#this gif really has it all...hands...arms...thighs...the perfect place to sit...

Your eyes widen, mouth opening and closing over and over as you try and think of how to respond to that.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re flustered, come on.” Steve says, gripping the pie firmly in one hand while grabbing one of your hands in his other. He begins dragging you to the bedroom, leaving no room for discussion, but you didn’t care. This was going to be fun, Steve loved trying new things in the bedroom, and the thought of him eating a pie you made him straight off your body? It made your pussy wet, clit pulsing with need.

Steve sets the pie down on your shared dresser, his hands back on you in seconds. He’s roughly pulling your shirt up and over your head, tossing it behind you before his fingers are fumbling with the button and zipper of your jeans. Once he’s finally got you completely undressed, left in nothing but a lacy lingerie set, his hands are lifting you by the waist, one arm going to the underside of your thighs and holding you up. You wrap your legs around his waist, giggling as he walks you to the queen sized bed and tosses you down on the mattress.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, your eyes watching hungrily as Steve begins to strip himself down to nothing, even his boxers are discarded and you couldn’t be more thankful. Your eyes find his hard cock, standing straight out. You’ve been with Steve for years, but his cock will never not make your jaw drop. It’s so big. So long and thick, that thick protruding vein that runs up the bottom of his shaft, begging for you to lick it every chance you get. He was everything. He was all yours.

“You’re staring, sweetheart.” Steve jokes, the playfulness in his tone evident.

Your eyes snap up to find his, the chocolate brown now completely black, his pupils fully dilated, his eyes glazed over with lust.

“Steve, please?” you beg, unsure of what you’re even asking for, just knowing you needed him.

He spits down on his palm, gripping the base tightly, his palm slowly running up the length of his shaft and to his swollen tip. He squeezes at the head of his dick, groaning as he does. “Please what? Tell me what you need, sweetheart.”

You push yourself up to a sitting position, slowly getting on all fours and crawling toward the end of the bed. Steve grunts, his hand continuing to slowly pump at his cock as he watches your every move.

Once you reach the end of the bed, you reach forward, trying to replace his hand with yours, but Steve tuts you, making your hand drop back down to the mattress.

“On your knees, place the heels of your feet under your ass and place your hands behind your back. I’m going to fuck this pretty face, and I don’t want your hands to move while I do, got it?”

You nod your head, quickly getting into position. Your mouth is watering; you need him inside you, any part of you, now.

“Words, Y/N. I want to hear you say ‘Yes, Steve, I understand’.”

Your eyes fall back down to his large hand stroking his cock, the sight has wetness pooling between your legs, dripping down your thighs. “Yes, Steve, I understand.” you repeat his words, biting at your bottom lip as you anxiously wait on him to fuck your mouth.

He smiles, stepping as close as he can to the end of the bed. “Good girl.”

The praise has you whimpering, your hips shifting from side to side. You align your clit with the heels of one of your feet, pressing down firmly against your swollen and sensitive nub, trying to feel some form of pressure against where you need it most right now.

Steve strokes his cock two more times, pressing his swollen tip to your lips. You slightly part your lips, letting him push the head in. Out of pure instinct, you close your lips around his tip, sucking on it and pulling a deep, throaty moan from Steve.

His free hand tangles in your hair, holding your head still as he slowly pushes an inch of his cock into your mouth. Your tongue falls from your mouth, a deep breath being sucked in through your nose as you lick and suck at him, saliva pooling in your mouth, dripping out the sides of your lips as Steve pushes more and more of himself down your throat.

You gag around him once he’s fully in your mouth, the tip of his dick now pressing against the back of your throat. You work your tongue up and down the underside of his shaft, loving the feeling of that vein pulsing each time you work your tongue against it.

“Fuck, I love when my cock is stuffing this pretty little mouth.”

With his fingers tightly gripping the back of your head, Steve slowly pulls himself from your mouth, leaving only the tip in. “I’m going to fuck your face now, deep breath in,” you suck a deep breath in through your nose, holding it. “Let it out, baby.” Steve commands, and you do as he says.

Steve gives no other warnings, no further instructions, his hips thrusting rapidly against your face. His cock slides in and out of your mouth with an eagerness you’d never seen from Steve before, and you wouldn’t lie and say you didn’t love every fucking second of it. You loved being his whore, loved letting him use you however he pleased.

Steve was a simple man, he loved you loudly and treated you like a Queen, but it was these moments, these moments between just the two of you, when he treated you like a dirty slut, that you loved just as much as everything else.

“Come back, baby, you’re brain is shutting off on me already,” Steve pauses, a grunt filling your ears as he shoves himself completely down your throat, holding himself there and relishing in the way you choke and moan around him. Spit flies from your mouth, tears falling down your face, Steve’s free hand going to grip your cheeks between his fingers. “Such a good little slut for me aren’t you?”

You nod the best you can, fresh tears filling your eyes and slipping down your cheeks. Steve smiles, the action sending a chill down your spine. “You’re so fucking pretty like this… My cock down your throat, tears falling down your face while you choke on it.”

He releases your face, wiping the tears with his thumb. Your hands fight to stay behind your back, but the lack of oxygen has you panicking just slightly. You know Steve knows your limits, so you’re not afraid, but black spots are now dotting your vision, your face tingling.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shifting your hips side to side. Steve chuckles, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the top of your head before he quickly pulls his cock out of your mouth, spit pulling from your lips as he does. You suck in a deep breath through your mouth, gasping for air as Steve strokes his cock again.

“Beg me to feed you my cum, then I’ll take care of you.”

Your bloodshot, watery eyes find his, your clit pressed against your heel again as you rub yourself against it. You’re so fucking horny, you need him. “Please?” you beg, your voice hoarse from his cock being buried down your throat for so long.

He slaps your lips with his tip, precum now leaking from the slit. “Please, what?”

“Please feed me your cum, I need you to touch me, Steve, please?”

A low groan spills from his lips as he pushes back into your mouth, fucking your mouth at a rapid pace. He grips your head in both hands, keeping your head completely still as he uses your mouth to get him to his peak. You know he’s there when his cock gets stiffer in your mouth, that vein pulsing. He twitches inside your mouth, shoving himself fully down your throat once more as his thick, warm cum spills down your throat with a groan and your name on his lips.

Once he’s completely spent, Steve pulls his semi-hard cock from your mouth, gripping your cheeks in his hand and kissing you hard. He slips his tongue into your mouth, moaning when he tastes himself against your own.

He breaks his lips from yours, those pretty brown eyes on yours. “Lay back for me.”

You do as he says, quickly laying on your back, your head on the soft pillows. Steve gives you his back, walking to grab the cherry pie you’d forgotten about and coming back over to you. He sets it down beside your head, your eyes sliding to the side to look at it.

Steve climbs into the bed, the mattress slightly dipping under his weight. Your eyes land on Steve now sitting in front of you, his cock already hard again.

He reaches beside your head, grabbing the pie and bringing it to his lap. You watch him intently, waiting to see what his next move will be. He told you he wanted to eat the pie off your body, but you have no idea what you fully meant.

Without any warning, Steve grabs a handful of the cherry pie in one hand, bringing the messy dessert to your stomach and placing it there. You gasp at the coldness of the cherries on your body.

Steve continues grabbing handfuls of the pie, sporadically placing it all over your body, smearing it into your skin. You moan when he places some of the pie on your pussy, his fingers lightly skimming over your swollen clit.

This will more than likely end with a UTI later on, but you couldn’t care less right now.

Satisfied with every place he’s put pie on your body, Steve grabs it and places it onto his nightstand, turning to face you once more. His smiles, his eyes blown out with lust, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. “God, you’re so fucking perfect.” He leans forward, licking up some of the pie he’d placed on your neck. “My pretty little slut.”

You moan, your hips bucking wildly, needing him to place his lips on your pussy, needing him to lick you where you need him most. “Steve, please?” you beg, your breaths coming out in short, quick pants.

He smirks, his eyebrows raised. “Please, what, baby?”

You whimper, moving your hips from side to side when Steve’s fingers find your clit again, playing with it as he waits on you to tell him what you need.

“Need you to eat my pussy, need you to lick me here,” you pause, gripping his hand in yours and putting more pressure on your clit. “Please? Please, Steve, I need it.”

Steve groans, the sound sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to your clit. Steve grips your hips in his hands, dragging you further down the mattress. He leans his body forward, his tongue flicking against both your hard nipples. He closes his mouth around your hardened buds, sucking on them harshly, cleaning the cherry pie filling off your breasts.

He moves his lips down your body, licking and cleaning the pie off your stomach then your hips before his mouth finally hovers over your needy cunt. His tongue flicks out, softly licking at your clit before he blows cool air against your pussy, making you whimper and twitch beneath him.

Steve places a soft kiss against each of your inner thighs, and then on your pelvis, teasing you. His hands grip your hips again, holding them tightly as his chocolate eyes find yours. He smiles, giving you a small wink before he buries his face in your pussy. His tongue flattens against your soaked center, licking up from your entrance to your clit, cleaning the pie from you as he does.

A long moan slips from your lips, your hips bucking under Steve’s hold as he continues to circle his tongue around your clit before licking down to your entrance. He dips his tongue in and out of your soaked hole, driving you crazy as he does. He licks his way back up, sucking your clit into his mouth, removing his right hand from your hip and bringing it between your shaking legs. He gives no warning, three of his long fingers shoving into your cunt, curling up and rubbing against your g-spot as he continues to suck on your clit.

Your pussy clenches around Steve’s fingers, that euphoric feeling wrapping around your spine, threatening to send you over the edge. Steve sucks harshly, his fingers now pushing in and out of you at a rapid pace, your pussy squelching with each thrust of his fingers.

You let your hands fly to Steve’s head, tangling his brown strands between your fingers and pulling. “Fuck fuck fuck, Steve!” you cry out, grinding your pussy against his face.

Steve releases your clit with a messy pop, the cool air of the room hitting your soaked pussy and sending goosebumps skittering up your arms and legs. Steve works his fingers in and out of you slowly. “Come for me, baby. Be my good girl and come all over my face.”

Burying his face between your legs again, Steve picks up the pace of his fingers, sucking your clit back into his mouth. He works your pussy with his mouth and fingers, that heat wrapping around your body, your legs shaking as you near your peak. Steve shoves his fingers all the way inside you, curling them and working them against your sweet spot, his mouth sucking and licking at your clit enough to make you explode.

“Steve!” you scream his name, your thighs tightening around his head as you come undone, your cum covering his face and fingers.

Steve groans against your pussy, drinking you up like he’s been lost in the desert for months and you’rethe water he’s desperately needed.

You ride out your high, Steve’s fingers slowing before completely pulling from inside you. He pulls back from between your legs, smiling at you, his face glistening with the evidence of your arousal. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his tongue licking across this lips, not wanting to waste a drop of you. He climbs on top of you, his body hovering over yours.

Leaning down, he kisses you deeply, his tongue pushing into your mouth. You moan when you taste yourself, your heart pounding out of your chest as sleep threatens to take you.

When your eyes flutter shut, Steve gently shakes you awake. “Hey, get up. I’ll draw you a bath so you can freshen up. I’ll strip the bed and throw everything in the wash. Then, I’ll put the spare sheets and comforter on, and I’ll join you afterward. We can nap after a bath, okay?”

You smile sleepily at him, nodding your head and humming your agreement.

Steve disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the tub running lulling you to sleep again. Steve reappears minutes later, lifting you into his arms and gently placing you into the tub. The warm water soothes your muscles, your eyes opening and landing on Steve.

“I love you.” you whisper, smiling at him.

He leans forward, placing his hands on the side of the tub, kissing you. “I love you too, baby.”

⟡ varka is really affectionate, to no one’s surprise. your name somehow makes its way into every conversation he has, even if you’re not there. if you are, he’s always steering the topic back to you, or asking for your input with a warm smile.

⟡ he’s the kind of guy to have no shame when it comes to you. he’ll pick you up and twirl you around in the town centre in front of everyone, even if its only been a day since you’ve seen him.

⟡ he’s your personal cheerleader. he’s nothing if not proud of you and he makes sure to tell you all the time.

⟡ he calls you his spouse way before you guys get married. you two are as good as married to him anyway.

⟡ varka’s ideal date is something fancy where he can show you off, but if you aren’t up for that then he loves to stargaze with you. just the two of you, two glasses of wine and the stars above.

⟡ his favourite place to kiss you is obviously your lips. he’s such a tease about it too, even when you’re giving him a quick kiss goodbye, he’ll tug on your lower lip with his teeth before pulling away. his second favourite place is your thighs. it doesn’t have to go further, just gently pressing his lips to your thigh while he’s laying his head on them.

⟡ he adores your body. shape and size don’t matter to him, he’ll cherish it no matter what because it’s yours. you were always so perfect to him, and your body isn’t the exception to that.

⟡ he’s the kind of guy to kiss your fingertips when you offer him a bite of food from your hand. he’s a sap like that.

⟡ his favourite things to call you are angel, darling, beloved, or some silly nickname derived from your name.

⟡ varka loves when you call him yours. your boyfriend, your lover, your varka. nothing makes his heart swell more than being yours, and proudly yours.

⟡ he brings you flowers while you’re working. he’ll knock at your door and when you tell him to come in, he’ll be stood there with a boyish grin, holding out a handful of cecilias to you. you’ve learnt to keep a large vase of water at your workplace to store his flower gifts.

⟡ varka has had his proposal to you planned for ages. (oneshot incoming perhaps 👀) he’s just waiting for the chance to get you both properly out of work.

⟡ if you ever get seriously injured, varka’s glued to your side. he’ll sit by your bed, trying to make you laugh to distract you from your injuries. while you’re unconscious, he’s gently stroking the back of your hand and pressing his lips to your knuckles and the inside of your wrists.

⟡ varka is very much “happy wife (spouse), happy life” coded in the sense that he does not like making you angry or upset. he’ll genuinely get on his knees for forgiveness from you. he hates arguing with you and avoids it as much as he can. (cue mild communication issues)

⟡ he falls asleep last and wakes up last. he likes when you lay your head on his chest while he rests his hand on your waist. sometimes you’ll wake up and you’re both tangled in each other’s arms as a result of him pulling you closer throughout the night.

⟡ varka’s big on cuddling. he holds you tight in his arms, mumbling sleepily against your neck to get you to stay for just “five more minutes.” five minutes turns to half an hour because he just can’t bring himself to let go of you.

⟡ he only does his paperwork when you’re keeping him company. you have to reward him with kisses periodically to get him to continue. (ho is you a dog?) sometimes turns into you two making out but he sounds so apologetic about it while he’s mumbling an “oops..?” against your lips. you can’t bring yourself to be mad at him when he kisses you so sweetly.

First to grace the public had been your brother: Homelander, the charming, handsome, inescapable face that slinked his way onto every magazine cover, headline, and television screen across the country. He’d been the icon America had needed, something to unite divided parties, battle crime on and off home turf, fix what had been broken so many times in the past. But, of course, next came his thunder. His temper. His desperate, howling, clawing need for control, for more power, for the love he had been starved of in that cold, sterile lab.

He’d reached a breaking point one September morning and leveled a block near the river, had nearly ripped Vought Tower apart bolt by bolt. No one really remembers what the temper tantrum was about. Maybe an interview he’d been anticipating got cancelled. Maybe an intern had gotten his coffee order wrong and it had been his last straw. Maybe, just maybe, the deep, swirling, gnawing black hole of loneliness in his chest had finally breached the hardened armor of his facade.

Either way, Madelyn needed something to soothe him. To entice his best behavior.

And, the polls showed, the public was growing bored of regular old Homelander. He needed something new. A twist. A fresh gimmick.

Thus, Soldier Boy’s genes had once again been tapped, a heartbeat had been engineered and captured, and your eyes had opened to a world that, unbeknownst to you, would kneel at your feet for even a chance to glimpse the bottom of your shoes.

The first time Madelyn had placed you in Homelander’s arms, she’d required him to be sitting down. To remove his gloves. To promise to be gentle. Everything he was not. He had obliged without fight for once, without fang or claw, because, good god, you were his sister. You were his sister, his, his, his. Fuck Madelyn. Fuck Vought. Fuck the realization that you were just as powerful and indestructable as him, that he was holding the one thing that truly could kill him.

Goddammit, you were his.

You had not been introduced to the public until your seventh birthday—July fourth. Was this your actual birthday? No. But what they didn’t know wouldn’t kill them. The nation had celebrated the appearance of a new Supe, a new hero, a mini-me of their golden savior. Homelander had grinned for every picture, interview, recording, keeping you clutched protectively on his hip in a way that had women swooning and their ovaries screaming. You’d been taught since you could comprehend what a camera was to be good, to smile, to lean into your big brother and tilt your head just so for the perfect angle. Of course, you were still only seven. The flashes, the yells, the cries of your name from strangers you didn’t even know… it flooded your childish senses, however enhanced they were, and the moment you began to whimper and heave and the crowds would coo, Homelander would turn, thank them for coming, and carry you back into the shadows.

Madelyn had all but ordered him to allow her to hold you while he was interviewed. He had, in turn, threatened to twist the handle off her office door and set it ablaze.

As you grew, your elder brother had only grown more and more enamored with you. To the public, you were a startlingly perfect young woman, America’s sweetheart who flashed her perfect smile and stopped runaway subway trains all in the same twenty minutes. Your strength and abilities matched those of Homelander’s, but you had learned at a young age to share only a sliver of his spotlight. This, he rewarded with gifts galore, silly words of praise, a strong arm to bend any executive and Vought hireling to your will when you were pushed back against.

No one dared say no to you, Homelander’s beloved, perfect little sister.

Except, of course, Billy Butcher.

You’d been dispatched one day, on your own, to investigate unusual levels of chemical readings on the outskirts of the city. The location had been a dingy, abandoned shooting range which nature had once again made her own. Hovering in the air like the god amongst men you were, cape billowing gently at your back, you’d been able to locate the source of the traces; a man hunched over a trunk-sized vat of some strange, bubbling liquid. He was all lanky limbs, hair close to his head, and goggles strapped over his eyes as he used glove-covered hands to carefully mix in a new component.

“Hello,” you’d called, gently touching yourself down a short distance behind him. “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

The man had whipped around, eyes going wide behind his goggles. “Putain,” he’d murmured in a foreign tongue. In the blink of an eye, he’d grappled in his waistband, produced a handgun, and released a trio of bullets into your midsection.

You had both watched as the lead crunched like tiny soda cans against your unbreakable skin, dropping to the dirt at your feet. You glanced up, unimpressed.

Homelander would have ignited his lasers, cut this man in half for even entertaining the idea of leveling a firearm with him.

But you were not your brother.

Blinking once or twice, you had raised a hand. “Let’s not jump to extremes,” you’d said. “You’re not in trouble. I’m just investigating a little chemically-intense readout we got over at Vought. I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Okay?” the man said, his gun still raised to your central mass. “You’ve come to toss me in and do away with the DNA evidence, yes?”

“I’m sorry?”

Tearing off the glove of his free hand, he’d scrabbled at an earpiece in his ear. “Butcher,” he’d rasped. “She’s here.” He’d flexed his fingers around the grip as he’d listened to whoever was on the other end. “Non, non. She’s just… standing here. Manners, yes. But I am not convinced her brother will not snap my neck from behind when I’m not looking.”

The words had pulled a startled gruff from your throat. Sure, Homelander had a few… moments here and there, but he wouldn’t do something like that. He helped people. He was a hero.

“That won’t happen, I promise,” you said, taking another small step forward. “I’m only here to help. These chemicals are dangerous to you. They need to be disposed of.”

“Disposed of?” the man had said, and you were finally able to place his accent as French. “You will do nothing—dispose of. Tch. Butcher, get here before I waste any more bullets on this girl.”

So you had waited patiently for this Butcher, attempting to converse with the Frenchman. After a few minutes of back and forths, he’d slowly, slowly begun to lower his firearm from your middle. The look of skepticism hadn’t gone, but he was no longer arching his back like a cat when you took a step forward. And thus, your patience had been rewarded upon the arrival to the range of one William Butcher.

He was all gruff, accented growls from the back of his throat, large, calloused hands, and dark eyes that seemed to tunnel right through you with a venom you could practically taste. There had been no hello, no shake of your hand. Only a lift of his jowl as he’d looked you up and down.

“If it ain’t the star-spangled brat of Vought herself,” he’d drawled around the smoke between his lips.

Again, you had reeled. These people seemed to hate you for no apparent reason. Of course, the Seven had their opposition and haters, as the media people called them, but they’d never been so bold to your face.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, approaching him. “Have I done something to offend you? I’d love a chance to fix any ill will between us.”

One of his thick brows had quirked and he’d tilted his head at you like an interesting creature in the zoo. “You’re settin’ foot where you ain’t belong, pissin’ me off,” he said, flicking away ash. “Playin’ all clueless like that cunt brother of yours ain’t above to snipe our heads off.”

As if to accentuate his point, he’d glanced upward to the sky, searching for Homelander like a falling star that would kill you all.

“What?” you said, bringing up your hands in a show of confusion. “Sir, I really have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve only come to make sure everyone’s okay with these chemicals. I don’t know what you have against my brother, but I can assure you he’d never do such a thing.”

Butcher had stared at you for a very long moment then, seeming to bore into your very soul, past the armor, impenetrable skin, conditioned, engineered heart. The cigarette had burned so long you were afraid it was going to burn his lips.

But then he had reached out with a sudden, commanding grip and tilted your chin up to examine you. Your heart had stuttered to a stop, eyes wide enough to drink from. No one had ever dared to touch you like this—not without your brother’s twin beams of scarlet energy searing their limb off in a heartbeat. His touch was warm and firm, something to be disobeyed at a cost.

Something about it had turned your stomach in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Oh, you poor little pup,” he’d tisked. “Ain’t got half an idea in that pretty little brain, have you?”

His team, his Boys, hadn’t been entirely sure of you at the beginning—but after they’d finally opened your eyes, filled your head with every horrid, terrible thing your brother and Vought had done, you had undoubtedly become one of them. The day you learned of the harsh, stinging truth of reality had been the worst of your life; worse than the experiments of your youth, the straps holding you down, the wails of your broken voice calling out for the man who had been your hero and world and everything in between. The news had torn a hole clean through your chest, a gaping wound you didn’t think would ever heal, no matter how many stitches you tried to thread through your insides. Homelander had never been anything but the perfect brother to you, a role model, a protector when the world became too loud. The arms that used to lift you into his own bed when you had been small and crying to him after a nightmare. The voice that would point out his billboards to you as he cradled you to his chest.

To discover what he truly was… A murderer. A rapist. A terrorist disguised as a patriotic symbol of hope and freedom.

You didn’t think you’d ever cried so hard, sobbing so violently you’d gotten sick, with only Kimiko’s hand on your back to soothe your wails.

But then that despair had turned on its head, morphed into an ugly, snarling, sharpened animal of rage.

From then on, Butcher seemed to have you on a leash—and you let him. He spoke bluntly and honestly in a way no one else did, swore and made disgusting jokes that, when you were alone, replayed over and over in your head. He was the opposite of everything you had been raised with, and that was what pulled you to him. Every order he gave, you were on it. Every request he made, you’d already finished it. Every word he spoke, you were there to listen.

Even when he began to order top security files, memos, and messages from between Vought’s biggest players, you offered no objection. In fact, you jumped at the chance to please him.

Which leads you to the present, your next shining moment in which a few moments of Butcher’s approval hangs in the balance, teetering between victory and sullied disappointment.

You stand with the Boys in one of their hideouts—a shitty apartment littered now with plans, takeout bags, and dirty laundry—around the dining table. Upon the grain sits a small vial you’ve swiped from Vought’s experimental labs just this morning. The liquid is tinted a hazy fuschia color, resembling a child’s drink more than whatever bizarre concoction Vought’s cooked up.

“The container it was in was labeled with a final stage sticker,” you explain as you fold your hands behind your back—an old habit you picked up from your brother as a child. “Whatever it is, it was just about finished.”

Using a dish towel to protect his hands from the small vial, Frenchie reaches forward and gingerly tips the small piece of glass, watching as the substance slides easily back and forth. It seems to have the density of milk, not nearly as thin as water, but not as thick as blood, either. “Was it inside any kind of temperature regulation chamber?”

“I don’t think so.”

While Frenchie tips the vial to show Kimiko, Hughie, and MM, you peek a quick, hopeful look to Butcher. He peeks at your prize with the interest of an owner watching their dog bring them a dead animal; there’s an edge of unreadable thought in those dark eyes of his, but accompanying it is what looks like a tiny sliver of pride.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself it is.

You’ve never really known a love that goes beyond what you feel for your brother, and the few friends you’ve had here and there briefly. Vought has kept a tight collar on your whereabouts and contacts your entire life, never allowing you time or place to experience anything like what you read and watch in the movies. You hope, deep down, this is love. This aching in your chest when Butcher speaks and looks your way, it’s so deliciously perfect and painful and everything in between. You want to see him happy. Truly happy, not basking in the few moments of amusement between broody sessions of plotting and scheming until he collapses from exhaustion. In those instances, you’ve been mindful when draping a blanket over his prone form, feeding Terror his late night snack, turning off the television left onto a channel that’s now playing a western. You want him happy. Safe. Comfortable.

You want him to look at you not with contempt or with the buried knowledge there in the back of his mind you’re the sister of the man who raped and killed his wife. You want him to look at you with that softness you know is hidden in there, with that vulnerability you caught a glimpse of the night you half-dragged him to bed after one too many whiskeys on his couch.

But you’re not stupid enough to think he could ever love you back. You’re a Supe—the very thing he hates, has sworn to bring down. You’re half his age, too chipper, too naive. So you allow yourself to settle for your thoughts alone, the late night fantasies and hidden meanings you make up between the short, curt messages you exchange over text.

That’s the closest you’ll get, you know.

“Y’think it’s some kind’a bioweapon?” Butcher says, pulling you from your thoughts.

Hughie gives a small exhale. “If it is, it’s potent stuff,” he says. “Not much in here. They didn’t need a lot if just a drop or two would do, I’m guessing.”

You pipe up, eager to bask in the credit of your discovery. “When the scientists handled it, they always wore gas masks and gloves. And the air ventilation systems were always blocked to the labs.”

“Hmm,” Frenchie murmurs, obviously fascinated with the vial. Kimiko carefully taps the glass with her nail. “Transferred by air, then. I wonder if it vaporizes when exposed to oxygen.”

“Well, we’re not going to find out here,” MM says.

Butcher rumbles an agreement, taking the vial through the dish rag and holding it up to the light. He gives it a careful twist, dark haze watching the pink liquid stain the sides of the small glass container. “Must’ve been important if it was kept locked tighter than my nan’s china cabinet,” he says. When he tilts his head to look at you, you feel your heart flutter like a butterfly having escaped its glass. “Good work, pup.”

Oh, there it is. That half a second of praise, the everlasting effects it will have. It sends a thrill like your first time flying pumping through your veins, a high you’ll be riding tonight when you use your fingers to explore your heightened arousal in bed and imagine you hear his groaning, rasping grunts and groans and huffs in your ear. Your hands are already twitching, needing to feel him, touch him, maybe.

You don’t realize you’ve drifted closer to Butcher until you’re right up on him. He begins to say something more, but his elbow accidentally checks your shoulder, and when he recoils, he fumbles the small glass vial through the dish rag and it shatters against the table. Just as Frenchie predicted, the liquid begins to immediately vaporize when it’s exposed to the air, a few visible pink wisps wafting from the pieces of glass.

“Motherfucker,” Butcher barks, immediately backing away from the table. The others mirror his actions, each of them raising the collars of their shirts to cover their noses and mouths.

“I’m sorry!” you hear yourself yelp, quickly and without thought grabbing a few of the broken pieces, attempting to salvage the few droplets that haven’t gone up in smoke yet. “I’m sorry. It was an accident. Here, I’ll fix it. We can still save some.”

A large hand grips the collar of your red, white, and blue suit—custom designed and tailored to complement your brother’s—and yanks you backward with enough force to neatly fold you in half. “You daft little shit, get back from that,” Butcher barks, his voice muffled from the dish rag he now holds over his face. He tugs you to his side as the pink vapor slowly vanishes, leaving behind a damp mess of shattered glass in its wake.

Hughie hurries to open a window as MM fans a few papers, attempting to disperse whatever chemical you’ve accidentally released into the apartment. You can’t detect any discernible smell, though your sinuses are a little frazzled, buzzing softly like you’re about to sneeze.

The others all seem to hold their breaths, glancing at one another as they wait for the other shoe to drop. To vomit uncontrollably. To have blood pour from every orifice of their bodies. To keel over and drop dead then and there.

And yet… nothing follows. Nothing happens.

Butcher is the first to slowly lower the dish rag from his face, brows furrowed, and the others follow suit.

“Well,” says MM. “That was anticlimactic.”

“Perhaps it was a dud?” Frenchie says.

Hughie skirts to the kitchen and pulls on a pair of rubber yellow gloves, crossing back to the table to start examining the pieces of glass. “We’re going to have to toss the table,” he sighs, disappointment evident in his tone; he’d snagged this rickety thing on an online marketplace for twenty bucks, and he’d been rather proud of himself when he assembled it, happily announcing you could all eat at an actual table instead of staining the couch and recliners.

As they begin to discuss the possible reasons as to why none of them melted into puddles, you turn slightly. Your sinuses are still tingling and humming, and your head is beginning to thrum with a steady, rising pulse. Is it warm in here all of a sudden, you wonder? Maybe the vapor is slowly shifting the temperature in the room, and your enhanced senses are the first to pick it up. Moisture begins to bead on your hairline and upper lip, and you’re quick to wipe it away to keep your composure.

“Well,” Butcher says, tossing the rag irritably down onto the ruined table. “Maybe if we close our eyes real tight, we can pretend it’s still here.”

“At least it is not in Vought’s hands,” says Frenchie.

“Like they ain’t goin’ to make more the second they realize it’s missing.”

Jesus Christ, has his voice always been so… gruff? So deep and perfect and rasping, lilted with a thick accent speaking colored speech? You’ve always loved that timbre, the way smoke spills from his tongue when he talks, but now it’s too much. It’s sending roils of a hot, searing wave like a wall of fire through your veins and down south. You’re barely able to recognize the familiar flicker of arousal through the haze, something that naturally comes around him, but this is almost painful.

It’s so sudden you’re forced to lean over slightly and grab the back of the couch for balance, your free hand raising to touch your lower stomach.

Heads turn in your direction.

“Woah,” MM says and calls your name, taking a step forward as he raises a hand. “You alright?”

The fire is quickly, quickly spreading. It branches like a river from your core and into your limbs, and soon enough your arms and legs feel as if they’ve been ripped apart, filled with stones, and sewn haphazardly back up. The arousal isn’t like any you’ve felt before; you’ve gotten worked up in the past, fooled around with yourself to pass time and manage stress, yeah, but you’d never been able to pull this kind of reaction from yourself.

Kimiko is there at your side, touching your back, and that burning monster inside you lurches. You give a short, strangled sound and jerk away from her, nearly stumbling onto your face as you stagger away.

“Don’t,” you rasp out, tripping slightly over your cape. “Don’t.”

Butcher’s lips part and his eyes widen as he watches you, and you fight back the sudden powerful, gnawing urge to moan aloud and collapse into him. His eyes upon you are like dark spotlights, ones you would dance and perform for eternally if it meant he was watching you. He says your name once, and this time you’re unable to keep at bay the muffled whimper that escapes your lips. You stagger back another step or two.

“What’s happening to her?” Hughie demands, speaking the question everyone is thinking.

Frenchie shakes his head, then glances down at the shattered glass. “The vapor?”

“Why her and none’a us?” Butcher says, watching as you paw away the sweat starting to roll down your temple. You bump into the television blindly as you double over, mumbling out a short cry when he speaks.

“Maybe it’s a Supe thing?” MM offers.

“Kimiko would be feeling it too, then.”

Kimiko herself shifts her weight anxiously from foot to foot as she watches you, wanting desperately to help but unsure of what to do.

Hughie quickly scrapes the remaining glass into a brown paper bag and folds it tight, sealing whatever traces of the substance is left. He gives a sound of thought, leg shaking nervously. “Well, she’s a natural born Supe, isn’t she? She and Homelander were engineered with their abilities. Kimiko wasn’t born with hers. Could that be it?”

Good god, you feel like you’re about to combust. It’s too hot in here, way too fucking hot. The heat between your legs is searing, the pain in your lower belly unbearable. Your logical thoughts are beginning to claw for a hold on you, whatever primal urges that command you now rising to the forefront of your mind. You need something, anything. Some kind of friction down there, stimulation to soothe the now-raging beast of your heart.

You don’t think you’ll last long enough to leave, to haul ass and fly back to your suite in Vought Tower. You definitely won’t make it. Not when your pulse is thundering like a rock concert and your thighs are growing damp with your slick and you feel like you’re suffocating on the scent of Butcher’s cologne you’re able to smell across the room.

Ignoring the calls of your name, barks of voices to wait, you stumble your way down the hallway leading to the rooms. Your hands are already fumbling, fingers quickly unclasping your cape from your shoulders and letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor in your wake. You duck into the first bedroom, not caring whose it is, and kick the door shut before you really, truly let loose once eyes are no longer glued to your back.

With a rough, snarling sound that mixes with a panting moan, desperate for relief to the pain and heat, you yank off clasps and buckles and claw at your suit until it lies in a rumpled heap on the floor. Falling backward without any patience left for your spandex bra or underwear, you topple onto the bed and realize, as the sheets catapult a deep, musky, smoky scent over you, just whose room you’ve chosen to hide away in.

Butcher’s bed is unmade, and part of you is glad for it, because you’re about to make a mess of it. His smell engulfs you like a deep, constricting embrace, and that fire sparks into a blaze. Your entire body aches like every joint has been cut off and glued back together, your core throbs and clenches around nothing. The inside of your thighs are already a mess, your underwear beyond ruined with how much slick is seeping through the fabric.

Without waiting any longer, you plunge your hand down the front of your panties and quickly run your fingers through your sopping folds. A wail, broken and strangled, escapes your throat, and your mind is too hazy to care that the others can surely hear you. That Butcher can hear you. The thought only spurs you on as your middle finger slides easily into your cunt, the heel of your hand grinding desperate ruts and circles against your swollen clit. It’s good, a healing bask over the pain, but it’s not nearly enough—like tossing a shot glass of water over a burning car. Too little, too late. Your index finger joins your middle and you plunge your digits in and out of yourself, attempting to sate the demand for friction.

This is usually how you’re able to get yourself off, when the night is dark and you’re off the shift for evening patrol. Though, you do also have your rabbit and a couple of your favorite videos during those times, too.

The work up the hill of arousal isn’t difficult, per se, given how slick and worked up you are, but it’s not nearly enough. When you reach that first orgasm with a hitching exclamation that fills the apartment, it does practically nothing for you. Only perhaps a minute of relief ebbs through your bones before the searing, beating heat starts up again.

Tears well and gather in your eyes, and you don’t have the composure to stifle the sob of agony that tears through you. What the hell is happening to you? If you had known this was what that shit you’d swiped from the lab would do, you would’ve just gotten Butcher lunch on your way over.

The thought of him crossing your mind stretches a blanket of warmth over you, and your body drags itself into a new position. Hands shaking, you snatch up the pillow at the head of the bed—his pillow—and straddle it. Spreading yourself, you begin to desperately rock your hips back and forth across the fabric, wetness gliding down your cheeks as you moan out a twisted sound.

Shutting your eyes tight, you try to picture it’s him. That you’re humping up against Butcher’s stomach through the fabric of his shirt, his back against the mattress and large, calloused hands guiding your back and forth movements. You try to think about riding his stomach, the softness of his middle as he watches you fuck against him like an animal in heat, clit catching perfectly on the buttons every time you swipe your hips upward.

“Fuck,” you hear yourself sob, shaking your head as that beast howls and claws and kicks at you. “Fuck, please! Please, please…”

Your second climax isn’t even nearly as satisfying as the first, and that one had been pitiful. It can barely even be called an orgasm, the way it only manages to jerk your hips once and your need satiated thirty seconds, tops.

You don’t know how long you stay there in Butcher’s room, but you ravage it attempting to beat down whatever sex disease has taken over you. Your nails tear at the sheets and rip the threads apart, your super strength shifting the mattress as you roll your hips down with pathetic thrusts, folds soaking into the fabric. You shift the nightstand over onto its side with a snarl, cover the corner with one of Butcher’s shirts you find, and ride the hard edge while your hands paw at your breasts. You even tear apart the dirty laundry until you find a pair of his dirty jeans and bury your face into the crotch of the denim while your hand works at an inhuman speed between your legs.

Nothing works. Nothing fucking works. No matter how many orgasms you push your near-limitless body through, neither the pain nor the heat ceases for long. It wraps around you like a binding, the jaws of a predator greater than yourself. Your tears run out and you resort to dry sobs as you suffer through the agony, hips jerking and searching for something, anything that will pull you out of this.

A part of you considers, for a moment, calling your brother. Attempting to make your way home. Only a few of the experiments you’d been subjected to as a child had been this painful, and surely he would demand the antidote be served up on a silver platter before you could even touch down on the ground. He’d always been there to protect you when the world hurt you, always been there to hurt the world back.

But then you remember the terrible, ugly man he truly is and you banish the thought from your mind.

It’s dark outside by the time a harsh, rapping knock lands on the bedroom door. You startle, freezing up where you’re leaned back on your haunches on the floor against the bed and attempting to stimulate your abused folds with a light, whispering touch. You swallow back the quivering in your throat.

“What?” you whine. It’s a far cry from the usual polite, warm disposition Vought hammered into you from an early age.

When Butcher’s voice comes through the door, you feel yourself grow wetter, surely staining the hardwood beneath you. “…Can I come in?”

“No!” you say suddenly, your head spinning with the dehydration, never ending orgasms, and the alarm at the idea of him walking in on you. When you speak again, your voice descends into whimpering cries. “No, no. I don’t want you to see me like this…” You cast a glance at his ruined room, shame filling your chest and making its home with that snarling, flaming monster.

“Been listenin’ to you caterwaul and moan and groan f’hours,” he says, the barest hint of amusement in his voice. “You got’ta be done by now.”

You feel a twisting in your throat. Does he think this is funny? Amusing that you’ve been masturbating for hours, attempting to get this pain to go away? You sniffle and wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, letting your fingers fall from your core and curling up tight against the side of the bed.

The rest of the Seven constantly murmur to one another you’re a crybaby. That any flash of your watery eyes to your brother, and the world is yours. You don’t want Butcher to think that. You’d rather die than hear him say he thinks you childish.

On the other side, Butcher exhales a deep breath when he hears your sniffs. He’s quiet for a short moment before, without another warning, he pushes through the door and steps into the room. He jerks to a halt, obviously taken aback by the state of his things, the reeking smell of sex that permeates the air, and the sight of you, naked and your thighs red and raw, cheeks damp and eyes averted.

You shut your eyes tight when the need inside you flares, a fresh spark bursting to life at the sight of him, the smell of him.

Don’t, you hound yourself. Don’t look at him. Don’t jump him. Don’t push him down, hold him down, fuck down…

“Fuck me,” Butcher finally says, and his footsteps draw closer. “Figured you would’a ridden it out by now.” He pauses before you, and you hear his breath become just a touch heavier. “…You still hurtin’, pup?”

A muffled, pitched whine claws its way from your throat. You try to swallow it down, stamp out the howl of feral need attempting to burrow from your belly.

Slowly, you nod.

“Right.” Butcher shifts above you, and you peek open your eyes enough to watch him as he peels off his jacket and hangs it aside on the headboard of the bed. “Up you get. Lem’me see ‘ya.”

“No,” you say, shoving away his hand he extends you and pretending the feel of his skin on yours doesn’t elicit a shiver from deep within. You shake your hand sharply. “No, I—I don’t want some… some pity fuck from you, Billy.” You want to simply sob at the idea; finally getting to feel him, see him over you, under you, against you, just because he feels bad for your suffering. You fantasize about riding his thick cock and whimpering out declarations of need and love and everything in between; not pinning him down and ravaging him like an animal, all pleasure and relief and nothing else.

“Pity fuck?” He gives a sharp exhale and rubs a hand over his beard, peering down at you. “That what you think it would be?”

“What else would it be?” you snip, shifting uncomfortably on the floor, the wood boards pressing into your bare ass. “Just… go away. Kick me out. Whatever.”

Just like that day you’d met him there in that overgrown shooting range, Butcher’s hand—calloused, scarred, warm— reaches out and captures your jaw to tilt your head up. Your nerves explode at the touch, and your lips fall apart as he slowly brings your gaze to meet his. Jesus Christ above, you want to drown in those eyes. You want to give up your breath, your strength, everything that makes you indestructible and sink into those dark irises that you just know would swallow you whole. The scar above his brow, the plush of his lips, the scruff of his beard… fuck.

“Much as I hate to admit it,” he drawls, eyes lidded as he peers down at you, “you’ve gotten yourself under my skin. Not a fan of seein’ you in pain. Upset. Y’know?” He slowly tilts his head to the side, and you swear you’ve never seen anything more attractive. “Let me help you, pup. Yeah?”

Finally, your chest rips open and that beast escapes.

Faster than any regular human can move, you’ve shoved Butcher backward with a rough shove. He grunts as his back hits the floor, eyes wide as he watches you prowl on all fours over him like a hunting cat, none of the usual grace or poise you carry yourself with. Panting with arousal and need and pain, you quickly scramble to straddle his thick thigh through his jeans and begin to rapidly drag your pussy against him. The moan you release is downright pornographic, fingers digging into him to keep him still and where you want him.

Butcher is stunned by your sudden aggressiveness, but he quickly recovers. His hands fly up and latch onto your sides, gripping at your bare skin. “Christ,” he rasps out, winded. “Easy, pup.”

“No.” Spreading your legs even further, knees digging into the floorboards, you press your hips down harder, clit dragging perfectly across the rough material of his denim. “No—no, can’t. Need you. Need you so bad.”

“Yeah?” He bends the knee of the leg you’re straddling, giving you a slight angle to rut yourself against. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout me in here all night while you touch yourself?”

You bob your head quickly. “Yes! Yes, only you, Billy.” Your breath catches when a ragged shot of fresh arousal leaks from you and wets his pant leg. “Please, please, it hurts. S’been hurting since the thing broke, please…”

A small yelp of surprise escapes you when Butcher is suddenly moving, shifting his weight as he hoists you up and deposits you on the sex-smelling bed. He watches you with those harsh, endless eyes as he quickly pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his chest and torso covered in dark, coarse hair and scars that were ticked here and there across his skin. His lower belly was soft around the middle, a healthy couple layers to keep him warm and comfortable; before you’re able to stop yourself, you roll over, prop yourself up, and gently but firmly sink your teeth into his stomach.

“Ah,” he hisses, hand quickly coming to card through your hair and yank you back. He’s met with simmering, damp puppy eyes. “Do that again, I’ll put a muzzle on ‘ya,” he says in a husky voice, but you’re able to tell he liked it. He gruffs out a breath when your hands, desperate and trembling, begin to paw at his belt buckle. “You are needy, ain’t you? Need my cock that bad, pretty girl?”

The fire licking at your veins, the very marrow in your bones, you hurriedly shove his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free, already achingly hard; the head is ruddied red and beginning to bead with shiny precum, and you feel yourself salivate at the sight of it before you.

“Yes,” you groan again, voice strained. You hear him hiss when you take him in hand, using your thumb to spread the precum from his head and smear it down his member in a rough stroke. “Needed you forever. Since I met you.”

Butcher quickly kicks off his boots and trousers, carefully but firmly pushing you back so your back hits the mattress. He grabs your ankle, hauling you down the sheets, then uses his massive hands to lift your legs up and over his shoulders; your back is bent and your head pressed into the bed, arms flailing to evenly distribute your weight as he hitches you closer.

“C’mon, then,” he says, hooking a strong arm around your thighs to keep them pressed against his front, “let me hear how much you want me.”

With that he ducks his head and his tongue drags rough and insistent through your soaked folds, no warning or signal given. Your cry is sharp and loud, head tipping back, as your entire body seems to jerk and lock up. The feeling of having another’s touch—not just anyone’s, but his—is the closest thing you’ve felt to heaven. The cameras, the press, the fans howling your name, it can’t compare. His lips wrap around your swollen bundle of nerves and suck viciously, drawing pitched, sobbing sounds like an animal from your chest and out your throat. Letting go of your clit, his tongue slithers down and presses into your cunt, dragging and licking and kissing and mouthing. His hums vibrate against your pussy, sending shivers of pure bliss and relief through your systems.

“Fuck!” you all but scream, fingers tearing further holes into the sheets. You’re able to feel his hard cock twitch against your back. “Oh—oh! Sh-i-it!”

“There’s a girl,” he murmurs against you as he works, messy and greedy. “Cry f’me.”

Abruptly, that band in your stomach snaps like a coil twisted too tight, and blinding pleasure and relief floods your brain. Your hips twitch and buck up against his face, his beard scratching your thighs, and you sob as fresh tears are pulled from the corners of your eyes. He devours you through the best orgasm you’ve had since this whole thing started, slurping obscene sounds and lapping up everything you give him.

Finally, he lowers you back down to the mattress, panting slightly, cheeks flushed and pupils blown. Like a jackal, he prowls over you, pinning you down to the bed.

“Sound so fuckin’ good, don’t ‘ya?” Butcher hums as he palms at your center, swiping through the mess you’ve been making for the past handful of hours. “Been listenin’ to you howl f’me in here since the others left. Say my name when you cum on my cock, yeah?”

Panting sharply, your chest beginning to tingle with the beginnings of the thrumming pain and searing heat once more, you reach out a hand and press it gently on his chest. He pauses where he’s glancing down to line up with your entrance, chain around his throat dangling between your breasts.

“Billy,” you gasp out, your fingers shaking as you feel the thick chest hair beneath your palm. “I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Hurt me,” he parrots in a question.

You nod once, swallowing thick. “I don’t think I can control myself with… with whatever’s happening to me. I don’t want to—I don’t know, cave your dick in or something.”

At that, Butcher actually laughs, lips curling up into an amused smile that crooks at one side. His incisors glint in the soft light, and you suddenly want them dragging along your skin. “Even if you did,” he grunts, slowly dragging his leaking cock through your folds with slow, teasing flexes of his hips, “what a way to go, eh?”

Before you’re able to offer any more protest, he carefully catches the cockhead against your clit and drags himself slowly. The sensation makes your hazy head spin. “That golden boy prick brother of yours know you’re a little pervert?” he coos. “He know you been thinkin’ ‘bout little old me at night?”

Your hips buck impatiently, and your hand slides down to try and shove him into you. “Jesus, Billy, don’t fucking talk about h—“

In one solid thrust, Butcher’s cock bullies his way into your cunt, hips meeting yours and thighs covering your own. Your head drops to the bed as your vision whites out, your hearing dissolves into blissful static, and your body all but locks up. You’re being filled for the first time since you inhaled whatever was in that vial, since your body started to betray you, and you think maybe this is what you could get addicted to. The pleasure is so great, each of his full, deep, punctuated rolls of his hips overlaps and you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.

“Yeah,” Butcher is snarling out, his hands finding your thighs to keep them hitched and apart as he drills into you. “Taking me so fuckin’ good, darling. So tight f’me, fuck. That’s it… keep doing that.”

Your arm shooting out, you grasp the back of his neck and haul him down at a breakneck speed, crashing your lips against his. Your teeth click against one another’s and there might be a little blood from where your canine catches his lip, but goddamnit all, this is too good to stop. His weight over you is heavy and perfect, his cock is hitting the best spots inside you, his hands are all over, one at your breast and the other rubbing tight, quick circles against your clit.

Butcher continues to thrust into you until his forehead becomes slick with sweat and his chest is heaving, and the rolls of his hips grow quicker and sloppier. “C’mon, pretty girl,” he pants out. “Say my name. Say my name while I fill you up, make you mine.”

“Fuck, Billy!” Your voice is hoarse and all but gone, but you give up the last remnants for him. “Billy, Billy, Billy.” You clench your eyes shut, sobbing and wailing and hiccuping. “Love you, love you, love you—please, please!”

“Goddammit—“ Butcher bites off a shout as he cums, and you’re able to bask in the feeling of hot, pulsing spurts filling your cunt deep. He works his hips a few more times, keeping it all inside you, before he finally hangs his head and stills.

But you’re not done with him. Not even close.

Flexing your arms and propelling your super strength forward, you drag him down, roll over, and begin to raise and lower yourself in a hurried pace.

Butcher gasped, hands grasping onto your thighs in an attempt to still you. “Fuck me, pup, you got’ta give me a minute.”

“No,” you hear yourself rasp out despite the softening of his cock inside you. “No, can’t. I warned you.”

Butcher is able to see your Supe stamina up close and personal. You don’t stop, even when he hardens again and you ride him until he fills you up a second time. He pants hard and his voice is tense and thin as he all but wrestles you off his oversensitive crotch. But even then, you rut yourself against his hand until you get off, and then again on his face. You go for hours, and finally, when the clock on the floor—once on the now-tipped nightstand—hits one in the morning, your body begins to come down from the cliff it’s been hanging over.

You lie sideways across the bed as, parallel to you, Butcher blinks back the sweat in his eyes and the exhaustion threatening to drag him under. He’s all but worn down from the sheer amount of sex you’ve hauled him through, heart on the verge of giving out from the exertion. The fiery beast inside you has finally gone back to sleep, and your limbs ache from the echoes of the thrumming pain that’s now left your body.

Finally, it’s over.

“Did’ya mean it?”

You lift your head, blinking with bleary eyes. You fix your gaze upon Butcher where he leans against the headboard, too numb and exhausted to even get up and root for a cigarette. He peers back at you expectantly, expression unreadable.

You know at once what he’s referring to; the confession of love you’d bleated in the throes of your pleasure and relief. Your chest stirs slightly, and you glance down, finger picking at a tear in the sheet you’d created. “…Yes,” you say finally, and nothing more.

“…Come up here, pup.”

Your limbs throb as you drag yourself up the bed and collapse at his side, and you refrain from all but purring when his arm curls around you and drags you tight against his side. He’s warm and his heartbeat beneath his skin reminds you he’s here, he’s real, he’s alive.

Butcher leans down and you think, perhaps, he presses his lips to the top of your head. Just once. But it’s a cry of volumes for the man who communicates almost entirely through swears and noncommittal huffs. He keeps you there against him, settling down, and it’s not but a handful of minutes before his breath has evened out and he snores softly.

You stare at nothing as you draw light patterns along the back of his hand. You suppose you’ll find out whatever kind of fucked-up aphrodisiac you stole from Vought tomorrow when it’s all over the company behind closed doors. You really can’t guess its purpose; why get natural-born Supes hyped on endorphins and arousal? Maybe some kind of reproduction program?

You exhale. Who gives a fuck.

All that matters is that you’re here in Butcher’s arms, your bare body against his, and his grip hadn’t loosened when he fell asleep.

Friday has been your favorite day for almost a year. You don’t work, you don’t have class, and you get to spend the evenings snuggled up with your lovely boyfriend. Recently, the two of you have been obsessed with the X-Files, which was currently playing on your TV. You shifted slightly in your sleep, causing Tim to hold onto you tighter. It was all so perfect. 

So peaceful.

That peace was suddenly disrupted when the sound of a crash and a string of swears erupted throughout your entire apartment. Tim, significantly more alert than you, shot up out of bed and into the hallway. He quickly returned, slamming the door and cursing up a storm in the process. Tired and embarrassed he quickly dressed himself with his clothes from your floor. 

Now aware of the commotion, your eyes shot open. You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” 

Fully clothed, Tim paced with his hands in his hair. “Your…” He started to speak as the red on his face deepened. “Friends—”

Two quiet knocks cut him off. He stopped dead in his tracks, his face growing redder by the second. “Hey, we didn’t see anything. I swear.” The voice belonged to your roommate. It sounded as if they were holding back laughter. 

“He’s crazy ripped…” One of your other friends said loudly. 

“Were those eggplants on his boxers?” Another friend asked in a fit of laughter. You covered your face with the blanket to hide your own laughter from Tim. 

Tim’s blush made its way up his ears and down his neck. “It’s whatever.” He called back, conjuring up all the confidence that he could. “No worries.”

“Oh, by the way, we’re about to start playing music soon. Just let us know if it’s too loud.” They warned before retreating back to the living room. Tim waited until loud pop music filled the apartment before flopping down onto your bed. He placed his head on your chest and sighed.

“What happened?” You finally asked, running your fingers through his hair.

“There was a crash. I thought maybe someone broke in. Didn’t think, just ran out there. Only to see your friends failing to put up the photo booth.” He mumbled.

“Awe, baby. Are you embarrassed?” You purred. 

He glared at you with a pout. 

You kissed his cheek before pushing his head away. “Oh, no,” you deadpanned, sitting up. “Now my friends know that you’re secretly shredded and wear eggplant boxers. Weird, by the way.”

“You bought them for me?” He sassed, genuine confusion in his voice.

You raised an eyebrow. “Did I?”

“Whatever?” He laughed with an eye roll. Adjusting his position on your bed, he asked, “What’s the occasion?”

You sighed. “Nothing special. They just haven’t thrown anything in a while. Something about having to let the noise complaints fade into the abyss first.”

“You guys are sooo getting kicked out.” He said, drawing spirals on your thigh with his finger. “Do you plan on gracing them with your presence tonight, Bug?” 

“Hell, no.” You said, sinking deeper into your bed. “I don’t wanna be anywhere near this place tonight.”

Your roommate was known for their parties. These parties got pretty wild. You shuddered at the memories from their last one. Yup, you’d prefer to be anywhere but here tonight.

“Hm…” Tim leaned back, his eyes twinkling as the gears turned in his head. “You should come to my house. Spend the night.”

You laughed loudly, even taking the extra step to hit his arm. “You’re funny.”

“Thanks?”

“No, really.” You laughed harder. “Timmy, I’ve never been to your house. Let alone met your family.”

“No one’ll be home. It’s fine, Bug. Promise.” 

“I doubt that!” You snapped. “Your brothers barge into your room when we’re on the phone all the time.”

He was quick to deny that but thought better of it. He scrunched his face. “OK, true. That has happened in the past.” 

“Bud, it happened yesterday.” 

“Okay well maybe it happens sometimes—just come over, Bug.” He groaned, falling over. He stared up at you through his long eyelashes. “Besides, everyone’s busy. No one’ll be home. Just me and you.”

“Hmm.” You pretended to think. You had already made up your mind but it was fun to drag it on. “Fine. I’ll spend the night.”

“Yes!” he cheered, secretly pumping his fist. You let out a small laugh.

“Guess that means you won’t have to leave super early.”

“What do you mean?” He mumbled against your pillow.

“We’ll be at your house already.” 

Tim’s stomach flooded with a guilty feeling. Oh, right. Having to be home early was the reason he told you for leaving in the middle of the night. “Right, Bug.”

He squeezed your thigh with a nervous laugh. He hated that he had to lie to you but it was in order to keep you safe. You could never know about Red Robin. At least not yet. 

It’ll be the first time he gets to stay inside with you for the entirety of the night. He’ll make sure he doesn’t have to be Red Robin tonight.

Upon arriving to the Manor, you were in shock. Not only was it huge but also completely empty. No cars in the driveway, no dogs running around, and even no Alfred to greet you at the gate.

You were kind of upset about that part. You were looking forward to the day that you met the infamous butler. Tim smiled as he watched the pure awe in your eyes.

“It’s pretty awesome, right?” He asked with a smile that showed all his teeth. “Want a tour?”

You nodded eagerly. The manor felt like a museum. Each room had its own unique style. You were captivated by the decorative tile and ceilings higher than the sky. “Show me everything.”

At least half an hour passed by the time Tim lead you up the main staircase. He stopped at an enormous family portrait. “Tour concluded.”

“Wow.” You craned your neck to see the full picture. You stared at the portrait, mentally noting which faces were familiar. “Do you all live here?”

Tim shook his head as he started to point out specific people. “Just Alfred, B, me, Duke, and the little one—Damian. The girls have their own places. And those two knuckleheads live elsewhere.”

“I see,” you nodded. 

“Yeah, everyone comes around probably more than needed, actually. But for the most part, it’s just us.”

A warm feeling dripped from your heart and into your stomach. You couldn’t hide the excitement pooling up inside you. “Thanks for this. It’s really nice to get to see this part of your life.”

It feels like I know you better.

Tim pulled you into his side, his own chest starting to fill with warmth. “I’m glad you let me.” He kissed the side of your head. “But, now that you saw all of that, do you wanna see my room?”

You grinned letting him lead you down the hall by your hand.

Tim paced around his room with his hands in his hair. Each step he took made the old floor creak. This could not be happening. You were showering a few feet away in his bathroom completely unaware of his oh-so-perfect plan crumbling at his feet.

First, it was Dick’s car. He walked up to the house with a duffel bag. Tim swore under his breath as he creepily watched his brother from his bedroom window. Great, he’ll be here for at least two days.

Then it was Jason’s bike. Tim could hear him coming from at least two miles away. Within minutes, he was stomping around the house with his boots.

Alfred pulled up next. Out of the family car came Duke, Damian, and the dogs. Tim accepted his defeat then.

This is okay, he thought to himself. The water switched off in the bathroom. Tim dropped onto his bed trying his best to hide his frantic nerves. 

You exited the bathroom freshly showered and ready for bed. The first thing you noticed was the look on his face. You looked at him through his full-length mirror. “What’s wrong, hon?”

“Nothing…” he started to lie but thought better of it. “Do you hear that?”

With an eyebrow raised, you concentrated hard to hear a sound. The noise began to flood your ears quickly. Hushed voices talking in the room next door and the sound of a petty argument forming downstairs. 

From the look on your face, he knew that he was done for. You sighed and plopped backwards onto the bed. “What the hell! You said they wouldn’t be home tonight.” You whined, more upset than angry.

Tim squeezed your hand with an apologetic smile. He could deal with an upset Y/N. An angry Y/N was a different story. “Maybe it isn’t too bad for you to meet my family like this. Yeah, Bug?” 

You groaned, irritated that he even tried to joke. “You’re on a roll today, Drake.”

He frowned slightly but quickly locked in when there was a knock at the door. “Shh!” He said before tossing his comforter onto you. 

“T—” You said before being muffled. Tim mustered up enough confidence to strut to his door and open it up a slit. His guards went up when he peeked through it. 

“Ah, Damian.” He said in a weird voice totally not playing it cool at all. “What brings you to my chambers?” 

“Drake.” The younger boy said trying to get a better look into the room. Tim positioned the door to have an even smaller opening. “Who were you talking to in there?”

“My… uh phone..?”

“Right.” His little brother said before turning onto his heels and back into the direction of his own room. You could hear his small footsteps make the hallway floor creak. 

Tim slipped back into the room with a sigh. You were amused by the interaction. “Sorry, Bug. I don’t know what that was about.” 

“I think he’s very smart.”

“You have no idea.” He said as he deflated into his bed. “Wanna watch our show?”

“No, you are not getting out of this that easily. You—”

“Tim!” The gruff voice that cut you off was coming from down the stairs. It was followed by the sound of boots getting closer.

You quietly groaned into the comforter that was still nearly suffocating you. “Are you—”

“Shh.” Tim shushed you and prepared for Jason to come banging on the door.

“Jason!” A soft-spoken voice yelled. His footsteps were a lot lighter. It was clear that they were now both outside of the door.

“This cannot be happening!” He whined to himself. 

You pursed your lips and got comfortable under the blanket. Maturely, you held back the “i told you so” that you so desperately wanted to spit out. You already knew that once the sibling visits started, they wouldn’t stop. 

Tim grimaced and cracked his door before the other two could even knock. “What do you guys want?”

Jason spoke first. “This dick thinks that…” his voice trailed off when he noticed how Tim was standing behind the door. “Are you hiding something?”

“No?” Tim questioned, sounding cooler than he did with Damian for some reason. 

“You’re so weird, kid.” Jason said. “Anyway, listen—”

“Leave him be, Jason.” Dick sighed. “You can go back to whatever you were doing, bud.”

“What? No he can’t we need him.” Jason said. “Well not him-him but—”

“What?” Tim looked back at you before slipping out the room and closing the door behind him. “I told you that I’m busy tonight.”

Their voices were slightly muffled but you tried to make out what they said. From what you could hear, it sounded as though Tim was ushering his brothers away from the door. Your suspicions were confirmed when you heard three sets of footsteps disappearing down the stairs. 

Time started to pass. Ten minutes, thirty minutes, an hour. You had been scrolling on your phone without even thinking about it.

Suddenly, you sat up and tossed your phone aside. The reality of your night finally settling in. “Did he just leave me?”

You got up from the bed and started to tiptoe to the door. No matter how little pressure you landed with, the old floor still creaked. You stopped moving completely once you finally wrapped your hand around the doorknob. 

The sound of footsteps in the hallway returned. You stepped back slightly hoping it would be Tim who opened the door. 

It was not.

Damian stared at you with a small scowl. You were immediately rendered uncomfortable never been stared at by a kid like that before. “Dami—” Duke rounded the corner and landed his eyes on you. “Who…?”

“I told you that Drake was hiding someone inside of his room.” Damian said to Duke still not breaking eye contact with you. 

You opened your mouth to explain yourself but didn’t know what to say. The kid was 100% right. That’s exactly what was happening.

Duke cleared his throat. “Surely it’s not what you think, Damian. Allow me.”

Damian scoffed. “Whatever…”

“Are you Tim’s friend?”

Deciding that there was no reason to tell them anything but the truth, you sighed. “I’m his partner. We’re dating.” 

The two brothers had different reactions but they were both clearly amused. Damian’s eyes crinkled as he looked away to hide his smile. Duke burst out laughing. “Jason’s gonna loveee this.”

You scoffed, slightly offended. “I’m going to act like this isn’t at all insulting…”

“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry that Tim has been hiding you from us. We’re actually really glad to know of your existence. Right, Damian?” Duke asked nudging his younger brother. 

Damian sucked his teeth as he shifted between feet. “Yes. We’re glad to know that Drake isn’t a total loser.”

“I’m Duke.”

“Damian.”

“Y/N.” 

Duke repeated your name as if he realized something. “You did a project with him or something, right?”

“He told you about that?” You questioned, thinking back to the assignment from last semester that helped you guys meet.

“He talked about how smart you were all the time.” He laughed. “Wow, it all makes sense now.”

Damian snorted which earned him a smack on his shoulder from Duke. 

You bit your lip to hide your smile. They were exactly how you imagined them to be from the information that you knew. “Well, I’m glad to finally meet you guys.”

“Likewise. Glad to finally put a face to the lovely Y/N that Tim speaks so highly of.” Duke smiled. “By the way, Tim’s probably gonna be out for a while so if you don’t wanna be alone in the room you can join us. We’re going to head down and play some smash if you’re interested.”

“I’d love to.”

Several hours had passed by and you were having a great with Duke and Damian. Smash somehow evolved into a game Mario Party. 

The three of you managed to finish a few rounds before Damian dozed off. Duke fell asleep not long after him.

You covered them both up with the couch throw blankets before falling asleep for a little yourself. The sound of Tim stumbling into the room woke you up. It was sometime passed 3am.

Tim’s expression was a mixture of admiration and amusement. He wasn’t shocked that you had taken a liking to his brothers (you talked about meeting them all the time) but that they had invited you to hang with them.

 “What a surprise.” He said, ruffling Damian’s hair. Damian previous scowl had been replaced by a small smile in his sleep. He cuddled into the pillow beneath him. Tim adjusted the blanket laying on top of Duke. “Good job, guys.” He whispered.

“Secret’s out.” You said, adjusting the blanket so that it was only on Damian now. You stretched your legs before touching them the ground. Tim stood above you, smiling.

“Sounds good to me. I can let Alfred know we’ll have a guest joining us for breakfast.” He extended a hand out to you. “Come on, Bug. Let’s go to bed.”

copyright © 2026 staricalwrites. all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, re-upload or plagiarize any of my works.

“ellie, i can't–” you sobbed out, trying to push her head away from between your thighs. she'd been going at it for a while now, poor baby's jaw was probably hurting, and you were so overstimulated it was hurting.

your girlfriend just ignored your cries, batting your hands away. she whimpered against you, basically making out sloppily with your cunt.

ellie couldn't think about anything but how you taste. she didn't want to think about anything else, she didn't really want to think at all.

your fingers curled in her hair, but it wasn't clear if you were trying to push her away, or pull her closer. your pussy was starting to go numb, and your brain felt even mushier than it did a few moments ago, “ellie…” you whined, tossed your head back onto the pillow as a few tears slipped from your eyes.

the auburn haired girl's eyes were glassy, lapping at your heat like it was the last meal she'd ever get. she wrapped her hands around your thighs, to keep you spread open for her, shaking her head from side to side between your legs.

your thighs were starting to shake, a deep moan tore from your throat as you felt what you hoped to be your last orgasm rapidly approach. you pulled her hair harder, red crescents left on her scalp from your nails.

her tongue slid inside you, and your back lifted off the bed, ripping a sob from you as you creamed yet again, all over her tongue. ellie let out a happy hum against your pussy, and you just knew that if she had a tail, it'd be wagging like crazy right now.

your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, but ellie hadn't moved away, so it was hard to even think. you tried to scoot back on the bed, tried to pull away from her, but her long fingers were still wrapped around your plush thighs, holding you in place so you had no choice but to take it.

“no… stay,” ellie whimpered when she felt you try to pull away, her voice muffled against your dripping folds, “baby, i can't take any more of this–”

she teared up at the mere idea of having to part from your perfect pussy, using her strength to pull up onto her knees, dragging you up with her, leaving only your shoulders against the mattress. she all but laughed at your surprise, wrapping her arms around your hips so she could dive right back between your legs without you pulling away. your legs fell naturally over her shoulders, the new position allowed ellie to eat you out without you being able to do anything at all.

ellie admired your expression from where she was, suckling on your clit like it was her favorite piece of candy she'd never get tired of. your mouth fell open with a sob, tears of overstimulation pouring down your face with the force of another orgasm she expertly drew from you like it was nothing.

this has been sitting in my drafts for ages now im So sorry it took so long to come out and its literally just a drabble 😭😭

And yet, you weren’t entirely sure what together truly entailed. Was this going to be a date? Or were you two simply going as friends? Friends friends friends. That god-awful, misery-inducing word you’re all too familiar with. Its meaning and restrictions haunted you as you got ready, and they’re still plaguing you now. You are so incredibly sick of being just friends with Logan. You want more—want him, all of him. But you can’t tell him how you feel—you can never find the words or the courage. 

So, you’re simply going to the wedding together, unlabeled out of fear of getting an answer you don’t want to hear. 

You slip on your heels, straightening out your gown one last time before heading towards the door. You take a deep breath, nervous beyond belief. You twist the knob, pulling the door open. 

And there he is on the other side, fist clenched like he was about to knock. Logan. He’s wearing a black suit, a bowtie tied perfectly at his neck. You watch as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Hi,” he husks, his eyes trailing up and down your body. He smiles softly as he meets your gaze. He shakes his head in awe. “You look beautiful.” 

“Oh, please I—” But he cuts you off, his hand reaching out to rest in the crook of your neck. “Really, you look beautiful. You always do.” Your breath hitches as his hand slides down your arm, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You take a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed by the contact and Logan’s words. “You look really great too,” you choke out, a slight tremble in your voice. “Perfect,” you say, and Logan tugs your hand, guiding you out the door and into the hallway.

Rogue had told you the wedding would be small—just her and Gambit’s closest friends and family on the grounds of the institute.  

Logan leads you down the stairs and out the back door of the mansion. The first thing you see are flowers; an absolute abundance of flowers. There are lilies and irises, asters and chrysanthemums. Daises, tulips, every single flower one can imagine—adorning tables, white tents, and planted in pots and boxes. It’s beautiful—a rainbow of colors and fragrances. The lawn has been transformed into a secret garden. 

Logan guides you down a cobblestone path toward a trellis covered in vines and wisteria. Surrounding the trellis on either side are rows of white, wooden chairs. You and Logan walk to the front row on Rogue’s side of the aisle and sit down next to Storm, Charles, and Jubilee.  You wave as you sit down. “You look amazing!” Jubilee shouts, reaching over Charles and Logan to get a better look at your dress. 

“You look beautiful too, Jubes,” you say, motioning in her direction. Logan sits back, slipping his hand from yours and draping his arm over your shoulder instead. Jubilee notices the movement, her eyes flickering between you and Logan, a small smile playing upon her lips. She winks at you and settles back into her seat. 

Footsteps sweep through the grass as people find their chairs. You struggle to ignore the warmth of Logan’s arm around your shoulder and the way it makes you feel—the soft circles he’s drawing into your bare skin. It’s like he needs the proximity, needs the touch. 

You can feel Logan lean in, his lips at the shell of your ear. “You are the most—”

“Wow,” a familiar voice interrupts Logan. You turn your head, and there’s Scott, with Jean just a few steps behind him. “Didn’t expect that.” He raises his brows and cocks his head to the side. 

“You need something, bub?” Logan asks, annoyance and irritation heavy in his voice. 

Scott swallows nervously as Jean chuckles behind him. He shakes his head and sits down next to you. “Nope, I just…” He trails off, looking towards the trellis. 

Logan leans forward, his arm still around your shoulder. “You just what?”

Scott throws his hands up, feigning innocence. “Nothing, absolutely nothing.”

Logan leans back, squeezing your shoulder gently as he settles into the seat. You turn towards him, catching his gaze. You need to ask him what this is, even if it’s clear to him. It’s obviously something to everyone else. You part your lips, finding the courage to finally ask Logan what you two are. “Logan,” you whisper so only he can hear. “What is—"  

But the music starts up, a whimsical rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” filling the air as Hank walks down the aisle, stopping underneath the trellis. Next is Remy, in a cream-colored suit. He grins from ear to ear as he trails down the aisle, nodding to Charles as he steps under the arch. And finally, at the end of the aisle is Rogue. Her dress is bright white, lacey, and tight. She walks down, her bouquet of lilies of the valley and baby’s breath in hand. 

She meets Remy’s side, and the music stops. “Friends and family,” Hank starts, smiling widely at the crowd. “We have gathered here today for the marriage of two people who should have been married long ago.” The crowd chuckles as Hank goes on. “But it is always better late than never…”

He continues, talking about their story, their love. Hank—naturally—finds a few Shakespeare quotes to scatter throughout his speech. It’s incredibly cheesy, but it’s beautiful. And, as Remy and Rogue exchange vows, you can’t help but well up. Their admiration and passion for one another is so undeniably clear. They’re committed, a team, partners until the end. 

“I will always love you, chere,” Remy says, slipping the ring onto Rogue’s finger. 

A single tear slides down Rogue’s cheek. “And I will always love you, sugar,” Rogue says, placing the ring in her hand onto Remy’s finger next. 

You look up at Logan, and you notice that he’s looking down at you. There’s something in his eyes, but you can’t quite place it. He tugs you closer, his thumb still stroking your shoulder. 

Hank sniffles. “With the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Hank says, his voice shaky, his eyes glossed over, holding back tears. “You may now kiss the bride!” 

Remy wraps his arms around Rogue’s waist, and he dips her, his lips capturing hers. Everyone stands, clapping and cheering. You and Logan stand too, his arm falling from your shoulder, leaving you feeling cold despite the summer heat.

But as Rogue and Remy walk down the aisle, Logan’s arm wraps around your waist.  Rogue’s smile widens when she spots you, her eyes flitting between you and Logan. She laughs knowingly. Finally, she mouths to you, and blows you a kiss. The couple finishes their walk down the aisle, and they head into a nearby tent.  

Given that this is Rogue and Remy, the party starts right away. Music blares from the tent, and you can see the happy couple hitting the floor. You recognize the song immediately: “Take on Me” by Aha. Jean drags Scott across the grass to join them. Jubilee and some of the other kids trail behind. Charles, Storm, and Hank head over together. 

You look at Logan and smile, grabbing him by the hand and tugging him towards the tent. You can’t remember the last time you saw everyone this happy. It’s rare that you get to let loose, to have a good time. It warms your heart to see all the students dancing, to see them having a normal childhood experience. 

“Come on!” Jubilee calls. “Come dance!” She’s twirling around, dancing with Kurt and Morph, sparking her signature fireworks every now and then.

You squeeze Logan’s hand and pull him towards the dance floor. You’re shocked that he doesn’t drag his heels, that he doesn’t protest or tell you no—he lets you tug him onto the floor. You turn to face him, swaying to the synthy pop. Logan lifts his arm, twirling you around, laughing as you spin back to him. He grabs your other hand and bounces with you to the music.

“I didn’t know you liked dancing!” You shout over the song as Logan spins you again. 

He smirks, chuckling softly. “I don’t!” He shouts back, pulling you in and out to the beat. “But I like dancing with you.” He draws you in closer, letting go of your hands as his arms wrap around your waist instead.

You can feel the heat rising to your chest, spreading up your neck. The song fades out, and a much slower one starts up. “Something” by The Beatles echoes across the lawn. Rogue and Remy take the center of the floor, and everyone steps off, watching from the side. Logan guides you off the floor and towards your table, his hand in yours again.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur. You see the way Remy looks at Rogue, the way they move as one, fluid unit. “Don’t you want something like that?” You ask, your gaze finding Logan’s. He has that look in his eyes again—all soft, relaxed, happy. 

Logan nods, squeezing your hand. “I think I’ve found it already.” 

Your lips part as you rack your brain for the right thing to say, your breath catching in your throat. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted—the words you’ve been waiting to hear. “Logan I—”

But Jubilee is grabbing your hand as the song changes. “If you’re not gonna dance with my girl, then I’m stealing her!” Jubilee calls out to Logan, pulling you onto the floor as “Can’t Take My Eyes off You” by Frankie Valli rings out. 

“Jubes,” you protest. “Logan and I were actually talking about something kind of important and—”

“One song?” She begs, frowning, putting on her best puppy dog eyes. You look over at Logan, and he’s still standing where you left him, smiling widely. Dance with her, he mouths, arching his brows expectantly. 

“Fine,” you say, still looking at Logan. 

Jubilee cheers, taking your hands in hers, spinning you around. You jump with her, screaming the words. Logan watches from his seat. He loves the way you move, the way you shake your hips, the way you throw your head back and laugh. He can see how much fun you’re having, how happy you are. He can’t keep his eyes off you, can’t help but be mesmerized. And he knows—just by watching—that he wants to be with you forever. Longer than that. You’ve changed him, made him different. And all for the better. 

You look over at him, his arms crossed against his chest as his eyes follow your every move. He’s smiling widely, clearly getting a kick out of you. 

“He loves you, you know,” Jubilee says, twirling you. “I mean, just look at how he’s looking at you!” Jubilee smirks, nodding towards Logan. Her eyes widen. “I think he’s coming over here!”

“Jubes…” Logan chides as he steps closer to the two of you. “Think I can cut in?”

“I don’t know Logan,” Jubilee says sarcastically, grinning ear to ear. “We’re having a great time.”

Logan puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’d like my girl back now.” 

My girl. His girl. 

Jubilee lifts her hands, stepping away from you as the song fades out. “Fine,” she says, pretending to be heartbroken. “Guess I’ll just have to give her up.” Logan steps between the two of you, and you lean to the side to peer at Jubilee as she walks away. She catches your glance, thrusting two thumbs up, mouthing a You got this! as she wanders to her seat. 

“Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers starts up, and Logan wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you into his chest. The sun is setting in the distance, a honeyed glow washing across the lawn, painting the tent and the dance floor in golden light. Logan sways you from side to side, and you let your head fall to his shoulder. 

His lips find the shell of your ear. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers so that only you can hear. 

“Lo, before, when we were watching Remy and Rogue…” you pause, lifting your head to look up at him. 

The corners of his mouth turn up. “I meant what I said,” Logan rasps. “I want you.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Just you.”

“I want you too,” you say, your voice soft and breathy. Logan holds you tighter, his lips just inches away from yours. You can feel his breath fan across your face. 

“Wanted you the whole time,” Logan husks, rocking you gently as the song plays out. “You’re all I ever think about. I can’t get through a day without seeing you, without talking to you.” He pauses as the music grows louder, the strings and piano echoing across the dance floor.

Woah, my love, my darling I've hungered, hungered for your touch A long, lonely time And time goes by so slowly And time can do so much Are you still mine?

“You feel like home,” he says, his eyes glossing over. “I’ve been alive a long time, and for once in my life, I finally understand what that word means. It’s you. This is what love is supposed to feel like.” He pauses again, taking a deep breath, his jaw working. “I love you, so goddamn much.”

“I love you too,” you confess. “More than anything.” 

And then his lips are on yours, and suddenly everything is nothing. The people around you are gone. Your problems have long melted away. Every ounce of pain and every second of suffering you’ve ever felt—that he has ever experienced—are forgotten. It’s all warmth and comfort, languid and slow, but passionate. He’s taking his time, tasting you, savoring you. It’s perfect. Beyond perfect. 

His lips part from yours, and he looks down at you, taking you in, committing the moment to memory. “Pretty girl,” Logan mumbles, tugging you off the floor as the song fades out and a pop song starts up. “What if we slipped away for a few minutes?” 

“O-okay,” you stutter as Logan guides you past your table and out of the tent. The bass of the music echoes across the lawn as you and Logan wander hand in hand toward the mansion.  

He pushes the back door open, leading the two of you inside, and immediately pins you against the wall. “This okay, sweetheart?” Logan asks, holding your hands above your head, his fingers wrapping tightly around your wrists. 

“Yes,” you breathe, your chest heaving against his. He closes the gap between you completely, his lips pressing to yours. It’s hurried now, hungry and frantic. His knee nudges between your legs, spreading you open. You can feel the fire burning in your core—the growing ache. 

You squirm underneath him, your arms fidgeting against his hold, longing to reach out and touch him. “Wanna make you feel good first, princess,” Logan soothes, his grip on your wrists tightening. “Let me take care of you.” You can’t help but grind down on his thigh at his words. 

“Lo,” you whine, searching for more friction. “Please, need you.” Logan swallows your moans with a kiss, his lips melting against yours. “I know, darlin’. I need you too,” he coos. “But I like watching you get off on my thigh,” he says cockily. “That feel good?” He pushes his thigh harder between your legs as you slide up and down. 

“Y-yes,” you stammer, rolling your hips. “N-need more.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Logan whispers, leaving a trail of kisses down your jaw to your neck, softly biting that sweet spot underneath your ear. “Gonna make this pussy feel good.” He lets go of your wrists as he slides down your body, hiking your dress up above your hips as he kneels in front of you.

Logan yanks your panties down your legs, leaving your core bare in front of him. “Wanna taste you, pretty girl,” he husks, his breath fanning against your heat as he settles between your thighs. 

“Please,” you beg, his face just centimeters from where you need him most. His palms splay across your inner thighs, squeezing and nudging you open. You look down at him, hunger, desire, and desperation darkening his half-lidded eyes. “Lo—”

And then he’s licking a long stripe through your folds, his tongue flicking your clit. You shudder underneath his touch as he does it again, his tongue pressing harder this time. 

“Tastes so fucking good,” Logan mumbles against you. “Knew you’d taste perfect.” He pulls your clit between his lips and sucks, his teeth grazing the bud lightly. Your knees buckle at the sensation. 

Logan pushes your legs further apart, one of his hands sliding up your thigh and toward your center. It’s teasing, achingly slow as his fingers finally reach your folds, toying with your slit and spreading your slick. He laps at your clit, and he’s desperate, ravenous, his mouth swallowing you hungrily.

He teases your entrance with two fingers—gentle compared to the way his teeth graze your clit, to the way he’s sucking every last drop you have to give him. You part your lips, ready to beg for him, but he’s thrusting his long fingers inside you—down to his knuckles—only to pull out and pump back in again. 

You moan his name, your back arching off the wall, your thighs trembling as he fucks into you. Logan smiles against you. “That feel good, pretty girl?” He asks, his fingers pumping in and out of your entrance at a rhythmic pace.

“S-so good, Logan,” you say, your voice shaky and uneven. His tongue flits out, flicking your clit before his lips wrap around the bud. He sucks again, harder this time, longer, his face buried deep inside your cunt, like he needs this. Needs to feel every inch of you. To explore you. To remember you. Your heart thunders in your chest as he thrusts in and out, his fingers hitting that sweet spot deep inside every time. 

Your walls flutter around him, squeezing him, taking him deeper. Logan laughs against you, the vibration rolling through your body in waves. “I know you’re getting closer, pretty girl,” Logan whispers, lapping at you between sentences. He looks up at you under those dark, hooded eyes as he plunges into you. “Let me get you there, wanna taste it when you come.”

You flutter around him again, his words threatening to spill the heat building at the bottom of your belly. “Lo,” you whimper as he brings a third finger to your entrance. 

“That’s it, pretty girl, say my name,” he demands, shoving the third finger deep inside on his next pump. 

“F-fuck,” you stutter, your legs shaking as you chant his name. Logan Logan Logan. 

“So fucked out that I’m all you can think about, huh?” Logan teases, edging you closer along. You moan in affirmation as Logan laves at you, stuffing his fingers deep inside. “So fucking beautiful,” he praises. “Doing so good for me.”

“L-Lo,” you choke out, clenching down around him. “I’m so close.”

You can feel yourself coming undone, melting into nothingness as he rams into you, sucking your clit roughly. “I know, princess. Let go for me, wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

Your hips buck and your legs tremble as you fall apart. Your orgasm crashes into you, pleasure coursing through your veins. Logan works you through it, his face still buried between your legs. His tongue laps at you softly, his fingers pumping slowly until they stall inside you. 

His gaze meets yours as he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and brings them to his mouth. His lips wrap around his fingers, and he sucks, savoring your release. He pulls his fingers out with a pop as he stands up. 

Logan presses his forehead to yours. “You know, there’s something else I want,” Logan says, his voice deep and raspy. “I’m not done with you yet.” He cages you in, a hand on either side of your head. 

“W-we need to be careful,” you stammer, nodding towards the door. “Someone could come in and—” Logan cuts you off. “Locked it the second we came inside, sweetheart,” Logan whispers, grabbing your dress and bunching it up around your waist. “No one’s coming in here. It’s just you and me, princess.” Logan pushes his hips into yours, and you can feel his erection straining against the fabric of his slacks. “Need you, darlin’.”

You wrap your arms around Logan’s back. “Need you too,” you pant. Logan’s lips find yours, crashing down needily, starvingly. He swallows your moans, one hand still collecting the fabric of your dress while his other tugs at his belt. He throws it to the floor with a clink and works at his button and zipper, pulling his pants and boxers down his legs. He hoists you up, one hand gripping your ass tightly, pushing your back against the wall for leverage.

“Fuck,” Logan curses, his hand guiding his cock to your entrance. Everything is rushed and frantic. He needs to be inside you, needs to feel you, needs to be as close to you as possible. His head slides through your folds, spreading your slick. “Wanted this for so long,” Logan huffs, his tip slipping into your slit. “My girl.”

With one thrust, he sinks himself deep inside you—down to the hilt. You’re suddenly so full, so whole. “Yours,” you answer as he pulls out and thrusts back in, somehow deeper this time. He’s everywhere and he’s everything. “All yours.”

Logan curses under his breath, panting your name as he sets a brutal pace. “Mine,” he growls between placing open-mouthed kisses to the crook of your neck. “All fucking mine.” His free hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit and drawing tight, rapid circles around the bud. 

You dig your nails into his suit jacket as he splits you open. You want to feel him—to feel his skin, his chest pressed against yours. But this will have to do for now. 

“Next time,” he mumbles, knowing exactly what you’re silently asking for. “You can have more of me next time, okay sweetheart?”

Next time. The words replay in your head as he fucks into you, taking everything you have to give. He knows you so well, already knows every curve and inch of your body, knows your dreams and desires. You fit, like two puzzle pieces, like magnets finally drawing together. 

His thumb brushes your clit soothingly before pinching roughly, sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. Logan thrusts in and out, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin against skin echoing throughout the foyer. 

“Feels so good, pretty girl,” Logan groans. “So fucking perfect, so tight.” Your walls flutter around him, and he grunts as you squeeze him. “Taking me so well.” 

You’re already close, every thrust bringing you to the edge, every flick of your clit sending you spiraling. It’s all too much. And it’s all because of him. 

“Lo,” you whine, his hips rocking into yours, his cock dragging along your walls. “I’m so…” You trail off, squeezing him again, taking him deeper. 

He moans your name, sinking inside you and pulling back out. “I know, princess, me too,” he murmurs, his pace faltering, his hips sputtering. “Come on my cock, wanna feel it,” he pants. “Wanna feel you. Forever.”

And then the tension snaps, heat spilling out of you as Logan thrusts again. He’s throbbing inside you, close behind. Pleasure pulses through your body, wave after wave. You wrap your legs tighter around Logan’s waist, keeping him close as he spills inside you, filling you up. He chants your name, his forehead pressing to yours, looking deep into your eyes as he comes undone.

Your chests heave together, sharing the same breath. His cock is still inside you. Everything is calm. Quiet. “So perfect,” Logan breathes, his lips finding yours again. “So fucking perfect.” He finally slips out of you and sets you down on the ground, keeping your dress bunched up around your waist. 

He leans over to the side, grabs a paper towel from a conveniently placed nearby roll, and sinks down to his knees. He’s cleaning you up, taking care of you, wiping away the mess spilling down your legs. He pulls your panties back up and kisses each of your thighs before standing and tossing the paper towel into the garbage by the door. 

He presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, letting your dress go. He fixes each of your straps, straightening them out, and smooths out your dress. “Beautiful,” he praises, swallowing harshly, as if he’s holding himself back from reaching out and taking you again. Part of you wishes he would.

But he bends over and pulls his pants and boxers up, tucking in his shirt, zippering and buttoning his slacks, and securing his belt back in place. He’s still a little disheveled—sweat on his brow, his hair out of place. But he looks perfect. He looks just like him. 

“You ready to go back out?” He asks, taking your hand in his. You nod and let him lead you outside and towards the tent. 

You find your seats just as dinner is being served. “Where’d you two go?” Scott asks, arching a brow. 

“Got a little too hot,” Logan says, smirking to himself. He finds your thigh under the table, squeezing gently, possessively. “Needed a break from the heat.”

You hum in affirmation, turning your head towards Logan. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “That’s one way to put it,” you whisper so that only he can hear. 

He squeezes your thigh again, harder this time. His lips find the shell of your ear as the rest of the table starts up a conversation. “You’re coming back to my room tonight,” he husks. “Got it?” You can feel the heat rising to your chest as he separates from you. 

You nod, his hand still on your thigh. 

“Good, because I’m not finished with you yet.”