (admittedly lackluster) pace left something to be desired. In less than a minute, his head had lulled onto your shoulder, his voice muffled by the proximity as he struggled to speak in spite of his own unabashed moaning. “Love you so much,” he half-mumbled, half-panted. You could feel his breath against your shoulder, his drool starting to pool just above your collarbone. “W-wanna take care of you when you can’t take care of yourself, make sure nobody else ever gets to put their hands on you. I’d be good – cook for you, n’ shower with you, ‘n dress you up all nice n’ pretty,” He paused, nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “You… You wouldn’t hate me that much if we left it that way, right?”

You felt something drop into the pit of your stomach. “Satoru, you’re—”

“Please, baby.” It was the same tone he used when he was begging you to make a late-night snack run with him, or when he wanted to finish inside of you without protection. “Just—Just tell me that you’d let me take care of you. Just say that you’d still love me.”

It felt like your throat was swollen shut, your chest stuffed to bursting with shattered glass and razor blades and spiny needles only just beginning to poke through your skin. You didn’t want to say anything, you didn’t think you could say anything, and yet, when your mouth fell open, you found a voice that was not your own seeping out by means beyond your control. “It’s alright,” you muttered, distantly, as his cock throbbed in your hand. “I’d still love you, ‘toru.”

Although, you were starting to wish you wouldn’t.

You heard him groan, felt something thick and searing spill over the back of your hand. Satoru’s hand, cupped snuggly over yours, kept you moving until every last drop had been milked out of him, until the final ember of his climax had burnt itself out. He went limp against you, his vice-grip finally falling away, but rather than run, you only straightened, wiping your hand on your jeans before tucking it into your lap. How you looked didn’t matter, anymore.  There couldn’t have been more than a few minutes left in your lecture, if you hadn’t already missed it entirely.

Silence interrupted only by panting breaths and the beating, drowning drum playing in your ears reigned over the confined space, keeping you in a state of bleary stasis until the sound of a sharp knock, shortly followed by a distant door opening broke through the fog. “That’s Shoko,” Satoru murmured, almost disappointed. He started to separate himself from you, only to relapse – burying his face in the crook of your neck and letting out a deep, contented sigh. “You know that I love you, right?”

“I know.”

“And you know that all I wanna do is keep you happy?”

“I know, ‘toru.”

“Good.” He pulled back, grinning. “’cause all I ever wanna do is take care of my angel. Don’t let anything ‘side from that get into your pretty little head.”

You only nodded as he pushed himself to his feet, as he slipped out of the bathroom to meet Shoko, to explain what vital part of yourself he’d torn away this time. You wanted to get up, to wash the cum off of your hand, to pump feeling back into your numb legs, but your remaining limbs were uncooperative, heavy and awkward and useless. It was all you could do to pull your knees up to your chest, wrap your arms around your legs, and hold yourself as you started to cry.

At least, next time Satoru decided to tear you apart, you might not find it so hard to hate him for it.