#But man it would have been so hard and she would have been so alone

[pathologicalreid]

that gold mine changed you | s.r.

in which Spencer won't open up to you following his release from prison and you've reached your breaking point

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warning: post prison/prison arc, lack of communication, chemist!reader, slightly proofread word count: 2.13k a/n: love this song. both the original and the phoebe bridgers cover.

i don’t wanna be here anymore; it all tastes like poison

You rifled through the dish that you kept on the entryway console, looking for your car keys so that you could get out. It was hard to describe the way you felt like a spinning top, not dizzy but out of control. Everything felt so out of control.

How could you let it get this bad? You breathed heavily as you fished your keys from the pottery and looped your finger through the key ring. Wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, your eyes caught onto some movement in your periphery.

“You’re leaving?” Spencer asked from down the hallway; his work clothes were rumpled and creased like he’d fallen asleep in them.

You had hoped that he would have the ability to ease himself back into society after three months of prison, and you always took the time to assure him that you would be there for him. Desperately, you tried to be a pillar of support, but you had reached your breaking point.

He’d been given six weeks to readjust. When that didn’t seem to be working, you thought maybe he needed to find his rhythm again, but going back to work at the BAU didn’t seem to help him either. It wasn’t until his first sabbatical hit that you finally considered the fact that things would never be the same between the two of you again.

When you didn’t answer, Spencer put his foot out but hesitated to take a step toward you. “Are you going to come back?”

Swallowing thickly, you looked down at the keys in your hand, “I don’t know.” You eyed the key to your lab, the one place you could always go to escape when you needed to, but you never imagined needing to escape from Spencer.

You weren’t even sure he had been sleeping in the same bed as you, and if he was, he was getting in after you and getting up before you. There was once a moment when you and Spencer shared every minute detail of your lives with each other, at least the parts you weren’t together for, but now you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he was teaching in his lectures, and he couldn’t guess which projects you were working on.

When Spencer was in prison, you thought that was the loneliest you would ever be, but now you were living with the ghost of the man who you once loved, and you had never felt more alone.

Last week, you had practically begged him, very nearly gotten on your knees and pled with him to have a substantial conversation with you. He didn’t seem interested.

you believe that you love me

Looking back up, your eyes widened at the revelation that Spencer had made his way to you in complete silence; he was standing in front of you, “You’re sneaking out?”

Your nostrils flared in frustration; you were sneaking out of your own apartment, a space that you and Spencer were supposed to share, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. “Did I do something wrong?” You asked him, studying his brown eyes as they appeared until the cool light of the moon.

He set both of his hands on your upper arms, and you pulled away from his touch. Spencer flinched back as surely as if you’d struck him. If you pulling away from him hurt, then he wouldn’t be able to fathom how you were feeling right now—how you had been feeling for the last seven months.

“Is it because of your mom?” You tried again, silver lining your eyes as you looked up at him, mercurial tears streaming down your cheeks as you begged for an answer. “I was at work when she was abducted,” you reminded him, having thrown yourself into work while Spencer was in prison. “Is it because I didn’t help her?”

Spencer’s lips parted in surprise, “I didn’t know you blamed yourself for that.” His arms hung limply by his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to release nervous energy.

Blinking tears from your eyes, your shoulders slouched at what felt like a rejection, “How would you? You don’t talk to me,” you told him, your tone wholly accusatory.

“We talk every day,” he rebutted, the energy in your conversation veering toward hostility. That’s not what you wanted; you just wanted to feel at peace.

Three months in prison, six weeks of mandatory leave, one hundred days with the team, twenty days into his first sabbatical, and Spencer was refusing to face what you had already run into headfirst. “We haven’t had a real conversation since February, Spencer. It’s September.”

His eyebrows pinched together as he studied your body language, profiling you to deduce what you wanted from him instead of just asking you. “What do you mean ‘a real conversation?’”

You pressed your lips together in a thin line, and you searched every part of your brain for something to say that wouldn’t contribute to taking your life apart brick by brick. You couldn’t. The words simply weren’t there anymore. Maybe you had left them behind months ago, but right now, you shrugged helplessly, “You’re different, Spence.”

He peered down at you as if you had offended him, “Did you expect me to stay the same?”

It was pathetic. You felt pathetic. Staying in your entryway and begging for someone who previously kissed the ground you walked on for a reason to stay. You never had to ask him before. “I’ve never expected anything but love from you, and you know that,” you told him, pulling the truth from the depths of your soul and putting it on display for him.

Spencer took a step back, stumbling as if his legs were threatening to give out beneath him. “You don’t think I love you anymore?” His own tears welled in his eyes, glittering saline along his lash line that made your chest ache.

You blinked, letting more tears fall down your cheeks. You heard the droplets as they fell on the vinyl decal of your sweatshirt, the only noise in the midst of an otherwise deathly silence. “You have given me no reason to believe that you do,” you admitted, your voice tight with emotion.

so, lose your faith in me

“Don’t leave,” he gasped, struggling through his tears. He held a hand out to you, too hesitant to touch you because of the way you reacted earlier.

You felt like you were tearing your own heart from your chest. You held the organ in your hands, blood dripping to the floor and seeping within the woodgrain, and you asked him to put it back where it belonged. “I can’t do this anymore,” you told him.

He set a hand on the side of your neck, and this time, you didn’t pull away from him. Instead, you savored his touch, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin as the two of you waited for something to give. Three months in prison had been a test of your relationship; you had very little contact with each other. Nothing face-to-face, and after a while, Spencer’s mail started to go missing—interference by a prison guard who had it out for him. You thought that getting him back would fix everything.

Spencer was exactly the same, but somehow, he was completely different after his release. You couldn’t fault him for what he had gone through in prison, but you refused to continue your pattern of dancing around each other.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice so faint that you would’ve missed it had you not been searching for it. His breaths were quickening, and if it weren’t so dark, you’d be sure that his pupils were dilated in fear.

You pursed your lips, “Say it again.” You wanted to hear him. You needed to hear him. You so desperately wanted to hear him repeat himself so that you could throw your arms around him and let him know that everything was perfectly fine.

He panted, “I love you,” he echoed. “Please,” his voice broke, “I love you so much.”

“I want to believe you,” you breathed, looking back down at the keys that remained in your hand. As far as you were concerned, Spencer was the Patron Saint of Liars. He had the intelligence and the experience to become a master manipulator. He’d lied to you before. What was stopping him from doing it again? He knew that I love you was what you wanted to hear. When faced with telling a lie and losing you, the choice was laid out in front of him.

He nodded as if he understood, but you weren’t convinced that he possessed the bandwidth to fully comprehend why you were so unhappy. “I’m sorry for lying to you,” he whispered.

You lost your balance, your back slammed against the wall, and your eyes widened as a result of his apology, “Why?”

Spencer’s brown eyes widened as you slid down the wall, waiting until you were sat on the floor to speak again, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Mexico.”

“You could’ve told me,” you told him, “I could’ve helped you, Spencer. Then we could… Then maybe…” your voice trailed off, lost in a sea of hiccuping sobs.

Gingerly, Spencer lowered himself to the ground and took a seat next to you, “Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to jail. You’re right,” he admitted, “but maybe they would’ve killed you too. Maybe there would have been the same outcome as the one we got, or maybe it would have been much worse.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, you pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. “Lorenz,” you murmured, closing your eyes to relieve some of the burning.

“The Butterfly Effect,” Spencer commented, “Small changes can have large consequences. I made a decision that had massive ramifications and negatively impacted you, and I haven’t been doing enough to fix it.”

You sighed, “You can’t fix it, Spence. It’s like a band-aid over a bullet hole.” You thumbed the hem of your sweatpants, opening your eyes just to stare straight ahead at the wall.

He hummed in what you sincerely hoped was understanding, “I took six years of building trust with you and destroyed it, and now when I tell you I love you, you don’t believe me.”

“You told me you were going to Houston,” you whispered.

“I told everyone I was going to Houston,” he said softly.

Your head snapped in his direction, “I deserved more than what everyone else got. I deserved an explanation, and instead, you lied to me. You lied to me, and then you wouldn’t even let me see you while you were in prison.”

The corners of his mouth downturned, “I didn’t want you to see me in there, and I didn’t want anyone else to see you in there.” You’d heard second hand from JJ that the men at Millburn had ogled her the entire time she was visiting Spencer, and maybe he had explained himself in one of the missing letters, but he hadn’t mentioned it since coming home.

“Spencer, I just want to talk with you,” you whispered. “I want to have a conversation with my boyfriend that doesn’t end with him creating some arbitrary mental block because he doesn’t think I can handle it.”

There was a moment where you thought he was just going to let you go, but Spencer Reid liked to keep the things he cared about close. “It’s not because you can’t handle it, it’s because I can’t handle it,” he admitted.

You turned your body to face him, “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to tell you about prison,” he clarified. “I barely want to tell my therapist about prison, but you—” his voice broke, and your heart went with it. “If I tell you everything I’ve done, you wouldn’t want to be with me anyway.”

You frowned, “Try me.” Your heart was racing; this bit here was decisive. His response would either mean letting go or moving forward.

He looked down at his lap, “Come to therapy with me tomorrow. It’s… there’s something about the leather couch that turns me into an open book.” He told you, nervously running his palms up and down his cloth-covered thighs. Instinctively, you reached out and grabbed his hands, putting a stop to his compulsive movements. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, “Please don’t leave.”

Shaking your head, you sniffled through your tears. If you’d had more energy, maybe you would’ve given him a soft smile, but for now, you answered him, “I won’t.”

[auroracalisto]

with all the power in oz

movie!fiyero x gn!reader, 2.2k words summary: the reader, rather anxious and studious, finds their self head-over-heels with none other than fiyero, supposed boyfriend to galinda upland. to placate this, they somewhat agree to meet him at the ozdust ballroom. a/n: YOU pronouns are used to address the reader, but there is no usage of y/n. just watched the movie today. tried to find a fic, couldn't. here I am writing one instead. reader worries a lot. so me. you're welcome. also, I'm going into this blind. I have unfortunately never seen the actual musical (downsides to living in the middle of nowhere) so I'm only going off based on wikis and the movie. it should be gn as I read through it like... five different times, but please let me know if I missed something!

Breathtaking. That's what he was. But could you truly refer to a man like him as breathtaking?

The very features that graced his face were absolutely mesmerizing, and you felt like a fool watching him at times. How could you not? He seemed so full of life, so full of... well, not a care in the world, really. It was as if he brushed everything off of his shoulders without hesitation.

You could only wished you were the same way.

No cares, no worries. How lovely that would have been.

No, you hold onto the things that happen to you as if you have no other way to live. You hold grudges, you think over things that happened years ago that no one could possibly remember.

For someone who wished to be a sorcerer, you had a hard time simply letting things go. Your emotions often got the better of you, even when you knew better. Even when you wished it could be the opposite. But perhaps that was the way of the world.

Not a man in Oz could tell you otherwise.

Books in hands, you crossed the path to your dormitory, brows cinched together in mild concentration.

You had a project in your history class, and an extensive paper to complete on the study of mathematics—of all the things you could have had, a paper in mathematics. You'd rather perform magic in front of the entire student body, but you couldn't.

As you walked, you heard your name come from behind you. Eyes flicker back, a soft frown on your lips. You see him—Fiyero. The one fool you meant to avoid with all the gumption within you.

You'd melt just being near him.

"Fiyero," you softly greet.

He gave you a charming smile, coming up to walk with you. "Heading back already?" he asked.

"I am."

"Working on the project, hm? We could work on it together if you'd like. I'm sure our minds could do wonders," he said, a playful wink coming from him.

"I'm fine," you simply said.

He blinked slowly, but his smile never wavered. "Come now," he said, your name leaving his lips rather sweetly. "Surely you're not going to spend the rest of your evening alone. Why don't you come to Ozdust tonight?"

You looked back at him, frowning. "Ozdust. Me. I don't think so, Fiyero."

"And why not? I'm sure you'd be as dashing as ever."

You stopped in your steps, eyes searching his for but a moment. "Dashing. Are you in earnest, Fiyero?"

"Yes," he said, smiling.

"And what of Galinda? You'll be with her. Why invite me?"

"She doesn't need to know. It's not her business," he said. "Besides, she will be busy with Elphaba. I'd much rather spend time with you."

"And I think you're just pulling my leg," you said defensively. You crossed your arms over your chest, careful to keep your books close.

"Pulling your leg? I haven't even touched you," he said, a cheeky grin on his lips. "Come now, don't play coy. You should come."

"And if I do?"

"Then I'll be quite happy."

You rolled your eyes and went to walk away.

A hand wrapped around your bicep, and you paused, glancing over your shoulder at him.

His eyes widened a bit and he dropped his hand, albeit hesitantly. Perhaps he didn't think he would actually reach out to you. He cleared his throat.

"I really would like you to be there. You'll have the time of your life."

"The time of my life," you repeated. "I don't think you realize how much I dread parties."

"Have you ever been to one?"

"No."

"Then how do you know you dread them?"

"I just know," you said. "I feel it in my bones. I know going will just get on my nerves."

He scoffed, placing his hands on his hips. "I think you're foolish for that," he said. "Come on. What are you losing? A couple hours to work on a project that you know you could finish in a morning session? You'll be fine. Come to the Ozdust tonight. I'll show you a good time."

You clenched your jaw. "I don't want—"

"—I would like you to be there. That is all. I won't ask again." He gave you another small smile before he looked away. "I'll see you around. Perhaps tonight?"

You stared him down. He would like to see you there? Was he being honest? And what of Galinda? Would he be going behind her back? Wasn't he madly in love with her, or something? Or was it the other way around?

He said your name once more, and you looked up at him, letting out a soft sigh.

"Right. Perhaps tonight," you softly said.

The smile on his lips was rather... hopeful than anything else. There wasn't anything smarmy by it. He seemed as genuine as the glint in his eye—the one he used when he spoke with anyone he trusted. At least, you hoped so.

The night came quickly as you finished up your outfit—one you would hope you didn't look completely foolish in. The color you chose seemed to fit well with almost anything, but you still worried. You always worried about something.

Time was of the essence. You weren't even supposed to leave Shiz University's campus, but here you were, sneaking like some scoundrel.

Well, perhaps you were, listening to the requests of a man who already had a girlfriend—a fantastically beautiful one at that.

But you paid no mind. You did what you could, and soon, you found yourself walking down the steps of the Ozdust Ballroom.

Never had you been in a place like this. It was almost... breathtaking, had it not been for the overpowering smells of perfume and some kind of drink wafting from the bar. Your eyes flitted from patron to patron until you finally spotted him—Fiyero.

He looked just as handsome as ever.

Good Oz, what in the world were you doing? This was foolish.

You took a step back, staring at Fiyero for a moment as he spoke with another man, drink in hand. You needed to leave. This was ridiculous. You were ridiculous! Never in a thousand years would you ever imagine yourself to do such a thing—

"You made it!"

Fiyero's voice rang out above the music.

You look to him, eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Because of course he saw you as soon as you had decided to leave.

Fiyero smiled and made his way to you, taking your hands in his, drink left with the confused man behind him. Surely he didn't just up and leave in the middle of his conversation.

You part your lips and go to speak, but to your dismay, Fiyero is instant.

"I was afraid you had changed your mind," he said. "You look ravishing, darling."

Your eyes widened. Ravishing? You'd been called many things in your life, but never ravishing.

"Galinda couldn't make it?" you asked.

"Wha—no, she couldn't. But what of it? I didn't ask her to the Ozdust, I asked you. I'm glad to see your face."

Warmth blossomed in your cheeks as you watched him. "Fiyero, please... I shouldn't be here."

"Oh, nonsense," he said, grinning all the while. "Come. Dance with me."

"But I don't—"

"—do not say you don't dance. I can teach you."

"Teach me?"

"It's as easy as breathing," he said.

"For you, maybe, but not for—"

"—humor me," he said, smiling.

You pursed your lips. Of course he had to give you that charming smile and the sweet bat of his eyelashes.

"I do not dance," you repeated.

"I think I will be the judge of that."

He grabbed your hands once more and pulled you out into the ballroom floor, smiling all the while.

"You'll be a natural. I can just see it."

"I feel like if I were a natural, you wouldn't have to teach me," you said, gasping as he pulled you close to his chest. His face was dangerously close to yours, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips.

"You know," he began, eyes flickering back to your eyes. "We all start somewhere, do we not? You should know that better than anyone."

"What? What does that—"

He interrupted you by spinning you by your arm, back into his embrace. The music was rather ambient, not quite one for dancing so enthusiastically, but Fiyero embraced it. Hand to your hand, face close to your face.

"See? A natural."

"You merely spun me around, Fiyero. Do not be foolish."

"You could have fell flat on your face," he said, a boyish grin evident on his lips.

"Stop looking at me like that," you defiantly said. "You are far too close to me for my liking."

"Oh, feisty, are we?" he asked, moving his body along to the music and forcing you to go along, too. You nearly stepped on his toes several times. "I do not think there is anything wrong with the way I'm looking at you. You're rather breathtaking, if I may."

Breathtaking. The same way you had described him only hours before. He wasn't a mind reader, was he?

No.

Of course not. That was foolish. He was merely a man. Nothing of great importance—no power within him other than the power he held in every single eyelash as they batted down at you, making you melt over and over again.

"What of Galinda?" you repeated.

"What of her?"

"You shouldn't be calling someone who isn't yours breathtaking. It's quite..."

"There is nothing wrong with admiring the beauty in front of me," he said, your name playfully leaving his tongue. "Look at me. Galinda and I are only friends."

You rolled your eyes. "Do not lie to me."

His eyes widened a bit. "Lie? I do not lie. We are friends and nothing more. Though I do believe she thinks differently..."

"She must," you said, huffing softly.

"But that does not make it true. I have eyes for someone else."

"Eyes for someone else?"

He tilted his head once more. He was rather endearing when he did that.

"Who did I ask to their very first party?" he asked, smiling. "It's quite a feat, isn't it? Afraid you wouldn't show, and then you do, questioning me and everything I stand for, hm?"

Warmth found its way to your cheeks once more. You looked away from him. With the crescendo of the music, Fiyero pulled you closer, fingers lacing with yours. His lips hover dangerously close to yours.

"You know, if you would just give it a chance, perhaps you and I could make some magic of our own."

You let out a curt laugh. "You—oh, good Oz, I hope you never use that line on anyone! Has that worked for you before?"

He gave a cheeky smile. "It seems like it's working on you."

"Absolutely not!"

"Not even a little!"

"No!"

His smile only seemed to grow. "Truly?"

You looked away, swallowing thickly. "I mean... no. Not even a little. Not at all."

"You're lying," he said.

"I am not."

"I do think I know what I'm talking about," he said, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the soft skin of your cheek. "Come now," he said. "Stop with the lies."

You looked up at him, a soft huff escaping you.

"Fine. I lied. It may or may not be working. But it's not just because of what you said."

"Oh? Are you saying you like me for more than my suave words?"

"Suave words? Who in Oz said they were suave?"

He just smiled, his eyes flickering to your lips once more. "Do you think instead of just a dance, I could try something more?"

"Try what?"

"I think you know."

You blinked slowly at him, your fingers gently gripping onto his tunic. Your lips part in mild surprise, but you realize that you shouldn't have been. He'd been eyeing you the entire evening.

"Very well," you softly said.

"Wonderful," he replied, and in a swift motion, he pressed his lips to yours. It was short as he pulled back almost as soon as he had kissed you, but it was enough to keep you wanting more.

"Fiyero, that wasn't—"

"—come with me," he softly said, lacing his fingers with yours once more. "Somewhere without so many prying eyes, yes?"

Your answer was almost instant: "Yes."

Fiyero led you back up the staircase, and he didn't look back once at the ballroom.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

"Somewhere where I can see you and only you," he said. "If that's alright."

"Oh," you softly said. "Yes. That's alright."

"Then follow me," he said. "Do you trust me?"

You smiled sincerely for one of the first times in the evening. Did you trust him? What kind of foolish question was that? If you had the chance, you'd do whatever he'd ask of you. You found your answer rather quickly, knowing within yourself that it was far truer than any other statement you had ever uttered.

"With all the power in Oz."

[meelusinee]

NOW SHE HAS ME UNDER HER SKIRT ✦ M.R x READER

in which mattheo is absolutely in love with you before you two even talk for the first time

pairing: lovesick!mattheo riddle x reader

tags: lovesick mattheo, fem reader, so tamino inspired

word count: 3.7k

warnings: just fluff again! along with easily flustered mattheo (+ teasing theo)

author's note: my second post!! i made a small playlist of tamino songs i used for mattheo in this. if you haven’t, please go listen to him (his music is so good). i based this off a small part of my first fic where theo sang to reader. as always, while english is my first (and only) language, that does not mean i claim it in any way shape or form (aka this will probably suck ass)

NOW SHE HAS ME UNDER HER SKIRT | M.R x READER

Mattheo didn’t know much about love. 

Between being raised by a dictator and his craziest follower, he already didn’t have a very good start. Especially whenever he would get in trouble, the Cruciatus Curse was definitely no joke. Not to mention everyone pestering him about the legacy he led. News flash to the Gryffindors who would try to pick on him, he found it quite obvious that he was Voldemort’s son.

Suffice to say that he didn’t know much about love. He never had a true showcase of it, never had an example of it to compare to anything. The closest he ever had being another stunted teenager by the name of Theodore that considered him his brother, but even then there was still distance.

That was until he met you.

You, the most beautiful person he had ever met in his entire existence on this Earth. Anything he  lol looked at on you he would find absolutely perfect, from the color of your eyes to the way your hair bounced in the sunlight.

That alone made it hard to approach you. Your nice demeanor seemed to make it even harder.

So, he settled with admiring from afar. Mattheo knew your schedule, the classes that you would take and every time that it varied. He would subtly watch you in classes, hang around the same areas you did during your break periods, or even where you went for fun. And, to the best of his ability, he tried to avoid things that looked bad. No more fights or cursing, not unless he was truly provoked.

His mind also got its grubby hands on the idea of a journal. A place he could write about you freely, one he charmed so only he could read it. Entries, song ideas, anything he could think of. You made him an artist, you as his perfect muse.

And it all got even better when you two finally met.

You had just walked down to the courtyard, Mary Janes clacking along the rocks as you made your way over to a small pillar.

Recently, you noticed someone sitting by the pillars a lot more than usual. He was tall, his face usually covered by his brown curls as he wrote inna small journal he always carried with him. Said tall man with a face covered by his brown curls was your current potions partner, you had both been assigned to create a Liquid Luck potion.

“Hello?” you called out gently. face tilted down just a bit as you looked down at him. His eyes locked with yours when he looked up, the most beautiful shade of molten honey you had ever seen meeting your eyes. “Hi there, stranger.”

“Hello?” he whispered back at you, eyebrows furrowed as he spoke. His face looked rather cute when it was all scrunched up like that, a light blush covering his cheeks.

“I’m your Potions partner.” you said with a smile, flattening your skirt before moving to sit down next to him. “For the Liquid Luck project.”

“Oh,” he whispered, nodding as he closed his journal. It had a rather pretty leather cover, the pages aged and covered in ink from what you could tell. “Yeah, I remember. Y/N, right?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, nodding. “And you’re Mattheo.”

“Yes I am.” he said, a soft smile coming on his face as he heard that. He looked at you with something special in his eyes, eyes that carved themselves deep into your soul with the most intricate patterns you could think of.

The trance both of you seemed to be stuck in was broken when he cleared his throat, fingers tapping on his journal. “Did you have any ideas for the project?”

“Oh,” you whispered, nodding. “Yes, yes I do. I was thinking that we head to the library and research different potion methods and whatnot. Based on Slughorn’s instructions, I’m assuming that the instructions in the books won’t help much.”

“You’re a genius.” he whispered, barely loud enough for you to hear.

“What was that?” you asked him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat as he began to sit up. “Do you want to go now?”

Mattheo thought that he was dreaming, if he was being honest.

The girl of his dreams, the girl that he had wrote almost obsessively day and night about for almost six years, that same girl was currently sitting across from him. Laughing.

“You’re ridiculous,” she smiled at his joke, her voice sweet like a piece of cotton candy melting on your tongue. He didn’t even remember what he had joked about at this point, his mind turning to mush the moment he heard that sound pass your lips.

Those lips that haunted his dreams every single night, the image of them so plush and pure he wanted to worship them like one would a holy angel. They looked absolutely perfect.

“Thank you,” he whispered, smiling softly as he rested his chin on his hand. He probably looked like a lovesick puppy, but he didn’t mind. 

“I found something really interesting in this book  by the way,” you said, Mattheo’s eyes instantly darting to where your hands were resting on the page. “It says in the recipe that we need to juice a squill bulb, which most people just cut it for. But this recipe here notes that squeezing ingredients over a funnel gets more juice out.”

“That’s really interesting.” he whispered, his gaze looking at your face as you spoke. 

“Isn’t it?” you asked with a smile. “And here it says that adding the entire Murtlap makes the potion last longer, rather than just growth.”

“That’s also really interesting.” he whispered again, gaze still stuck on your face. You looked so pretty whenever you were concentrating on things, the way your eyebrows furrowed making him think of a million different songs and rhythms. 

“Is it?” you asked with a chuckle.

“Well,” he muttered, looking at you with a small smile on his face. “I always found Potions an interesting topic.”

“Always is not a word. It’s more of a concept.” you said, humming as you continued reading the pages. Mattheo chuckled softly, looking at you like a lovesick puppy.

“You’re lovely,” he whispered. 

Theo was sitting in his bed reading a book, his curtains almost completely closed as he flipped between page to page. At least, he pretended to.

Recently, he had noticed Mattheo’s obsessive journaling habits. How his hands would be covered in ink by the time he was finished, or how he’d write until his new candle burnt out. Sometimes Mattheo would write even when the candle burnt out, instead opting for yet another one.

It was rather concerning to Theo, to say the least. Out of all of the things Mattheo could do, he was changing who he was. Self-improvement was one thing, but it seemed like he changed an obsession from fighting to writing.

“I can feel you staring at me.” Mattheo mumbled, looking back over at where Theo was sitting.

“I’m surprised you can,” Theo said under his breath, closing his book and standing up. “With how much you’ve been writing, I’d assume you get sucked in by a black hole sometime soon.”

“Oh hush,” he whispered, looking up from the journal. His hands were stained black and red with quill ink, the candle beside him still burning brightly. “Why do you keep staring at me? You’ve been doing it all week.”

“Your journal.” Theo smirked, walking behind Mattheo and placing his hands on his Mattheo’s shoulder. “What’s inside?”

“Why would I tell you?” Mattheo grumbled, continuing to write in the journal. Theo’s eyes squinted as they tried to read whatever was on the page, but the words were too jumbled to make any sense to him. No doubt a charm.

“You charmed the journal?” Theo asked curiously, looking down at Mattheo.

“Like you care.” he whispered under his breath, the quill scratching loudly against the paper. The room was quiet other than that, nothing but the quill scratching and the candle crackling.

“I do.” Theo said, his voice a bit more stern. He pulled up a chair next to Mattheo, resting his elbow on the table. “Mattheo, you’re pushing everyone away. Even me, and it’s not healthy. All you do is write in this journal, it’s kind of worrying.”

“I just like writing,” Mattheo whispered, moving his legs to rest his knees near his chest.

“About what?” Theo asked, his voice more soft than teasing.

“You’ll judge.” Mattheo whispered again, flicking the quill back and forth as his eyes glanced over at Theo. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because you’re my best friend.” Theo whispered. “I promise I won’t judge.”

Mattheo sighed before turning to the journal, pressing his wand against it as the words came into view more clearly. His handwriting was a lot more cursive than Theo first remembered, no doubt changing the more he wrote. 

“It’s a journal about her,” Mattheo whispered, flipping through some of the pages. “Love letters, poems, songs and stuff.”

“Her?” Theo asked curiously. “Who’s her?”

“Her,” Mattheo muttered to Theo, picking at his fingernails as he spoke. He looked like a blushing schoolboy who found his first love, it was rather cute to watch. “It’s, like, she’s a girl I just really like. I think about her a lot, you know? And I’m just trying to improve myself for her.”

“What’s her name?” Theo asked, resting his head against his hand as he crossed his legs.

“Y/N.” Mattheo sighed, like the word itself was a part of some holy prophecy. “She’s so beautiful, you know? Like something from heaven, just beautiful. And I just can’t get her out of my head.”

“Have you ever tried talking to her?” Theo asked, a small smile on his face.

“We have this project together right now.” he said, chuckling softly as he spoke. He was so down bad. “She took me to the library to research more about potions. Merlin, she’s so smart Theo. She figured the reason why nobody could make the potion was because the instructions were wrong.”

“So you both started researching?” Theo asked.

“She researched, yeah,” Mattheo said, before chuckling again. His hand moved to scratch the back of his neck nervously. “I kind of just sat watching her the entire time.” 

“Mattheo,” Theo chuckled softly, shaking his head. 

“You said you wouldn’t judge!” Mattheo protested.

“I’m not judging.” Theo chuckled, looking down at the journal. “I’m just confused on how you think you’ll get your girl if you can’t even talk to her. Journaling can only go so far.”

“I know,” Mattheo whispered, looking down at his journal again. “But it still helps.”

Theo nodded, looking down at the journal again. “What are you writing about right now?”

“Uh,” he muttered, looking at the pages. “It’s a song. She said something at the library that made me think of a song, I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”  

“What’s it sound like.” Theo asked, leaning back in his seat.

“Uhm,” he whispered, picking at his nails again as he pushed the journal towards Theo. He hummed softly as he picked it up, eyes squinting as he tried to read his handwriting.

Darling, just calm with your voice

Let your heart sing, how I always enjoy 

When you say “always” is not a word

You think love is a bit absurd.

“That’s really nice,” Theo said, looking up at Mattheo with a small smirk. “This is a lot better than I thought it’d be, to be honest.”

“What did you think I was writing about?” Mattheo asked confusedly.

“Dark magic or something.” Theo chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Like you were possessed by a ghost to figure out how to resurrect themselves.”

Mattheo chuckled at that, taking his journal back. “I think you’ll find someone like this, you know. It makes life really nice.”

“Being in love?” Theo asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Mattheo whispered. “In love.”

“Well, there’s always an opportunity for that. And when it happens, it’ll happen.” Theo said, patting his pockets and pulling out a box of cigarettes. “But until then, there’s cigarettes.”

“You know the way to my heart, don’t you?” Mattheo snickered at that, using the lit candle to light his own cigarette.

It had been a couple of weeks since you and Mattheo had started working on your project. You had figured out how to maximize the efficiency of your potion brewing, including changing methods of brewing and preparing ingredients. After about three different trials, you had finally found the perfect way to brew the potion. 

“That’s perfect.” Mattheo smiled softly at you, chuckling softly as he scratched the back of his neck. In all honesty, it looked like a regular potion to him. “I think that’s perfect, right?”

“That is perfect.” you said, giggling softly as his reaction You found it rather cute, if you were being honest. He seemed rather nervous around you. “Thank you for doing all of this with me, the potion work and all. Most people would probably just leave it to me, you know?”

“Why would they leave?” Mattheo asked, eyebrows furrowing.

You shrugged, looking down at the potion still set in the cauldron as you spoke. “I don’t really know. I guess people consider me weird or something like that. Someone said that I was whimsical once, I don’t think it was a nice way though.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous.” Mattheo spat. He couldn’t understand the logic of that. In his eyes, you were absolutely perfect. He would give anything in the world to hang out with you more often than he got too, and people gave that up for free? The thought was absolutely ridiculous.

You chuckled quietly at that, smiling softly. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. I mean,” he paused, looking up at you like that was the most absurd thing in the entire world. He had a small flush on his face, no doubt questioning what he was going to say. “I mean, you’re such a nice person. And I think that hanging around you is comforting.”

“And I think that you’re rather sweet.” you chuckled, looking at him with a soft smile.

“I’m being serious!” Mattheo said, looking you in the eyes. You hadn’t heard him talk this much in the entire time that you had been working with him, and you especially didn’t expect it to be him defending you. “You’re just, like, you. Which is really sweet, you know? I really like you and your whimsy, or whatever they try to call you.”

You giggled again, smiling softly at him as you scooted a bit closer. “You’re rather nice yourself, if I do say so myself.”

“Thank you.” he whispered, his voice raising a pitch as he looked at the potion. “Do we need to test this?”

“I think so.” she nodded. “Do you want to do it?”

Mattheo looked at the potion, a small frown coming on her face. If anything went wrong with the podcast, he wouldn’t want you to be hurt by it. Which led to him nodding, the best option for him obviously being him taking the potion himself. 

“I’ll bottle it for you.” you said, grabbing the small ladle and pouring it inside the potion vial. “Here, one vial of Liquid Luck for you.”

Mattheo smiled softly as he took a sniff of it. “Is it meant to smell like something?”

“No, just air. I mean, clean air. Not like toxic air or anything.” you said, before ending your small speel. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”

Mattheo nodded again, taking a swig of it before coughing. “That’s definitely hot.”

“It did just come off the cauldron.” you chuckled, fingers fidgeting slightly. “Do you feel lucky?”

Mattheo looked up at you with a look you could only describe as a lovesick puppy, a small flush covering his face as he admired you. You could only assume the amount of thoughts running through his mind were plenty, some very hard to sort through. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, blinking slowly as he looked at you. “Very lucky.”

You chuckled softly at that, your face flushing as you watched his eyes lock onto your lips. “Do I have something on my lips or something?”

“No,” he whispered softly, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he spoke. “No, I just,”

“Something on my teeth?” you asked, shining your teeth to him.

“I want to kiss you.” he whispered. 

Your mouth closed again as you heard that, eyes locking onto his after he spoke. That didn’t last long though, as his eyes focused back on your lips again. “You what?”

“I want to kiss you.” he said a bit more clearly, his voice hoarse as he spoke. “I mean, I don’t want to pressure you. But I really want to kiss you.”

“You can kiss me.” you whispered softly to him, scooting a bit closer to him in return. 

Mattheo blinked for a couple of seconds, the shock of your answer plastered on his face. It filled you with a small sense of confidence, the blush on his face fueling your own. “I can?”

“You can.” you smiled.

Mattheo smiled brightly at that, the burn of it brighter than the sun sucking his lips in like a blackhole would. His lips immediately met yours, burning like fireworks against his skin. It was absolute bliss to him, burning through his skin and turning him into nothing but lovesick ash.

“Your lips are absolutely perfect, my love.” he whispered, his eyes boring into yours with a gaze full of adoration. “So perfect.”

“Was your luck to try and kiss me, Riddle?” you chuckled softly at him. 

“This is the luckiest moment of my life.” he whispered. 

“Theo!” Mattheo spat out, opening the dorm room door as he stormed in. His palms looked sweaty, and his face was absolutely covered in a bright blush. 

“Mattheo.” Theo said his name back, closing his book as he looked at where Mattheo had stormed in. He looked absolutely wrecked, almost drenched in sweat. “You look like you just got your ass kicked on the Quidditch field.”

“I just,” he whispered, walking closer to Theo as he paced around the room. “I just kissed her.”

“Y/N?” Theo asked, a small smile crossing her face. “You kissed her?”

“It was so perfect.” he whispered, laying down on Theo’s bed. “Like, it was like her lips had a magnetic pull on me. I couldn’t stop for the next hour. A whole hour!”

“That’s wild, mate.” he chuckled softly, patting Mattheo on the head.

“It was just perfect,” he whispered under his breath, sighing softly. “Like, I don’t know how else to describe it. Maybe like looking at a supernova for the first time.”

“You are down bad, Mattheo.” he chuckled softly at that, continuing to pat his friend on the head.

“And then we, after that right?” he said, the smile on his face only growing larger. “We snuck off to this broom closet. You know the ones. And we did, we had,” he paused, sighing in frustration as his words jumbled in his head. “You know?”

“I know.” Theo chuckled.

“I have a song idea again.” Mattheo said, sitting up again as he rushed to the journal he kept so dearly to his heart. “I will be dead to the world for the next few hours.”

“You want me to go tell Y/N that, lover boy?” Theo smirked.

“She can come in whenever.” Mattheo said, dipping his quill in black ink. “I already gave her our dormitory password.”

“You what?”

“I have a present for you.” Mattheo whispered under his breath, a small smile on his face as he walked towards you.

It was the 6 month anniversary of one of the happiest relationships you had ever been in. There was communication and there was love. Small dates near the Black Lake at midnight, with breakfast you stole from the Great Hall earlier. Times where he’d take you into town and let you dress up however you wanted, all on the cards he stole from Malfoy. Or small get-togethers like this, hangouts at the top of the Astronomy Tower. 

And the presents were always lovely. Small poems that he wrote for you, or love letters that he hand wrapped himself. A small blush or dress you had been eyeing for more than two seconds, or room decor that went with your forever indecisive aesthetics. 

“You do?” you giggled softly, gasping softly as he pulled out a small guitar. “A song?”

“I’ve written a couple for you,” he whispered. “And I wanted to sing them to you. For our anniversary.”

“I love you.” you giggled, smiling as he sat down.

He cleared his throat as he made sure the guitar was in tune, strumming a few chords before eventually developing a melody. It seemed almost hypnotic the way his hands moved, his voice humming along as he figured out the rhythm.

“Yesterday, I was a word. Left with no voice to speak it,” he hummed softly, his voice and the guitar both vibrating through the walls. You smiled brightly as you heard his voice, not realizing how pretty his voice actually sounded.

“Now I am a happy song, placed on the lips of a woman.” he sang, winking at you. He continued for a few lines, a small smirk growing on his lips as he got to the instrumental part.

“What are you going to sing next?” you asked, watching him giggle softly. “Seriously!”

“Patience,” he whispered, chuckling as he strung the melody again, his eyes darting down at the guitar. “Now she has me, under her skirt,”

“Mattheo!” you flushed, slapping his arm and breaking the rhythm of his song. “My skirt?”

The both of you burst out into a laugh at that, the sound breaking through the cold night air that breezed through the alcove you sat in. Or maybe you just felt warm in his presence, a constant feeling of love rushing through your body.

“Can I finish my song now?” he smirked.

“I suppose you could.” you whispered, resting your head on his shoulder as he continued to sing.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

my second post oh my GOD this one took a hot minute to get through. beta-reading and proof reading is definitely not my jam, and there's definitely things that i missed in this. but i hope it still works out well, especially the whole lovesick angle i was going for. if you guys haven't already, please please please go check out tamino's music. it is actually so. good. if you listen to hozier or adrianne lenker, i think you'd really like his songs (my favorites are the first disciple and habibi)

as always, please like, comment, and reblog! it really helps out, and i really appreciate everyone who does! if you guys have any requests or something you can request in the ask box!

[tteotlma]

Edge of Redemption

Logan’s life as a priest is built on a fragile foundation of faith and restraint. But then you appear—his greatest temptation, threatening to tear down everything he’s worked so hard to build. Salvation is within reach, but the closer he gets to you, the more he wonders if it’s worth the cost.

Priest!Logan x Reader (9.1k wc)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, religious blasphemy/sacrilege, priest/church employee relationship, power dynamics, age gap relationship, light choking/breath play, dubious consent themes, emotional manipulation, religious guilt/shame, light degradation, praise kink, explicit language, sexual tension, touch starvation, passionate/rough sex, semi-public intimacy, forbidden relationship, dom/sub themes, emotional vulnerability, morality crisis, internal conflict, power imbalance dynamics, religious conflict, mild degradation through religious themes, consensual acts with power dynamics, office/workplace setting intimacy a/n: this was supposed to be 1k words... and so many tags bc honestly i felt so... religiously guilty LOL but this concept has been on my mind FOREVER. Not beta'd so probs lots of mistakes/repetition. I wanted to do smth different so...

---

11/24/24 

Logan thought the church would cleanse him, that its walls would shelter him from the shadows he’d carried so long–but some sins were too hard to let go. The echoes of his past clung to him like a second skin, unyielding, no matter how many prayers he muttered or candles he lit. Every sermon, every hymn, every whispered confession felt like an act of penance, but the peace he sought remained just out of reach.

He had learned to take refuge in the routines, in the rhythm of prayer and scripture, as if repetition alone could dull the ache in his soul. The children’s laughter from the Sunday school classes brought moments of light, though even that felt like a reminder of all he’d never have—a life untainted by regret.

Then you arrived. 

A disruption he hadn’t anticipated, your presence was unassuming yet magnetic, your voice soft but firm as you led the children from their classroom to their parents. It was the first time in a long time Logan had noticed something—someone—beyond the weight of his own guilt. He told himself it was nothing. She was a teacher, a kind soul, and he was a man who had no right to be drawn to kindness.

But kindness, he found, had a way of reaching the places he had worked so hard to lock away. 

The first time you approached him, it was to ask about the church’s history. A notebook held close to your chest, a warm and unassuming smile. “Father Logan, I was hoping you could help me with something.”

He hesitated, his pulse quickening despite himself. “Of course. What do you need?”

You stepped closer, your presence filling the small space between the both of you. “The children were asking about the stained-glass windows—the stories they tell. I wanted to be sure I got it right before the next class.”

Logan glanced at the nearest window, its depiction of Saint Michael vivid in the afternoon light. He cleared his throat, forcing his focus to the question. “Saint Michael, the archangel,” he began, keeping his voice steady. “A symbol of divine protection. The sword he carries is meant to…” His voice faltered as you tilted your head, watching him with quiet attentiveness.

“Meant to what?” you asked softly.

“To strike down the forces of evil,” he finished, though the words felt hollow in his mouth. 

The conversation stayed with him long after you left, your notebook tucked under your arm and your footsteps fading into the quiet of the church. Logan stayed behind, lingering by the window watching your shadow disappear around the corner. 

——— 

This Sunday’s rain had come out of nowhere, a sudden deluge that hammered against the stained-glass windows and turned the world outside into a blur. Logan had stayed late, as he often did, finding solace in the quiet of the empty church. The flickering candlelight and the rhythm of the storm outside gave him a sense of calm he rarely found anywhere else.

He was about to extinguish the last of the candles when a faint noise caught his attention—a soft rustling sound coming from the far corner of the sanctuary. His brow furrowed as he moved toward the noise, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor.

And then he saw you. 

You were seated near the back of the church, a book in hand and papers spread out beside you. Your damp cardigan draped over the seat beside you. Your hair was slightly disheveled, as you indulged in your book, oblivious to his presence. 

“What are you doing here so late?” Logan’s voice broke the silence, low and steady but laced with curiosity. “Church let out hours ago.”

You startled, your bookmark slipping from your fingers as you looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Father Logan! I—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He crossed his arms, his gaze softening as he took in your flustered expression. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You smiled sheepishly, closing the book in your hands. You gestured to the papers beside you, “I was trying to get a head start on next week’s lesson. The storm caught me off guard, and I figured I’d wait it out here instead of getting soaked.” 

Logan let out a soft sigh, shaking his head. “You know, most people would’ve taken the storm as a sign to go home.”

“Most people don’t have twenty kids asking them questions I don’t have answers to,” you countered, your smile growing as you tucked your bookmark between random pages. “Besides, it’s kind of nice here at night. Quiet. Peaceful.”

He leaned against the nearest pew, watching as you carefully toyed with the edges of the book. “It’s not safe for you to be out this late, especially with the weather like this.”

“I’ll be fine,” you said lightly, though the way you avoided his gaze told him you weren’t entirely convinced.

Logan frowned, the protective instinct he tried so hard to suppress flaring to life. “At least let me walk you to your car when the rain lets up. I don’t want you getting caught out there alone.” 

“It’s okay F-father, I’m not one for driving in the rain anyway.” You turned to look up at him, already finding him staring down at you. 

Logan didn’t look away, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. The way you said Father, like it was unfamiliar on your tongue, made something in him stir—a dangerous sometthing he had no business feeling. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the present.

“You’re planning to wait out the storm here, then?” he asked, his voice lower, quieter.

You gave a small shrug, your gaze dropping back to the notebook in your lap. “If that’s okay. It sounds like it might be letting up soon,” Lie. “It won’t be long if that’s okay.” You hug yourself and it’s then that Logan realizes your arms are bare, save for the thin straps holding your top up. 

Logan’s gaze followed your hands as you hugged yourself, the thin fabric of your top stretching over your arms. His eyes lingered, just for a moment too long, before he registered the goosebumps that had begun to rise on your skin. The soft glow of the candlelight flickered across your bare arms, highlighting the subtle tremor in your posture that unbeknownst to him had nothing to do with the storm.

He cursed under his breath, shifting uncomfortably where he stood. There was a small pang of guilt in his chest—this wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to notice. He wasn’t supposed to care.

But he did.

Logan cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual. “You’re cold,” he stated, though it wasn’t really a question. It was a simple observation, but it hung in the air between you, thick with unspoken implications. His gaze flicked to the heavy downpour outside the stained glass windows, and then back to you, looking small and vulnerable in the dim light of the church. 

You gave a sheepish shrug, clearly not wanting to admit it. “I’m fine. Really.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, the protective instinct kicking in before he could stop it. “No, you’re not,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. 

He took a few steps toward you, his eyes scanning the room before settling on the door to his office. “I’ve got some coffee in my office. It’s warm, and it’ll help.”

Before you could protest, he was already moving toward the office, and without thinking, he added, “Come on. It’s not safe to stay out here for too long.”

You followed without much hesitation, the soft patter of the rain accompanying your steps as you entered his small, dimly lit office. The door clicked shut behind you, and the air inside was warmer, filled with the faint smell of coffee beans and old books.

Logan’s office was sparse but functional, with a small desk cluttered with papers, and a bookshelf lined with books, most of them theological texts, some old, some well-worn. It felt like a space where things—both literal and emotional—were tucked away, just as he liked it. But tonight, with you standing just a few feet away, the room felt different.

He motioned to the plush velvet chair in the corner of his office, his back turned as he prepared the coffee. “Have a seat,” he said, his voice softer now, but still edged with that familiar tension. "I’ll make it quick."

You settled into the chair, and Logan noticed how you kept your arms tightly crossed over your chest. His gaze flickered over to the window, the rain still relentless outside, though now it felt like a distant background to the simmering awareness between you two.

The sound of the coffee pot bubbling was the only noise for a few moments, and Logan’s mind wandered against his will. He tried not to let his thoughts drift to the way you had looked at him earlier, the softness in your eyes that made him forget himself for a second. The way your voice had caught when you said Father, the hesitation he’d caught there. It was the smallest thing, but it gnawed at him.

He cleared his throat and handed you the mug, the warmth of it radiating through his hand as he held it out to you. “Here.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his briefly, and for the briefest of moments, Logan felt something pulse beneath his skin—a flicker of heat that wasn’t just from the coffee.

“Thank you,” you said softly, lifting the mug to your lips. The warmth seemed to bring some color back to your face, and you looked up at him again. “I didn’t expect to be stuck here this late.”

He nodded, his arms crossed over his chest now, posture tense, as if trying to keep himself contained. “I know. But the storm…” He trailed off, his gaze flickering back to the window yet again, though he wasn’t really looking at it anymore.

You took a sip of the coffee, the warmth spreading through your chest, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the slight tension that had settled between you. “I should’ve left earlier, but I didn’t want to risk driving in this. And I wanted to get ahead…” You trailed off, your voice suddenly quieter, almost apologetic.

Logan's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze flickering from the window back to you. He noticed the way you hesitated, the subtle shift in your posture as if you were choosing your words carefully. The air between you two felt heavier now, a quiet pulse of unspoken things that neither of you were acknowledging outright.

“You wanted to get ahead?” Logan asked, his voice low but gentle, as if he were trying to coax you into sharing.

You nodded, your eyes not meeting his as you took another sip of coffee. “Yeah. For next week. I’ve got so much to prepare for with the kids, and I didn’t want to fall behind. They deserve more than half-effort.” You paused, a flicker of self-doubt crossing your features before you continued, “And, well, during the week... I’m usually too busy.”

Logan didn’t know why, but hearing you speak so earnestly, so committed to your work, made something stir in him. He’d seen a lot of people come and go in this church, but there was something about you that made him feel like he was seeing the world through a new lens. Something soft, something untainted.

"That's admirable," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You care a lot about them."

Your eyes met his at that, and for a brief moment, there was something like understanding shared between you two. A connection neither of you had planned on, but one that was impossible to ignore.

The quiet was starting to feel uncomfortable now, like something was building, and neither of you knew exactly how to handle it. Logan, never one to let things fester too long, cleared his throat again, stepping away from his desk to give you a little space. 

“Father Logan,” you asked, staring at the pattern on your silk skirt, your voice soft but with a trace of curiosity, “I was wondering… when we speak of sin and redemption, how do we know when we’ve truly atoned? Is there a moment when the weight finally lifts, or is it something we just carry forever?”

Logan blinked, the question taking him by surprise. He had expected something simpler—maybe a question about the liturgy, or the history of a saint—but this was different. It was deep, personal, something that touched the core of who he was.

He stood still for a moment, unsure how to answer. There were words, sure, but they all felt empty, hollow. Redemption wasn’t something you could define so easily, not when you were so steeped in your own sins.

But before he could find a way to respond, you continued.

“I’ve always wondered about it,” you said, your tone almost hesitant, as if you were unsure if you should ask at all. “Do you ever feel like it’s impossible? Like no matter how hard you try, you can’t truly be... free?”

The question hung in the air between you, thick and heavy. It felt like you were both asking something deeper than what had been spoken.

Logan’s gaze softened, but he didn’t know how to answer yet. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and turned toward the stack of books near the desk.

“Well,” he began, “I don’t know if there’s a clear answer to that. But… maybe there’s something in one of the texts that could give a little more insight.”

He moved toward the pile of books atop the bookshelf beside you, where his most worn ones were stacked. “Just give me a second,” he muttered, crouching down to search through the shelf.

As Logan knelt beside you, his focus shifted to finding the right book, his hand brushing against the spines of the leather-bound volumes. There was something in the way you watched him, quiet and patient, that made the simple act of reaching for a book feel far more intimate than it had any right to.

Finally, he pulled one free, and with a quiet sigh, he straightened his back, holding the thick tome carefully in his hands.

“The answer may be in here,” Logan said, turning back toward you.

Logan shifted the heavy book in his hands, glancing at the faint text on the cover. The storm outside had cast the room in shadows, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside the rain-streaked window. He let out a soft sigh, realizing he couldn’t read a word.

“It’s too dark,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to the small lamp perched on the side table next to the chair you were sitting in. His brow furrowed slightly as he assessed the space.

Without thinking too much about it, Logan leaned forward, the weight of his body shifting slightly closer to yours.

“I’ll turn this on,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

He reached across you, his chest brushing lightly against your knees where they were flush against the velvet cushion. The nearness made your breath hitch, and you froze, your eyes flickering to his face as he leaned in further.

Logan was suddenly hyperaware of how close he was to you—closer than he’d been to anyone in years. The faint scent of your perfume mixed with the rain lingered in the air between you, soft and utterly disarming. He could hear your shallow breath, could feel the heat radiating off your skin as his fingers found the switch on the lamp.

The quiet click of the lamp filled the silence, and a soft, warm light illuminated the room. Logan didn’t pull back right away. His hand lingered on the lamp’s base for a second too long, his head tilted slightly toward you but he still didn’t dare make eye contact, your faces just inches apart now.

When he finally shifted, his gaze flickered down, catching the way your lips parted as if you were about to say something. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t bring himself to step away as quickly as he should have.

The air felt heavier now, charged with something neither of you could name. His throat tightened as he swallowed hard, his pulse drumming in his ears. The coffee mug in your hands suddenly felt scorching, but you clutched it tighter, hoping the pain could anchor you to reality.

“Sorry,” Logan murmured, his voice rough as he pulled back slightly, though not enough to fully retreat. His knees remained firmly planted beside your chair, and the way his presence loomed made it impossible to look anywhere but at him.

The soft glow of the lamp cast shadows across his sharp features, making his eyes seem darker, more intense, as they searched yours for something he didn’t dare to name. 

He cleared his throat and let out a shaky breath and, without meaning to, his voice dipped lower. “Freedom… it's a tricky thing,” he murmured. “We all want it, think we can earn it. But sometimes, it feels like we're just running in circles. We try to shake the past, but it stays with us—like a shadow that never fades.”

Heat crawled down your neck as his eyes searched yours, searching for some understanding, as if the weight of his words could somehow make it easier to admit the truth. 

“You ask if it’s impossible,” Logan continued, his voice quieter now, the storm outside still raging. “The thing is… it's not about whether it's impossible. It's about the fact that sometimes, we crave the things that keep us trapped. We want freedom, but part of us still holds on to the chains we know.”

His gaze finally dropped to the book in his hand, fingers tightening around the leather binding. “The hardest struggle isn’t denying what we know is wrong. It’s living with the knowledge that sometimes, what we crave most feels impossibly, painfully right. And that’s the test. Can we break free from that?”

There was a long pause, the room thick with the weight of his words. Logan turned the book in his hands slightly, his eyes lingering on the pages but his mind clearly elsewhere. The connection between the two of you now felt more palpable than ever. There was a shift in the air—a change, as if the weight of his words had unlocked something in you.

You held your breath, unsure if you should speak, but the tension in the room was almost unbearable. His gaze was so intense, like he was waiting for something, and in that moment, you realized you were, too.

"Sometimes," you began, your voice quiet but steady, "it feels like the harder we try to let go, the more we get pulled in. Like we're just meant to repeat the same cycle."

Logan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, his gaze flicking to yours for the briefest of moments. His lips parted as if he was about to speak, but he held back.

It was strange, almost like he didn’t want to say anything that would break the fragile balance that had settled between you both. And yet, there was something about your words—their softness, the unspoken meaning behind them—that seemed to strike him more than you anticipated.

You shifted in your seat slightly, aware of how close he’s been, the air between you thick with unspoken understanding.

"It’s like we're doomed to always want what we shouldn’t," you continued, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice tinged with an emotion you hadn’t fully grasped. "Maybe that’s the only thing that’s really free... the craving."

Logan's jaw tightened slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, but his expression betrayed nothing. He took in your words, his gaze unwavering, but for the first time since you’d started speaking, something flickered behind his eyes—something raw, something just as vulnerable as your admission.

You hadn’t meant it like that. You hadn’t meant to give voice to that desire, to hint at something deeper. But Logan... Logan heard it.

And when he opened his mouth, the words came out more hoarse than he intended.

"You’re right," he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "Craving’s the only thing that feels like freedom sometimes... but it's also the thing that keeps us from it." He paused, eyes lingering on yours with a sharpness that made your heart skip a beat. “And maybe that’s where we get stuck.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the low hum of the storm outside and the sound of your breath mingling in the charged space. It was as if everything hung on the edge of his next words, like both of you were waiting to see what would break the stillness.

You couldn’t look away. Not now. Not when the air between you was so thick with the things you hadn’t dared to say.

There was a softness in his gaze now, something like an invitation—something you couldn’t quite place, but it made your pulse quicken all the same.

For a second, it felt like the space between you had narrowed to nothing, the tension unspoken but alive, and then Logan’s voice broke through again, quieter than before.

“Sometimes it’s not about breaking free,” he murmured, his lips close enough for you to feel the heat in his words. “Sometimes it’s about giving in. To what we crave, what we need.”

You swallowed, your breath coming faster now, realizing just how close he was—how close you were to crossing a line neither of you had dared to touch. And when you met his gaze again, there was a question there. A challenge, almost, like he was daring you to acknowledge it. 

You shifted in your seat a smidge, knees brushing against his chest again. Logan looks down at your fingers pinching the fabric of your skirt between your fingers. You lean in close. 

“Tell me father, do you think the sweetest part of surrender is giving in, or the release that follows?” 

You could hear Logan's jaw clench as you leaned back to look him in the eyes. 

The room seemed to hold its breath, the storm outside a distant roar compared to the thunderous pulse of tension between you. Logan’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something predatory flashing across his face before his expression smoothed into something unreadable. His hand, still gripping the book, trembled slightly as if he was barely keeping himself in check.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, the weight of your words hanging in the air like a challenge. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the space between you now almost unbearable. His gaze lingered on your lips, then your eyes, before returning to the fabric of your skirt, where your fingers still toyed with the fabric.

His voice, when it came, was rough, almost a whisper. "It’s the release that makes everything make sense," he murmured, his gaze piercing as he leaned just a fraction closer, his breath ghosting across your skin. "But the act of giving in... that’s where we find out just how far we’re willing to go."

Your heart hammered in your chest, and despite the intensity, there was something in his words, in the way he spoke them, that felt like an invitation—like the first step toward something neither of you could take back. Logan’s eyes locked with yours again, this time with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"You want to know what’s sweetest, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice lowering to a gravelly growl, his hand finally moving from the book to rest just a breath away from your skin. "It’s the release... but only after you’ve let go completely. That’s when it’s real." 

You barely had time to register his words before Logan's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your throat with a force that made your pulse spike. It was a gentle pressure, but it was enough to send a jolt of heat through your body, your breath hitching as his lips crashed against yours in a kiss that was anything but soft. 

His lips were frantic, almost demanding as he lapped at the inside of your mouth,  as though he could taste the tension between you both and needed to consume it, to devour it whole. The pressure on your throat was intoxicating, just enough to make everything else fade into the background—just the weight of his hand, the heat of his mouth on yours, the way your body instinctively leaned into him, unable to resist. 

You couldn’t help but whine when he deepened the kiss, his thumb brushing over your pulse, sending electric shivers down your spine. The world outside, the storm, the heavy air—everything else seemed to dissolve, leaving only the rawness of the moment, the undeniable connection that had built between you both. 

Logan pulled back, his breath heavy, but his hands didn’t leave you completely. His fingers grazed your throat before sliding to your cheek, his touch softer now, almost apologetic. His gaze flickered for a moment, conflicted, before he let out a low, frustrated exhale discarding the book.

"Shit, sorry," he muttered, his voice rough, the usual controlled demeanor slipping. "I don’t usually—"

He trailed off, his words fading as if he was still trying to make sense of the rush of emotion that had overtaken him. For a heartbeat, you thought he might pull away entirely, the weight of his apology making him retreat. But before you could second-guess, you grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Logan didn’t resist. Instead, his lips hovered near your ear, his breath warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"I’ve wanted you," he admitted in a low whisper, the rawness of his voice making your heart race. "Since the moment I saw you, I’ve wanted nothing more than to have you." His now empty hand lightly ghosted your calf, running the back of his finger up and down your smooth skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"But the church... it’s taught me something, hasn’t it?" he continued, his voice lowering almost to a murmur, as if he was wrestling with a deeper truth. "It’s not just about following every rule or duty.” His finger trailed higher, his thumb caressing your knee, then teasing the sensitive skin where your leg bent.

“There’s a passage in Ecclesiastes that says, ‘To everything, there is a season.’” He spoke with a quiet intensity, his words lingering in the air like a weight neither of you could ignore. “Sometimes, you don’t wait for permission. If something’s right in front of you, you don’t hesitate—you take it. You don’t wait for the world to tell you when the time is right.”

His fingers pressed deeper into your skin, the subtle pressure sending a rush of heat through you. Then, his palm splayed across your thigh, squeezing the tender meat with a possessiveness that left no room for doubt. The touch was slow, deliberate, as though he was marking his territory, claiming what had always been his. The air between you both thickened, each word and touch drawing you closer to the point of no return. 

He pressed his lips to your neck, his breath hot against your skin, the words heavy with the weight of his need. "And right now," he murmured, his fingers curling into your skin, tightening as though he couldn't hold back any longer, "I’m done waiting." 

With that, his grip on your thigh tightened, drawing a soft whine from your lips. The hand that had been caressing your cheek slid to the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he pulled you into another heated kiss. Your fingers instinctively clenched tighter around the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, as though the space between you was too much to bear.

Once he felt you leaning into the kiss, his hand then trailed a slow, deliberate path down your body, grazing your curves until it reached your ankle. Then, just as slowly, it traveled back up the unoccupied side of your body, his touch sending waves of heat through you as his fingers slid beneath the thin fabric of your skirt.

One of your hands came to rest on his, the warmth of his palm searing your skin as he kneaded the soft flesh of your thigh. You let out a breathy sigh, and he responded with a low, gravelly groan, the sound vibrating against your lips.

Your fingernails grazed the nape of his neck, drawing him closer as you leaned back into the seat. He followed without hesitation, his weight pressing against you, grounding you, yet setting your pulse racing. Instinctively, your legs shifted, parting to let him settle between them, the growing heat between you thick with tension that begged for release.

His hands gave your thighs a final, firm squeeze, sending a shiver rippling through you before they began their slow descent down your legs to your ankle. His thumbs hooked under the edge of your skirt, the fabric gathering in his hands as he teased it higher, exposing more of your skin inch by inch. For a fleeting moment, his lips left yours, leaving you gasping softly at the sudden loss of contact, your body craving the return of his warmth.

Logan’s gaze fell to your lips, now swollen and parted, his own hovering close as though he couldn’t bear to pull away completely. He leaned in again, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle nip, tugging just enough to send a jolt of heat coursing through you. When he finally eased back, his eyes dropped lower, dark with a hunger that made your breath hitch. His chest rose and fell heavier now, his focus riveted to your legs as they shifted, parting wider in silent invitation.

Your body acted on instinct, your knees lifting to bracket his hips, pulling him closer as his hands found the heat of your thighs. His fingers slid beneath the soft skin, pushing your skirt higher with deliberate, torturous slowness. When the edge of the fabric reached just shy of exposing your underwear, he stopped, his grip tightening on your thighs as though anchoring himself. His gaze flicked back to yours, the weight of his restraint palpable, even as his dark eyes betrayed just how close he was to losing it entirely.

His voice came out rough, low, barely more than a whisper, his hand faltering for a moment as the fabric inched higher.

"You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me. This... I shouldn’t even be thinkin’ about it, let alone..."

His words trailed off as your underwear came into view, the soft lace hugging your curves in a way that made his breath stutter. He let out a low, guttural noise, his fingers flexing against your thighs.

"Christ, sweetheart... you’re gonna ruin me."

His hands moved with purpose now, sliding higher until they engulfed the swell of your ass, his palms kneading the soft flesh as though he could no longer help himself. With a single, deliberate push, he bunched the fabric of your skirt around your waist, his thumbs brushing down to press against the delicate bows resting on your hips.

His thumbs were toying with the fragile bows at your hips, brushing against the lace that barely concealed you. Your breath hitched, and you swore you felt him tremble against you, the tension in his body wound so tightly it was as if he might snap at any moment.

Logan let out a shaky breath, one hand sliding up your back pushing the fabric of your top exposing a small sliver of your back, kneading your flesh with both hands like he was memorizing every inch. "I swore I wouldn’t... I told myself I’d keep my hands off you," he admitted, his tone strained, like he was confessing a sin. "But everytime you walk in here lookin’ like that, sittin’ there all sweet... and then this—"

His thumb scraped the lace, grazing your skin so lightly it was almost unbearable. A moan catches in your throat, his jaw clenching, as he let out a frustrated growl, his hand gripping the meat of your thigh like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"This is wrong," he muttered, though his actions betrayed his words as he pushed you upward towards him, until his lips found the curve of your jaw, trailing fire down to your throat. "But, God help me, I don’t think I care anymore."

You whimpered softly as his teeth scraped against your pulse, his hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin as his fingers explored, teasing along the edge of your underwear.

"I should stop," Logan said, his voice rough and filled with conflict, even as his hand tightened on your hip. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and clouded with want. "Tell me to stop. Tell me to walk away, and I’ll do it."

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, your hands shakily slid up to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing over his rough stubble as you pulled him in close, pausing just before your lips touched. Barely brushing together, you breathed in each other’s air, trying to catch your breath but only becoming dizzier. “F-father, please,” you murmured against his lips, the words barely audible but carrying all the certainty he needed.

Logan’s eyes darkened even further, and he swallowed hard, his breath shaky as his hands came up to cup your face. “Who am I to deny help to someone in need?” he murmured, almost to himself, as if trying to convince himself this was justified. “It’s my duty, isn’t it? To guide... to offer support... even when it’s hard.” He pulls you closer to his hips. 

You nodded more enthusiastically than you intended, your body shivering with anticipation. Your lower stomach burned with arousal, the need to feel him building with each second. The cold air of the office contrasted with the slick warmth between your legs, a sensation that desperately needed to be satiated.

The shift in your posture, the way your body responded to him, was all the confirmation he needed. His gaze flicked between your lips and your eyes, his jaw tightening as he leaned in to capture your lips yet again in another heated kiss. 

He nipped and licked at your lips, the soft pressure of his teeth sending a jolt of heat straight through you. His breath mingled with yours, slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring the moment, tasting the very air between you. Then, with a groan, his tongue traced the edge of your bottom lip before slipping inside, exploring the warmth of your mouth.

Your body responded instinctively, lips parting to welcome him, your tongue meeting his in a slow, teasing dance. Every movement was deliberate, an exploration, a taste, and yet it felt like he was trying to draw you deeper into him with each brush of his tongue against yours. The warmth of his mouth, the way he gently pulled you closer, ignited a desperate ache between your thighs.

You whimpered softly as his hand slid down your back, fingers splayed to press you further into him. His hips pressed into yours, hard and unmistakable, the evidence of his desire undeniable. You felt the heat of his body, the burn of his touch, every nerve on edge, every inch of your skin on fire.

His kiss deepened, more urgent now, as if the need to consume you, to claim you, was taking over. He tilted your head just slightly, deepening the angle, and his tongue moved more aggressively, exploring with a hunger that matched the pounding of your heart. Every time he pulled back, the slight break in the kiss only heightened your yearning, the cool air rushing in before his lips found yours again, harder, more demanding. 

With a small groan, Logan pulled away and it was then you realized he had unzipped his pants and set his cock free, painfully strained as it lightly grazed the inside of your thigh. Each time he huffed a heavy breath you could feel the heat emanating from his cock atop your soaked folds. 

You began squirming beneath him, the anticipation becoming unbearable. You tried to lift your hips, desperate to meet him, to feel some kind of relief, but his grip on your knees was unyielding, anchoring you in place. Small whines escaped your throat, breathless and needy, as you wriggled beneath him, trying to close your legs, raise your hips, anything to alleviate the ache.

“S-sweetheart—” His voice faltered, thick with restraint, and your movements came to a sudden halt. You froze, looking up at him through hazy, half-lidded eyes, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You were intoxicated, drowning in the heat between you, his presence suffocating in the best possible way.

His hands tightened around your knees, his fingers digging into your skin as if trying to hold himself together, to maintain some semblance of control. His eyes flicked down to where your body was reacting to him, your legs attempting to press tightly together, your hips still instinctively shifting. His gaze darkened, swallowing thickly as his breath hitched.

"God help me," Logan muttered under his breath, as if asking for forgiveness, but his voice was raw with something far less holy. “Fuuuck–” He breathed out when he finally allowed himself to touch you. 

Years of only having his hand as company, mixed with months of pining after you made him feel more adolescent as he had hoped. His body lurched violently forward as one hand grasped at the armrest and the other at your groin, as he slid his thick cock against your silk covered folds, the fabric immediately glossing over with your slick. His hips picked up their pace, almost involuntarily with how wet the both of you were, he was desperate for friction. 

You throw your head back in frustration, the mix of need and restraint between the two of you creating an almost unbearable tension. Your movements become more erratic as you try to help, attempting to rock your hips against him, but the uncoordinated motions from both of you do little to satisfy the ache in your stomach. The lack of control between you only intensifies the frustration, the heat building without any relief.

Logan’s breath hitches, his jaw clenching as he watches your desperate movements. A shameful growl rumbles in his chest, and without warning, his hand on the armrest moves to your throat. His thumb presses against the side of your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath his touch, while his fingers tighten around your neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to still you.

The pressure on your throat forces your movements to slow, your breath coming out in shaky gasps as his grip reminds you of his dominance. His hooded and hazy eyes darken, filled with an intense mixture of restraint and something far more primal. 

“Stay still sweetheart,” His chest heaves. “I promise, I’ll give you everything you want.” The hand not on your throat moves between your legs and pushes his cock down against your drenched pussy. Your thighs spread impossibly further as the pressure on your clit increases. Small moans leave your lips each time the tip of Logan’s cock halts beneath the swell of your clit each thrust harder than before. 

It isn’t until he fists the base of his shaft, where he lines the drooling tip of his cock with your seemingly tight entrance through the flooded fabric of your panties. It’s obvious he enjoys teasing you, and restraining himself. He slowly pushed his hips forward, guiding the head of his dick past your entrance watching as his precum beads against the pink fabric the deeper he buried. 

You threw your head back in both frustration and ecstasy. Relishing in the way his thick head stretched your pulsing entrance. A loud moan ripping its way through your throat but stopping short when Logan’s hand clenched tighter around your neck. 

He let out a feral grunt, as he tried to sink further into your tight hole not yet able to bury himself completely. 

"God, sweetheart... you feel so damn good, like I’m finally touching heaven." He pulls his hips back, his breath ragged. "But I can’t... I can't let myself get lost in this. You deserve better than... than whatever this is."

Despite being pinned against the seat by his grip on your throat, your heart races with the fear that he might pull away. Your hand reaches out, grabbing for the arm that’s keeping you still, your fingers scrambling desperately for purchase. The other moves to grasp his shirt, fingertips tugging at the fabric as if you could pull him back, keep him close.

"Please," you gasp, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it. "D-don’t pull away." Your body arches instinctively, aching for more of the pleasure he’s been withholding—the sensation just barely within your grasp. Logan doesn’t say anything in response, his eyes heavy and focused as he watches you squirm beneath him, his silence more consuming than any words could be.

The hand around your throat loosens, his fingers shifting to the back of your neck, and in that instant, the air between you changes. His touch softens briefly, but then his eyes darken again, a storm of desire and restraint fighting for dominance. He leans in closer, and you don’t hesitate—you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him in as your hips lift to meet him, desperate for more, for release. Your lips part as small cries escape, mingling with needy whispers for him.

"How can I say no when this angel sent from heaven begs me so nicely?" Logan’s voice is thick with disbelief, as though he’s trying to convince himself that this isn’t happening. His lips press against your neck, nipping and kissing, while his hips grind against yours—slow and purposeful. But there’s an edge to his movements now, a crack in his control.

Suddenly, the tension breaks.

"Fuck it," Logan growls, the words a harsh release of everything he’s been holding back. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you to him with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. "I can’t hold back, sweetheart." His voice is low, gravelly, as his hips slam forward, no longer restrained, no longer holding back.

“Oh,” You gasp as his hips drive in and out of you."M-more–" The cry tears from your throat as you clutch at his back. He finally gave in, but it wasn't enough. His grunts in your ear and stuttering hips tell you he needs more too. 

"P-please father L-Logan," you whisper, overwhelmed by sensation, hands desperately searching for anchor. Your fingers tangle in his hair. 

He's lost in you now, consumed by your body beneath his, the taste of your skin, the sound of your breath. There's no more hesitation or restraint. Logan surrenders to his primal need for you, every shred of self-control abandoned. When his lips crash onto yours, it's fierce—pure, raw desire with no trace of softness.

You whine into his mouth and he eats every sound like it’s his last meal. He grabs you at the bend of your knee, holding your leg up as he uses his other hand to hold your thighs open as he rams into harder. The fabric of your soaked panties pulling taut against your entrance each time he thrust back into your heat. 

“More, more–” You cried out, when he gave one particularly hard thrust and rather than burrowing himself deep inside you, to both your dismay he instead rubbed against your folds. You sobbed in frustration. 

“P-please,” you plead, your voice trembling as you pull his head against your chest, desperation lacing every syllable. “I’m a good girl, Father Logan, I-I…” Your words falter as tears begin to spill from the corners of your eyes, slipping down your flushed cheeks.

Logan pulls away and freezes at the sight, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he can’t look away from the way you’ve unraveled beneath him—the way your body trembles, how your tears glisten in the dim light, and the broken pleas falling from your lips. His chest tightens with a dangerous mix of pride and guilt, the weight of what he’s done settling heavily on him.

"Aw, sweetheart..." he murmurs, his voice softer now, the rough edges dulled by an unfamiliar tenderness. He tilts his head, pressing his lips to your damp cheek, tasting the salt of your tears as he whispers, "Don't cry." His thumb gently brushes away a tear. "I've got you now. I'm sorry for makin' you wait so long."

His lips move to yours, soft and deliberate, a kiss that holds both apology and promise. As he adjusts, his hands steady themselves, sliding to your hips. His fingers find the edge of your underwear, and with a careful, almost reverent touch, he moves the fabric aside. 

Without breaking the kiss he guides his throbbing cock to your entrance, and his hips twitch forward. You cry out, but his tongue muffles your sounds. He grabs the tops of your thighs, gripping them hard enough to know marks will be there tomorrow. 

“Oh, God.” He comes to his full height when he pulls you to the edge of the seat, his hips make sharp contact with the back of your thighs and Logan pulls you impossibly close. 

“Hnn…ah!” You mewled, your body constricted, overwhelmed with the new sensation of being filled to the brim. “Father…” You reached between your legs to try and push him back but he grabs your wrists, holding your palms flush against the heat of his happy trail. Your fingers clench, yanking at the hair between your fingers, and he lets out a low chuckle. His hips jerk. 

“I was tryna take this slow, sweetheart.” He tries to bury himself deeper, and you moan at the delicious pain of being stretched.

“Ahh…” He lets out a devious chuckle as he feels you throb around him. “But now that you’re squeezing me so tight, princess, I don’t think I can.” He snaps his hips forward, and a breathy sigh of pleasure escapes his lips as his tip hits the pulsing wall of your arousal.

A cry rips from your throat as he pulls back from the hilt, his movements slow and deliberate, dragging against every sensitive inch of you. The emptiness is brief but unbearable, a plea spilling from your lips before he slams back into you, harder this time, his rhythm becoming punishingly deliberate.

"You’re somethin’ sacred," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his hands trembling as they grip you tighter, holding you as if you might slip away. "And me? I’m a man still chained to the things I’ve done. I don’t know why God would give me you... not when I ain’t even begun to earn forgiveness."

His words hang heavy in the air, a confession borne of guilt and reverence as his thrusts grow deeper, more desperate. It’s as though he’s pouring all his contradictions—his desire, his regret, his unworthiness—into every movement, every touch.

“Yet here you are,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing against your neck between ragged breaths. “Like a gift I don’t deserve, like somethin’ holy, and I…”

Between your moans, your hand wriggles free from his grasp, trembling fingers reaching up to press gently over his mouth. His words falter as his eyes meet yours, dark and brimming with emotion.

“Don’t,” you whisper, your voice shaky but firm. “Don’t overthink it. Just… just feel me.” You arch your back and thrust your hips to meet his movements, a quiet gasp slipping from your lips at the raw intensity of the connection between you.

His breath hitches against your palm, the tension in his body melting as if your words have unraveled something deep inside him. Slowly, his lips part, and he kisses the tips of your fingers reverently, like an unspoken promise—a vow to let go, to give in. 

His grip on your hips tightens, his pace quickening as he loses himself in you completely, every thrust a declaration of everything he’s too afraid to say aloud. His lips trail down the curve of your wrist, his body trembling as you murmur mantras. 

“Yes, yes, yes–” Each cry ripped from your throat, every time his cock stuffed you full. “Oh God, yes.” You yelled, as his pace became violent. 

Logan’s pace grows more frantic, each thrust a calculated mix of dominance and desperation. His breath is heavy, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, your cries echoing through the room.

But as your body trembles beneath him, he suddenly slows, pulling back just enough to make you gasp. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense. “I’m not close to God,” he growls, his voice rough with lust and something else—something conflicted. “Never have been. I don’t deserve a fucking angel like you… but damn if I’m not enjoying every moment of this.”

A twisted smirk curls on his lips as he watches your expression shift, the heat of his touch still burning against your skin. “Say it. Say ‘Father Logan,’” he demands, his hands gripping you harder. “Tell me you can feel the guilt, the sin in every fucking inch of me. Say it.”

You moan softly as his grip tightens, your body arching beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the heat between you intensifies. Despite the sinful nature of his words, the way his voice trembles with need makes your breath catch in your throat.

“I– Father Logan,” you gasp, the words slipping from your lips in a mixture of pleasure and desperation, the name falling so easily from your mouth, like it’s the only thing that feels right in that moment.

Logan’s smirk deepens, but there's a trace of something more in his eyes—something raw and uncontrollable. He presses in harder, his pace picking up again, each thrust making you cry out as he fills you completely. His lips brush against your ear, and he lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“Damn right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “You’ve got no idea how much I love hearing that. It makes this… all of it feel real.” He leans down to kiss you roughly, his hands pushing you further into the mattress as he continues his relentless rhythm. "I’m so fucking far from anything holy, but you make me feel... like maybe I can be something good for you. Just for you."

The tension builds again, making every thrust deeper, harder, a wild mix of passion and pain as he drives you both toward something inevitable. He holds you close, his breath hot against your skin, his name—a prayer and a sin—escaping from your lips with each frantic cry.

“Come on princess, I know you’re burning up down here.” His heavy hand presses down on your stomach, and you sob. He was nowhere near wrong, waves of heat ran from the tips of your toes, to the center of your core. 

“I know you’re close ‘cause I’m close.” He holds your hips as he comes back up to his full height, lifting you with him as he rests his knee on the edge of the seat. The new position allows him to somehow hit deeper at a different angle and that’s all it takes to make your vision fade, and see white light. 

Your body shakes violently as the coils in your stomach finally unravel, a string of curses leave your lips, as your hips jerk violently. Logan still chasing his release. 

“Oh fuck,” Logan chokes out in a low, gravelly tone, his voice rough with need. His hands grip your hips tighter, his pace never slowing, even as you tremble beneath him. 

He pants, his words barely coherent as his thrusts become more urgent. “You’re like a fucking blessing I don’t deserve, but I can’t stop, can’t pull away—" He groans as he feels you pulse around him, coming down from your high. "God, you’re like heaven wrapped in skin.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He continues to pound into you, the newly released heat rebuilding the more Logan drove into you. 

“F-father, I’m gonna– I can’t–” Tears spill from your eyes again, but this time Logan doesn’t wipe them away. 

“Shh, you’re such a good girl,” His hands wrap around your throat as ripples of pleasure pinch at his nerves, “A goddamn angel.” And he squeezes his hands, hips coming to a halt as his cock pulses inside of you.

As he fills you with thick and heavy strings of his load, another orgasm splits your mind in half and your mind goes blank as you cry out for Logan. 

“Ah, fuuck…” He sighs as he hesitantly pulls out. You whimper as he watches you clench around nothing. He picks you up with no problem at all and he switches positions, having you sit on his lap. 

You can feel slick dripping from your abused cunt, and you attempt to move worried about ruining the man’s pants. 

"Let go," he breathes, keeping you firmly in his lap despite your squirming. His fingers dig into your hips possessively. "Want to feel what I've done to you." You whimper as he captures your lips in a deep kiss, still oversensitive from before. His hands roam your body with renewed hunger, like he can't get enough. Your body trembles as his fingers trace your spine, stopping to knead your ass. 

"Heaven sent," he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss to admire the marks he's left. When you try to look away, shy under his heated gaze, he gently turns your face back to his. "Look at me, angel." His eyes hold yours, dark with lingering desire and something deeper. His thumb brushes your cheek tenderly, a stark contrast to his earlier roughness. You both know this moment has changed everything between you, crossing a line that can't be uncrossed. But as he pulls you closer, neither of you can bring yourselves to regret it.

--

a/n: pls support by reblogging.

[maracujatangerine]

91. A conversation

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation, box boy universe

“Cory… I think we need to talk.” Lydia’s tone was cautious. Carefully gentle. “What do you think?”

Coriander had been sitting slumped against the wall on his green pillow in the kitchen. When Lydia spoke, he instantly straightened up.

“Y-yes, Miss Lydia. T-this pet needs to talk. It has been thinking.”

“Okay.”

Lydia sat down in her usual chair, facing him. For quite some time now, she had been more relaxed around Coriander. She had felt able to trust their report and that also he would be less vigilant in interpreting any gesture of hers as a sign of displeasure or censure. Now, however, she once again felt herself hyper aware of her own body language. Do not cross your arms, she reminded herself. Shoulders turned towards him, heart open, posture welcoming. She smiled, and nodded.

“I’m listening. We can talk about whatever you want.”

“T-this pet has been thinking about what.. what has happened to it. About why it is here.”

Coriander rose to his feet, perfectly graceful as usual.

“Miss Lydia, This pet did volunteer, it did. It knows it did.” He pulled a shaking hand through his blonde hair. “T-there w-was a signature, on a paper, and… and…” He shook his head. “T-this pet cannot remember. But.” He looked down at Lydia, grey eyes suddenly fierce. “B-but this pet knows that it wouldn’t have volunteered if it knew. If it knew what it was going to be like. Nobody would volunteer for that.”

He started to pace the kitchen, back and forth, his shaking hands drawn tightly into fists.

“The cold, the beatings, the starvation, the experiments, the violence, the abuse, the contempt, the neglect.” His whole body shaking, he stared unseeing out the window. “The way you are never good enough.”

Lydia could feel her whole chest ache in phantom pain as her heart hurt for him. She wanted to reach out to Cory, but she was also afraid to disturb whatever path he was on. This was probably the first time ever he named the things he’d been going through.

When he just stayed silent, breathing hard, staring out the window, she eventually said, as gently as she could.

“Cory. This is terrible, and I am so sorry that it happened to you. I’m really glad that you can start to talk about it, though. I’m here, and I’m listening to everything you want to talk about.” She paused, and when he showed no sign of even having heard her, she added. “I just want to remind you that this is never going to happen to you ever again. You are safe here.”

He whirled on her, then.

“B-but, Miss Lydia. If nobody w-wanted to buy it, this would not have happened to this pet.” He paused and swallowed. “This would not have happened to me!”

Looking down, he continued. “You have been kind to this pet, that is true. But there is a paper in the drawer there…” He pointed, his whole arm an accusing arc. “That says that you own it. Whatever you want to do to this body…” He hesitated and plunged on. “…to this soul, it is your right to do it.”

Coriander shook his head slowly, grey eyes boring into hers. Very slowly and steadily he said. “Miss Lydia, i-if it wasn’t for you - a-and many more people like you - t-this pet wouldn’t be here.”

He hung his head, then. Exhaustion and a spasm of pain flickering over his face for just an instant. Gritting his teeth, he met her eyes again.

“Miss Lydia, t-this pet needs some time alone. May it be excused to go for a walk?”

Lydia nodded quickly, biting her lip.

“Of course, Cory, whatever you need.”

The blonde young man inclined his head respectfully, but the fire in his grey eyes did not die down.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

Lydia held it together while Coriander went out into the hallway, put on his shoes and coat, and walked out the door.

It was only after she heard the sound of the latch clicking closed that she leant down on the smooth, wooden surface of the kitchen table, hid her face in the crook of her arm, and cried.

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[lostinlads]

Beautiful Boy

Synopsis: The morning after Rafayel and Sylus's first night together.

Tags: sylus x rafayel, MDNI IF YOU ARE A MINOR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED, fluff, domestic fluff, bl, suggestive, their first morning together

Words: 1.1k

an: I wont have another kitty fic for a few days so i hope you enjoy this short and sweet crowfish fic! Credit to my great amazing beautiful friend orvbunny on twitter/x for editing the photo for me! Go follow her she does amazing lads edits!!!

ao3 | kofi

The morning rays kissed Rafayel's pale skin, sun beams shining through the slit in the drawn curtains. The massive house lay still in the early morning air as he stirs awake. Unfamiliar bedding under him, his first night in this maze of a mansion, but he never felt so loved.

He kept his eyes closed, listening to the songs of the birds outside. The silken sheets under his near naked body kissed his skin, memories from last night running through his mind. Strong arms, warm chest, plump lips pressed to his.

The bed beside him dips, warmth of another body pressing on his back, strong and muscular. Rafayel pretends to be asleep, keeping his multicolored eyes closed, laying unmoving on the obscenely massive bed. A large hand threads through his messy purple locks, nails scratching at his scalp lovingly. 

"Are you awake?" Sylus's deep, husky voice whispers in his ears, warmth spreading through his body, a flush already forming on his face. Sylus's other hand cups his throat, palm pressed firm as he turns Rafayel onto his back, hovering over his smaller lover. 

"...no..." Rafayel pouts, bottom lip jutting out as he peeks an eye open. He is struck breathless at the man on top of him, silver hair messy and out of place for seemingly the first time in his life, a smile spread on his wide mouth, and blush painting the very tips of his ears.

"Can you be?" The hum of his voice vibrates Rafayel to his core. Sylus's red eyes flickering between Rafayel's and his pouty lips. His larger thumb rubbing a circle on the base of his throat, so warm it feels like a fire blooming on his flesh. Every little touch, every small glance made Rafayel's stomach explode with butterflies. How had he gotten so lucky to have this gorgeous man all to himself?

Rafayel's hand comes up, stroking up Sylus's cheek before his fingers thread through his lover's messy locks, pulling him towards himself. The chuckle that bubbles in his ear makes his heart soar, the most beautiful sound he's ever fucking heard.

"Dummy..." Rafayel sulks, huffing out as Sylus lays his full weight on top of him. Their bare torsos pressed together, skin on skin, bringing the memories from the night before into his mind. 

They've been together for four months, dates, dinners, outings. But never have they spent the night together - until last night. 

Sylus's hot mouth inching all over his entire body, his hands groping his flesh, kneading it. The noises of pleasure he drew out of the older man, the way he felt inside of him. Rafayel couldn't help but grow hard, his length pressing to Sylus's large thigh.

"Already wanting more, fishy?" His deep voice sent a shiver down Rafayel's spine, his heart speeding in his chest. "I thought after last night you needed a rest." Sylus ran his nose along Rafayel's warm neck, inhaling his scent, breathing him in. Rafayel tried to swallow his gasp, he found himself doing this often with his lover, every single thing Sylus had done took his breath away.

"Just..." Voice unfamiliar and soft. "Just thinking about you..." He allows himself to admit, to give in and open up to Sylus. Push aside his jokes and just bask in this love, allow to be loved. 

"Mmm, but I'm right here, darling," Lips placed to the hollow of his throat, smiling and teasing only how Sylus would. The butterflies never resting in his gut. Sylus runs his hands down his half naked body, slow, almost like he was trying to remember it from touch alone. Making their way down to his hips, Sylus places a firm kiss to Rafayel's neck before flipping them both over, earning a shocked squeal from the shorter man.

"Sylus!" Rafayel yells, hands gripping his lover's strong arms. Sylus chuckles, warm and bubbling as he steadies him on his lap. Rafayel sits up, beautiful colored eyes wide, pink lips parting as he pants.

"What?" He mocks, attempting to match the shock of Rafayel's words, causing the growing blush on the younger man's face to brighten, a pout on his perfect shaped lips. Sylus wanted to cup his gorgeous face and kiss him senseless. 

Rafayel doesn't answer, instead he looks down. A godly sculpted below him, abs and pecs aching for his touch. He reaches a hand out and flattens it on Sylus's toned stomach, feeling the dips of his muscles. Sylus watches without comment, his eyes gliding over Rafayel's face, watching every micro expression that crosses over him. He lets his eyes wander, to Rafayel's chest, watching it swell in deflate with every breath, down to his bare stomach, and finally landing on the tent that still sat in his pants.

Rafayel didn't notice, for the most part at least. Slowly gliding his hand up to Sylus's large chest, hand resting over his heart, the heart that now belonged to him. Feeling it beat its own special song, singing just for him and him alone. He wanted to record it, compose a symphony just to mimic this. But the growing movement under him stalled his thoughts. 

"T-teasing me when you have the same issue..." He couldn't look Sylus in the eye as he spoke, stuttering out as he tried to focus on the heartbeat in his hand. Sylus's thumbs rubbed over his hip bones right over Rafayel's pajama pants. 

"How could I control myself when my beautiful boy is sitting on my lap, looking ravishing with his messy bed head and the blush that is covering his blessed face?" Sylus's compliments never failed to hit Rafayel right in his core, something so lyrical, poetic the way he spoke about him. He could feel the heart race under his fingertips, the skin warm in a flush. He lifted his eyes up, meeting the ruby set that already stared at him, called out to him.

So many words lay unsaid in those mysterious eyes, Rafayel wished he could dive in and listen to them all. But he also didn't want to rush things, didn't want to scare him off with his past, present, and inevitable future. For right now, the look in those red eyes, that was enough for him. Being in these strong arms, feeling this racing heart, this would be where he always wants to be. Feeling those delicious but teasing lips on his skin, listening to the god awful singing that came out of them, he would crave that until his last dying breath.

Nothing warmed his heart more than knowing he is Sylus's and Sylus is his.

[wonderhomeland]

I have never written anything in a long time and English is not my first language, but this idea has been in my head for a long time, so...

Warnings/tags : BAd English, fem!reader, obsessed!Simon Riley, possessive!Simon Riley, I have been waiting for years!Simon Riley, Age gap( more than 10 years-simon is older-Simon acts like age doesn't matter.), smat (Only Simon loses his mind thinking about his wife + the things he want to do with her.), Arranged marriage, fluff, A general explanation of the idea at the beginning of the post. Tell me if I forgot anything!

~

An AU where the government uses tests to choose a partner for you, based on DNA, blood type, etc., to find a good match for superior genes. And these tests continue until your early twenties (not like they're in a lab, it's in real life and the tests are taken at school, like exams) and finally by the age of 22 or 23, the person you should "marry" is determined for you.

And during this time, you shouldn't have a relationship with anyone, and you can't break this pre-arranged marriage in any way.

There are people who, for whatever reason, such as their weak genes, never get a partner chosen for them, and even if someone is suitable, they never send their files for two people to get to know each other.

They are not ridiculed or humiliated, They are just not accepted.

And here we have Simon Riley. A boy who is the victim of his parents' forced marriage. He has a bad situation at school and an even worse situation at home. Since childhood, he has always tried to distract himself from all his problems and try to hold on until he realizes what the future holds for him. Simon, who has never felt like he belongs anywhere or to anyone. Even blood relations have not made him to have a good relationship with his brother, now he understands that there is only one person for him and he is only for one person. In his eyes, she is an angel , not just an angel who is going to save him, but an angel who is going to be by his side forever. As he grow up this childish excitement turns into a obsession.

All the people who work on the projects always encourage him and say that he has very strong genes, a very strong and resilient body, he is patient and careful and has a very high leadership intelligence. They says that he is very cooperative in the tests and does his best.

But it never happens. No one in a fancy suit ring his doorbell to give him the good news. To give him the introduction to the person he's always been waiting for. He never hear "Congratulations, Mr. Riley."

Not even after years.

This was strange, he was always complimented, he was always told that he would find someone great, he always hoped that he could be with someone who would love him.

He visited the centers many times. He tried to follow up and even asked to do all the tests again. Surely he wasn't supposed to be alone, right? There must have been a mistake in the results. His file might have been lost.

They never answered him. He was told to wait, some people wait years to get the files.

He waited.

He was a patient man.

Even now, in the garrison corridors, with multiple scars on the body, and a mask on his face, as he was heading to his room after a hard mission, He was waiting.

He packed up his things to go back to his dark, empty apartment for six months. Six months. Half a year. It seems like a long time. But not long enough.

His teammates don't talk to him about it. like this big, strong man who's amazing at everything failed his tests. The big dog who destroys everything on the battlefield, isn't strong enough to beat the tests, the smart leader who always outsmarts the enemy, not smart enough to pass the tests. it was ok for them.

Not for the others though. For other It's a shame. It's a waste.

Unfortunately, he doesn't care about what others think, otherwise he wouldn't have made it this far.

When he gets home, he takes a quick shower and comes out, hungry but tired, so he puts on his pants and lies down on his bed. Just as his eyes are getting ready to fall asleep, the doorbell rings.

It used to be joyful, but now it's just annoying.

He grumbled, open the door.

Tight suits were never his thing, they made him look too big. Too scary for others. But not on this guy.

"Mr. Riley, right?"

He raised an eyebrow, "That's me."

"Well, congratulations! According to the research our team has done, after a long review of the files, we were able to find the best match for you!"

With a cheerful face and a smile from ear to ear, he looked at him and held out the file towards him.

But Simon's reaction was unlike anyone else. There was no joy on his face, no indifference to the news. It was anger. and it wasn't the anger that some people showed because of being caught up in this system, it wasn't the anger that came from stubbornness.

It was pure rage. It felt like he was about to tear out his throat.

He just wanted to deliver the news and at least get a smile in return. He would have been much happier if he had seen tears of joy. Usually he would have stopped so that the others could tell him how happy they were and how much they had been waiting for this moment.

But not now. He just wanted to run for his life.

Maybe he's not having a good day? Maybe he woke him up? Maybe he's a man who goes to bed very early and it's late at night?

"Um, I know it's a little late..."

"A little late?" His fist lost control. Simon could break everyone's jaws as much as he wanted at work, but not now, Not here, not his. he just brought the man closer to his face, "A little late?"

His voice trembled with anger. If no one saw this man, they would think he was scared from the way he sounded. "Do you know how fucking long you've kept me waiting for this?"

His face sank, whether from pain or confusion, it didn't matter. He released his jaw and stared at him with his sharp gaze. After a few seconds, he glanced at the files and the man unconsciously handed them to him. "Thank you." There was no sense of gratitude in his voice.

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and closed the door. He threw the files on the counter as he walked to his room. He couldn't believe it, and most of all, he didn't have the courage to face this. The last time he had followed up, five years ago, they had told him it was too late, that after all these years the files would be reorganized and the old ones would be moved, he wondered, did they throw away the old information? When he asked, they looked at him like he was stupid. "I don't know if they'll get rid of it completely, but it's no longer used."

Even after that, he waited, but he lost hope. He knew it would never come. He convinced himself it would never come.

Simon Riley couldn't sleep that night, and he couldn't sleep the nights after that. Even looking through the files didn't help him sleep. When he finally got to them, after much struggling, he came across a photo of the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. He let out a breath he had been holding and stared at the image. After a few minutes, he looked down at her information. Name... her last name... age... age?

OH, she was so young. Much younger than him. Much, much younger for him.

A beautiful young woman, with a bright future and a great position, and here's an old dog like him. he's not an old dog, he's old for her, very old. he's just a dog, you know, a dog that can tear everything to pieces. In the battlefield, not in normal life. In the battlefield, he's a good leader. he is a good dog.

he can be a good dog for her.

he pushes away anyone who comes near her, protects her when she's scared, in return he gets lots of kisses and hugs, lots of attention and sweet words, he wags his tail, shows his belly to her to rub it. damn it, she can rub anything she wants, touch anything she wants .Anywhere he hasn't let anyone even see.

Anything she wants.

Yeah, he's panting like a dog when he sees her picture, it's clear that he'll let her do whatever she wants with him.

The more he looks at her beautiful face, the more his guilt about her being younger than him fades.

Just because they have more than a ten-year age gap doesn't mean he can't be a good man for her.

He wants to be a good man for her. He promises to take a bath with her after a hard day, massage her whole body to relieve her Tension, and when When he dried her, he'll gently place her on the edge of the bed and massage her beautiful legs. If she lets him, he'll kiss them.

from top to bottom, from bottom to top. He will LICK her clean.

She can crush his face, under her feet... or between her thighs. She'll press them so hard that he feels like his skull is breaking, she'll sit on his face so long that he can't breathe, so long that his chest hurts.

She's not going to cry because of some people are asshole's at work, he's giving her something to cry about. From joy, happiness, and a good feeling.

He wants to wake up with her in the morning, the first thing he sees is her beautiful face. He wants to wake up a few hours earlier so he can stare at her in her sleep.

He wants to wake her up with his kisses.

He wants to wake up with her kisses.

He wants to kiss her everywhere, he wants to do a lot of things for her and she kisses him in return, he wants to do nothing and she kisses him, he wants to kiss her for no reason, kiss her because he loves her.

he wants to cook for her. His cooking is terrible but he tries his best, he makes her heart-shaped cupcakes, even if she doesn't like it because of the taste, she still smiles at him and says sweet things . She can Teach him how to cook, so she doesn't have to do that anymore. Just sit there and look pretty for him. What if she can't cook? It's okay, we'll learn together. What if she hates cooking? I said it's okay, just sit and watch how your husband cooks for you.

Husband, please call him husband, it sounds so sweet when it comes out of her mouth. He wants to be called husband everywhere. Especially when she goes out. Everyone should know that a beautiful angel like her has a wild dog like him. You shouldn't go near her, he's only friendly with his owner. He even gives her a collar, you can take him wherever you want.

And instead, he wants to call you his wife. Everyone needs to know that he belongs to someone. Someone is waiting for this scary beast at home, not just anyone, an angel, a real angel.

He wants to say that my wife won't let me, my wife doesn't like it, my wife said no, my wife is waiting for me at home, my wife bought it for me, my wife chose iy, my wife loves it very much, my wife must agree. Everyone knows him by your name. You own him.

At the end of the day,That man is hers. At the end of the night That woman is his. He wants to go to sleep with her, wrap his arms around her and bury her head in his chest. Maybe she let him sleep between her beautiful tits. Does that mean she'll let him kiss them? Oh, he's hopeful, so hopeful.

He lowers his kisses, kisses her belly and goes lower and lower. FUCK, does she wear nice panties for him? The ones with the bras? If he didn't, it wouldn't be a problem, everything on her body is beautiful. Does she let him take them off? He asks permission for everything, I told you, he was a good dog. Did I say he licks her? Oh, he licks her, like it's the last ice cream on earth on the hottest day of the year. He moans, he knows she likes it, her pussy gets wetter when she hears his pleasure, her grip on his hair tightens...

When she comes, he rests his head on her thighs, looks at her as her breathing becomes stable, waits for her to look at him, pats his head and tells him well done. Damn it, she won't regret it, he promises.

He always asks her how she wants it this time. "Whatever you like, angel." Is she tired of the same place? Does she need a little variety? Baby, he, bends her over every surface.

He'll go on for several rounds, but he'll get tired, old dog, remember? If she still feel like it, how about she put her beautiful thighs on him and ride him? Oh, I'm sure he'll enjoy the jiggling of her tits.

tired? It's okay, Princess, he presses his feet into the mattress and do all the work.

After they're both satisfied. If she feels like it, theu can go Take a bath together, right? If she's really tired, she can sleep and he'll clean her up without disturbing her sleep, and then join her in bed.

He is very happy, he waited so long to see her and put the ring on her finger. He will have a big wedding party for her, with lots of guests. But he has to wait, he doesn't know what she likes yet, he shouldn't rush.

There is time, there is a lot of time. It took a long time, but it was worth it.

His little angel will soon be by his side.

---------------------

I genuinely think This Simon Riley taking his angel like an animal for the first time.🤭

Simon, who is completely defenseless against his wife, I love him.

As I said, English is not my first language. And in my language the pronouns (he, she, it and... all of them ) are the same, so forgive me if I made a mistake.🫠

I know bad writing takes away the joy of reading, but please forgive me.🥲🙏🏼

If anyone writes something with this idea, please tag me! I would love to read this idea written by someone whose English is better than me!😔

[girlsoutlate]

this is my new account, so i'm reposting my 1 piece of work, hope you enjoy!!

readers thoughts are in pink, ever so light implied john price x reader, light questionable behaviour from men (not 141)

thinking about subtle sarcastic reader, especially to the type of man she'd encounter while working in the army. being a civilian and a woman many on base just looked over her, or looked too intensely at certain parts of her. but after months of working she's found her place, she's now respected by those who surround her. but what happens when some higher ups come and visit?

working closely with the 141 was no easy task. going from mundane paperwork to the flurry of action from a mission was difficult for you to handle, let alone helping them. you'd grown closer to them though, no more bouts of shyness stopping you from being yourself. instead you'd grown in to steady workplace banter with all.

unfortunately today couldn't be one of those days as some ever so important higher ups were holding a meeting with the 141, and since you handle the majority of the paperwork you were so graciously invited to attend.

you wished you had a little bit more time to prepare for this. these were important people, who wouldn't be nervous? apart from soap who appeared with a shit-eating grin at your office door, gifting you another surprise meeting. or gaz who could charm any conversation his way a bit too easily, with suave compliments and easy-going humour. don't forget ghost who doesn't even need to look engaged because of his mask, or be expected to speak due to his... unique personality. oh and the captain has been to countless of these meetings, so he can't empathise with you either.

but, one thing you could all agree on is that meetings were incredibly boring. for two reasons mostly. either the attendees were so dense it seemed they hadn't stepped on planet earth before, let alone a military base. or the subject matter was so bland you all wondered why there needed to be a meeting in the first place.

as your heels tapped hastily along the hallway you wondered which it would be. arriving barely on time with a tight clutch on haphazardly organised documents and a cup of coffee you opened the door, and had an inkling it wouldn't be any. you were met with two male voices. one high, clipped and plummy, the other harsh and american.

"-- that's what i expected from someone of her-oh hello! nice to finally meet you" the man at the head of the table said. an older, short and stout man with thin wire-rimmed glasses and a black tailored suit. a typical english man in an authoritative position. "ah, sorry i was late you'll have to excuse me. i thought to bring my extra notes, i hope i didn't make you wait long." you replied. "not at all, my colleague mr sullivan and i were discussing stories from our base". your gaze flicked over to what must be the source of the american voice. perfectly gold hair stuck down with copious amounts of gel, paired with lightly tanned skin and a too white smile didn't make it hard to guess. "civilians eh?" the taller man began "don't know what's up with the ones here, especially the woman we were just talki-"

"right" prices deep gravely voice cut over the grating one "meeting should start we're all 'ere". murmurs of agreement filled the room, and so did glances between the 141 that you didn't pick upon. however you did notice they were unusually quiet though you brushed it off, they were probably tired. "gosh where are my manners" the man at the head of the table exclaimed "my name is mr buckton and i'll be leading this meeting." briskly taking a few steps towards you he shook your hand roughly. being polite you attempted to make eye contact, yet his eyes were still looking straight ahead? lingering only on your chest for a moment he then made eye contact with you, a wide grin crept on his face. "come, your seat is next to mine" he prompted, gesturing you to walk infront of him and take your seat. as you walked infront of him his eyes now travelled further south. a small grimace shared from gaz to soap went undetected by the three sitting at the top of the table. mr buckton at the head, you to his left and then the captain and ghost next to you. opposite was mr sullivan, with gaz then soap next to him. with you all seated the meeting began.

for once the meeting was actually worth being held. despite it not being anything too serious you did well, even with your nerves. you answered questions and expanded in the points of others. as you suggested plans of action mr buckton steadily kept his eyes on you, while mr sullivan constantly scribbled notes down. soon enough the meeting was a breeze. well for about twenty minutes. across from you, mr sullivan was very inquisitive about anything you said. asking you to back it up or to show proof. not thinking much of it you obliged. it was a little odd but you knew your stuff and why not show off infront of higher ups? however the sentiment was not shared with the rest of the 141. who even asked for evidence about evidence? they understood wanting clarification on certain things, but it was growing incessant now. you were capable of your job and they knew that - that's why you were there. price especially helped you in the growing awkwardness; his job had never been so easy with you working underneath him. gaz and soap constantly gave eachother questioning glances, not wanting to explicitly speak up if their captain didn't. ghost was pissed he couldn't hide his eyes rolling as well as his scowl behind his balaclava. although they were growing increasingly annoyed the meeting continued, with more ridiculous questions being asked. professionalism was continued with a grim expression for another twenty minutes or so. hardly.

until mr sullivan basically dislocated his back by stretching in his chair with an exaggerated yawn leaving his cavernous mouth. "thought you woulda brought coffee since you kept us waiting for so long, cant believe you didn't make me some fresh". with beady eyes on you he smiled lazily. oh he has to be joking you thought to yourself there's no way this guy is real. play them at their own game. "why would i make more? i've already got some for myself" you smiled sickly back at him back, one that gaz has used on you many times when he's late giving you a report.

the table fell unusually silent again, and that's when you noticed it. the crackling of unease filling the air. sharp eyes from the 141 darted from eachother to you, to mr sullivan and back again.

"don't be so mean, i'm literally a dying man" he snarkily replied, eyeing you coolly. "one can hope" ghost muttered under his breath.

"i have urgent needs that need to be taken care of, won't you help?". mr sullivan continued, a slimy smile displayed as he noted the effect his badly hidden innuendo had on you. you felt your cheeks warm. he smirked at this, finally affecting you after bugging you the whole bloody meeting. fuck impressing him he's an arsehole.

"well, i'm sure you'll be alright by yourself. seems it happens a lot." you said back, indifferent. as soon as that left your mouth a strange sharp bark that hastily turned in to a cough came from soap. all heads from the table whipped to look at him. "pardon me" he shakily said, quickly taking a sip of his drink, watery eyes not straying from the blank wall above ghosts head.

"let's get back on track hmm?" mr buckton suggested "so cheeky, must be that time of the month". he turned to you with an eyebrow raised with an impish grin.

what. what the actual fuck. not only was this unprofessional, but who even though if that? let alone say it out loud.

price coughed uncomfortably and turned away. gaz and ghost looked at eachother in disbelief. and soap was finding that wall even more interesting. surely it could not get any worse.

"oh you all know what women are like, don't pretend. especially when they're frustrated" mr buckton let out a giggle "you know from work". you actually spluttered, eyes wide with disbelief. the feeling of unease in the air was now a full jolt of electricity. just as you felt price boiling with anger you leaned forwards to mr buckton. if everyone on the table wasn't watching you, they certainly were now.

"tell me" you said. mr buckton looked at you shocked, mouth gaping open. "tell me what women are like. you know i've been so airheaded this last week i hardly know my left from my right!". just to amp it up a little you slowly crossed your arms just underneath your chest, accentuating it. "you've explained so much to me this meeting surely you could explain this?"

the 141's eyes grew to the size of saucers, there's no way these two would actually fall for this? right? at this point mr bucktons and mr sullivans jaws were practically falling off. the latter was sadly the quickest to start talking 'so, when women start-". a smart rap in the door interrupted. a male voice said seriously

"emergency call for you mr buckton".

"oh, oh you must excuse us. i have to end this meeting" mr buckton declared "i simply cant miss this". messily shuffling their papers together both men swiftly said their goodbyes to you all. with that they just about made it out the door without tripping over their own legs.

a second passed after the door banged shut before gaz burst out in howls of laughter, clutching his ribs, soon joined by soap who could barely look at the wall for any longer. ghost stared at the door muttering who knows what under his breath and the captain sat there with his gaze fixated on the table mortified. he turned his head to you apologising profusely and asking if you're okay.

you just nodded vaguely and replied "men"

all likes, reblogs and comments are so appreciated!! this is my first time writing something properly so i hope you enjoyed it

[misteria247]

Imagine time cuz I'm insufferable unfortunately.

But like Ford one day is home alone. Dipper's gone out with Mabel and Stanley, leaving him alone for once. So he's ya know doing his thing, enjoying the peace to the best of his ability when the Mystery Shack door bursts open. Ford looks up, startled because the shop should be closed. And Soos and Melody were in town currently. And he peeks his head around the corner to spot someone he never would have suspected to come to his doorstep. None other than Pacifica Northwest. But that's not the concerning part that puts him on edge.

It's the fact she looks like she's been crying.

Ford's immediately in Gruncle mode, because how could he not when there's a child who's obviously distressed. He sees Pacifica stiffen up when she notices him and he puts his hand up in a peaceful gesture. Looking her up and down and noticing she's got scraps and cuts from what looks like a tumble onto the ground. Ford gestures for her to come inside, letting her know that Dipper and Mabel would be home soon if she wanted to wait up for them. The blonde just nods, not meeting his gaze due to embarrassment. She takes a seat at the kitchen table and Ford gets to work finding band-aids and medicine. It's quiet between them and Ford doesn't know how to break it when Pacifica breaks it. By asking a simple question.

"What do you do, when nothing you do is ever good enough?"

And the older man just freezes. Because he wasn't expecting such a heavy question from someone like Pacifica Northwest of all people. Ford thinks about it, sensing it's a complicated situation for her. And while he's thinking of a response he thinks of his father and how he felt when he couldn't ever do enough for the older man no matter how hard he tried. And while it's not exactly the same it helps him give a response.

"If what you're doing isn't enough, then you move onto something new. There's always going to be some situation or person, where nothing you do will change it. So you have to keep going and go your own way sometimes. There's no shame in it."

And Pacifica she kinda takes it, thinking about it before just giving a nod. Ford leaves it at that, hoping that it helps her somewhat. He doesn't know exactly what's up, but he knows that Pacifica is clearly struggling with something. So he'll try his best to offer advice whenever possible. Especially when it's a friend of his grand niece and nephew.

[oriley42]

Serious question but no need to answer if you don’t want to

I see a lot of talk about Amber’s portrayal being sexist in the show, but I’m not quite sure why? To me her motives always seemed really well-defined (high pressure = “I’m only worthy when I’m successful”) so she puts on this sharky mask with a feminine facade so she is feminine enough to get a certain amount of approval but never shows how much she cares (which could be used against her but also could be used to undermine her “oh you’re too soft”). I thought the show did an excellent job of showing a mask for her

But a lot of people talk about 00s sexism and how it impacts her characterization. The sexism… Is it that she gets called a cutthroat bitch? Or how her story revolves around a man after she leaves House’s team? Is it the fridging?

Any of those could be it I guess but it just sounds like you and others are talking about something a little more fundamental to her personhood so I thought I’d ask if I’m missing anything.

Very interesting question! I think you're getting at exactly the trickiness of the issue, which is that sexism always operates systemically. It's not that any key aspect of Amber's character "is" misogynist, it's that every aspect of her character is automatically filtered through a lens of sexism.

In today's world where "bitch" has been very de-clawed, turned into a more casual and way less gendered insult that's used without cruel intention in queer slang, I think it's hard to understand just how violent the term was--and was meant to be--in the aughts. House in canon is not calling Amber a bitch in a cute, almost self-deprecating, friendly way (though I think it's valid to re-write it that way in fic to defuse the term!). He is calling her a bitch to contain and belittle and dehumanize her. We see the term mobilized this way against Cuddy in 5 to 9 as well: calling a woman a bitch was an extremely powerful rhetorical tool to turn any dangerously competent, brilliant, threateningly accomplished woman back into a harmless, debased, controllable object. So, "CB" reflects how easily the fact that Amber is the "female House" gets turned against her--it doesn't mean she's an eccentric genius like him, it means she's an evil copycat who needs to be put down. And this kind of structural logic applies to her whole characterization--it doesn't matter that House does it all more frequently and worse, if she does it, it's unacceptable because she's a woman. (There are parallels here with how racism means that when Foreman acts like House, he also gets the axe instead of the narrative bending over backwards to make what he did alright.) That's why she was fired, after all!

And her death. Woof. Classic case of killing a woman for man-pain. Everything supposedly about her death is actually about how her violent destruction can be used to fuel Wilson and House's character arcs. The narrative is occasionally conscious of this, for example, Wilson saying "none of you even liked Amber" is an almost metatextual reminder of how cruelly she was disenfranchised in every way (including the sexism of her trying to "defect" to the men's team early on, having no female friends, because unlike House who has so many people orbiting him, she is truly alone). Comparing her death to Kutner's is instructive: Kutner gets a whole episode that's about characters desperately trying to know him better. They trace their relationships towards him. Amber, on the other hand, is nearly absent from her own death. The characters trace away from her and towards the way male characters feel (Wilson's loss, House's guilt). Amber becomes just an imagined figure of House's guilt. Even her ghost is not her own. (Though I think many fans do a more feminist read and reclaim the way she haunts the narrative--but imho that would be a negotiated if not fully oppositional reading, to use Stuart Hall's decoding/encoding terms.)

One easy way to see that gendered difference is in how the show refers to these characters after death. Kutner is always "Kutner," never just "House's dead fellow" or rarely "our dead colleague." Amber is often referred to as "Wilson's dead girlfriend." Kutner is his own person, Amber rhetorically gets reduced to an object belonging to a man.

In conclusion: sexism operates structurally, which can make it hard to identify! And one of the funny effects of contemporary fandom doing so much good work to un-fridge women and give marginalized female characters richer personalities and more chances to grow is that canon's intended message of sexism gets obscured. Which, is awesome? Keep up the good work! Let's make misogyny unintelligible 🎉

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unwanted 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, bullying, insults, body insecurity, perversion, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You’re used to being unwanted, but a strange man might just convince you that’s a good thing.

Note: this is a sequel to Unsolicited/Unexpected, but with a different reader. This is Lloyd’s sequel. Peaches is flourishing somewhere else.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You run away from the uber and nearly crash into the front door. You scramble to get the keys in the lock as you refuse to look back at the car idling at the curb. You shake as you twist so hard your wrist throbs. You swing inside and just as quickly turn the lock. 

You heave and turn your back to the door. You can't believe what just happened. What he did with you right there in the back seat. Your eyes tinge with hot tears and your nose tingles. 

“What’s it this time?” Derrick scoffs as he appears in a pair of loose grey sweats and oversized hoodie. You can’t tell that he’s been sleeping all day. “You’re such a cry baby.” 

“Nothing,” you turn and drop your bag on the side table. “It’s cold, that’s it.” 

“Sure,” he peels open the bag of chips in his hands. 

You shrug. He doesn’t care. He just likes an easy target. 

You unzip your coat and hang it. You leave your boots on the mat and swipe up your bag. You tramp past him and up to your room. 

You shut the door and throw your bag on the end of your bed. You’re restless. Unsettled by that strange man. Why is he bothering you? Of all people. How did he tack onto you. You’re nothing. You’re insignificant. Maybe that’s why. Just like Derrick, he knows you’re weak. 

Your phone vibrates in your back pocket. You flinch. It’s probably your mom ready to bitch you out about the dishes or dinner. You slip the cell free and check it. Private number. 

You answer, it could be your manager. 

“Hello?” You quaver into the speaker. 

“Mmm, there’s that caked-up cutie,” the gravely purr makes you shudder. “I was just thinking of you. Again.” 

“No,” you exclaim and hang up. You throw your phone and pace around. Why? Oh, maybe it’s all your own fault. 

You’re used to being unnoticed. Being the forgotten one. And for so long, you just wanted to be seen. You dreamed of some guy way out of your league picking you out of the crowd and telling you you’re special. But not like this. No, never this. That man is a creep. 

But who are you to be picky? 

No! No. Don’t do that. You’d rather be alone. The way he talks about you, the way he looks at you, even you can see that he’s no good. He’s just a pervert and you’ve seen enough Tiktoks to know better. 

Your phone vibrates again. You ignore it. That’s your only option. 

You leave your room and your cell. You go down and start on dinner. At least your mom won’t have anything to rant about, but you’re sure she’ll think of something. 

You glaze the chicken breast and put it in the oven. You start on the potatoes, seasoning them and adding lemon wedges to the pan. You slide those on the middle rack and rinse asparagus. The front door opens and closes as you focus on the simple tasks over the complicated thoughts nipping at your ears. 

“Smells good,” your father chimes as he enters, then clears his throat, “oh, your mother isn’t home?” 

“Not yet,” you look at the time. You know she had her office holiday party but it is getting late. 

“Hm, well, put some aside for her,” he says. “Is it almost done? I’m starving.” 

“Yeah, twenty minutes,” you answer. 

He doesn’t say anything else before he leaves. You hear him upstairs as he gets changed then comes back down to flip on the television. Your brother’s surround speakers blare through the other wall as he games on his PC. 

The front door opens again. Your mother’s shrill voice carries through with a gust. 

“Oh, that’s so wonderful,” she preens. “How sweet of you.” 

You put the asparagus in the pan and pause. Who is she talking to? You turn with the spatula in hand and near the doorway. You peer down the hall and see a broad set of shoulders. Wait, you know the back of that head. 

“I mean, much more considerate than my own daughter. She’s never mentioned you,” she touches his chest as you see the smirk on her face. You grimace. 

“I think I spoiled the surprise,” Lloyd says. “We were just talking earlier and she told me to come for dinner.” 

“She did? Well, isn’t that spontaneous. So unlike her,” your mom muses wryly. “Just like having a secret boyfriend. Older too.” 

“What’s going on?” Your dad’s growl wafts through and you shrunk back behind the doorframe and listen with dread. 

How are they not freaking out? This weirdo forty-year-old is just waltzing right into your house. This isn’t happening. 

“Hello, sir,” Lloyd says before he gives his name, “I’m here to see your daughter.” 

“That would explain the flowers.” 

“Scotch for you and wine for the missus, of course,” Lloyd explains. 

“Hm, that’s... top shelf,” you dad comments. Of course, he would care more about the fancy bottle than his own daughter. “Mitch,” he introduces himself. 

Your mom hollers your name, “you have companyyyyyy.” 

You cringe into yourself. How did he do it? How has he escalated everything so quickly? And why? Because you hung up on him? Because you closed your eyes when he-- 

Ew! 

She calls you again. You put your head back and gather what little courage you have. You turn and step into the hallway. 

“I’m just cooking dinner,” you say. 

“Get over here,” your dad demands. You know better than to disobey. 

“So when were you going to tell us?” Your mother prompts. 

“Tell you what?” You look at Lloyd sheepishly as he spins to face you and grins. 

“About us, sweetie,” he holds out a bouquet of pink roses, “oh, shoot, did I get the wrong day? I’m always forgetting these things, you know? I’m an executive and I have a pretty full calendar--” 

“Executive?” Your father echoes. 

Your mother hums, impressed. 

“We didn’t...” you try to summon a lie but you’re speechless. “Ummmm.” 

“I don’t know why you felt you had to hide us,” your mom challenges. 

“I didn’t? What?” 

“Well, it is about time, isn’t it, Enid?” Your dad intones. 

You gape at Lloyd as he shoves the flowers towards you, “these will need some water, sweetie.” 

You reach for them and look between your parents. You plead silently for help. Aren’t they supposed to protect you? Shouldn’t they be concerned that there’s an old man bringing you gifts? 

“Oh, dear,” your mom says, “do put them in crystal. They are so pretty.” 

“Just like her mother,” Lloyd adds. 

“Eh,” your father grunts playfully, “you could at least pour me a drink before you start flirting with my wife.” 

[imhereforthelesbianstuff]

A little scene (very quick, sorry for possible mistakes) in between the battle with Ambessa and Vander, and Vi waking up in Caitlyn's bed. I just can't take this off of my mind. (Translation by ChatGPT)

The smoke was beginning to dissipate, and above the ringing in her ears, Caitlyn could start to hear a voice. No, shouts. And when she finally managed to understand what the shouts were saying, panic washed over her.

"Vi! Vi! Wake up!" Jinx screamed, shaking her sister with one hand, the other gripping one of the Noxian warrior weapons, keeping the arriving enforcers at bay.

Caitlyn remembered it clearly—she had been carrying Vi, but she had slipped away. She had run to stop her sister from jumping into the battle to save that little girl. She had protected Jinx from the explosion with her own body.

Cait rose as fast as she could, still dazed from the explosion, running toward Vi, giving orders with a simple gesture for her men to lower their weapons and step back. She threw herself on top of Vi, replacing Jinx's screams with her own. Jayce appeared behind her, and Caitlyn didn’t care where from. He was urging her to leave, but she wasn’t going to leave Vi behind.

Jinx grabbed her by the shoulders forcefully. "Save her! She matters to you, right? Save her." Part of Caitlyn’s dazed brain was shocked by what was in front of her: barely a girl with a face streaked with tears, begging her to save her sister. Could this really be the same person she’d hated? Jinx shoved her shoulder hard, turning back toward Vi’s lifeless body. "Do something, come on! She cares about you. She... Do you love her?" Jinx’s gaze was so intense that Caitlyn had to step back a few inches. "Save her." And finally, Caitlyn seemed to snap back to reality. She saw Loris among her men, staring at Vi in horror.

"Loris, help me, she needs to see a doctor." The man nodded, determined, and approached to lift Vi into his arms. They couldn’t go back to camp; this was Ambessa’s territory. Behind them, Caitlyn heard shouting and a scuffle—her men had captured Jinx, who was simply following Vi with her gaze, offering no resistance. Caitlyn raised a hand toward her, unsure of what order to give. Let her go? Handcuff her?

"Commander, are you coming?" Loris shouted, moving as fast as he could with Vi. And Caitlyn didn’t hesitate any longer; she went with him.

"We should take her to a hospital," Jayce said, still with her, though it was clear he, too, needed one.

"No," Caitlyn’s reply was curt. Ambessa would have easy access to a hospital, though the real reason was that Caitlyn didn’t want to lose sight of Vi again. If she woke up in a hospital, she was sure Vi would leave, and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever see her again. She didn’t want to face that thought right now.

She guided Loris and a small group to her own house, taking her companion through hallways toward her bedroom. She wouldn’t feel safe with Vi anywhere else.

In one of those hallways, they crossed paths with Maddie, who was surely there as part of the guard left to watch the house, keeping her father safe.

"Caitl..." She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Caitlyn passed her by without looking at her, not even acknowledging her presence, with deep concern on her face.

"Vi’s injured," Loris explained quickly, carrying the unconscious bundle in his arms.

"Vi?" was all the young woman could say, completely confused. As far as she knew, Vi had left the platoon after an altercation with Caitlyn. Why was she unconscious in her house now? And why did Caitlyn have that desperate look on her face?

As soon as they reached Caitlyn’s room, she pointed to the bed, giving orders to clear the area and call for a doctor. She was left alone in the room with Loris.

"Is she going to...?" Loris couldn’t finish the question.

"She’ll be fine. You don’t know her like I do; she’s tough, she can handle this," Caitlyn cut him off sharply, leaning over Vi. She pulled off the jacket someone had placed on her, which was hastily pressed against the wound on her side, tearing a piece of sheet to press it clean. She started removing the makeshift bandages from her torso, now soaked in blood and ashes, but when she reached her chest, she couldn’t help but pause. Loris turned around, but it wasn’t for him—Caitlyn felt as though she was invading something very intimate of Vi’s, something she longed to know, but only if Vi wanted to share it. Of course, her life was in danger. She left the bandage as it was and focused on cleaning the exposed wound, just as a doctor arrived. Caitlyn stepped back immediately, staying just a few steps behind the doctor, watching every move with desperation.

Maddie was at the door, still not understanding anything. Was she even friends with Vi? Caitlyn had never been this worried about her, this terrified. At that moment, it seemed like Caitlyn’s sanity depended entirely on Vi surviving.

Another doctor had to join them. Hours passed, and Caitlyn could feel her body trembling from the panic. She hadn’t even sat down, always a few steps behind the doctors, making sure Vi’s chest still rose and fell, that she was still breathing. One of the doctors suggested taking her to the hospital, but Caitlyn refused again. They were going to save her, and they were going to save her there.

After many hours, three exhausted doctors left the room, leaving behind a weakened but stable Vi. Caitlyn thanked them as neutrally as she could, but as soon as they closed the door behind them, she couldn’t stop herself from collapsing to her knees beside the bed, letting out all the tears from hours of tension and worry. Days and weeks of guilt. She took Vi’s hand in hers, bringing it to her cheek, unable to stop crying.

By the time Jayce entered the room, Caitlyn was lying on the bed, her back propped up against the headboard, her gaze fixed on Vi, watching her breath. She had changed the bloodstained sheets with Loris’s help, and Caitlyn had carefully put a shirt on Vi, handling her injuries with the utmost care. She had even washed her hair gently, slowly, so as not to hurt her, almost ritually, until it regained the red Caitlyn had first known her with.

"How is she?" Jayce asked, moving closer to the bed. He, too, seemed to be in better condition.

"She’ll live," Caitlyn didn’t even look away from Vi to answer, her gaze so intense that Jayce almost felt uncomfortable. He had his suspicions about Caitlyn’s feelings for Vi from the moment she had brought her into the council room, but when Vi disappeared, he hadn’t thought for a second about how his friend might feel. Caitlyn had seemed fine. Now, he realized how wrong he had been.

"We need you in the council. We both know Ambessa will come for you, and for all of Piltover."

"I know," Caitlyn didn’t move an inch.

"She’s fine, Cait."

"I know."

"And she’ll stay fine." Caitlyn didn’t respond, only reached out a hand toward the mattress, closer to Vi, but not touching her.

"She’s not going anywhere, Cait."

Caitlyn furrowed her brow for just a second, as if she wasn’t so sure of that.

"How close is Ambessa?"

"No trace of her yet."

"Then this can wait."

"Cait, I don’t think—"

"Can you call Loris?" She cut her friend off. "There’s something that can’t wait."

Caitlyn walked slowly toward the cell, the sound of her footsteps the only noise on the cold floor. The girl inside the cell didn't move, curled up in a corner, long blue locks surrounding her. The explosion had barely touched her, thanks to the shield that had been Vi.

"Vi's fine, she's alive. And stable," Caitlyn had come here just to say that, not intending to stay any longer. She felt she owed it to Vi, even to Jinx, who had saved her life. The only thing that worried her was that they would save her sister’s. She had come to tell her that Vi was fine before returning to her side; she didn't want Vi to wake up without her.

"Thank you," was all Jinx responded, her only movement being the slump of her shoulders, as if she had just let go of a heavy weight. Caitlyn turned to leave.

"Who was the girl?" There was no response from Jinx. She only buried her face deeper into her arms.

"I'm sorry," Caitlyn murmured before walking away.

She stayed lying next to Vi, barely moving, even when a doctor came to check her condition. Caitlyn was always there, on the other side of the bed, watching over her, taking care of her.

"Caitlyn?" The door opened suddenly, and there was Maddie, looking at her with confusion written all over her face. She looked first at Caitlyn, lying beside Vi, staring at her, then at Vi, still unconscious in a bed where not long ago, it had been Maddie. And then back to Caitlyn, who was now glaring at her, annoyed by the interruption.

"Well?" The Commander asked when Maddie couldn’t find her voice.

"The first Noxian ships have appeared." Caitlyn sighed and looked back at Vi, who was breathing normally, though still unconscious.

"How close are they?" She certainly wasn't going to leave here unless it was absolutely necessary. Maddie noticed this, frowning.

"The landing is imminent." She stood there, glaring at Caitlyn, who was now gazing at Vi’s face with a tenderness Maddie had never seen before. Caitlyn was about to tell her to leave, to go warn her when they were near the shores. Clearly, she didn’t want to move from here.

"Commander, we need to prepare for battle," Maddie pressed, planting herself firmly in place, as if refusing to leave without her.

Caitlyn let her head drop with a sigh of resignation, her fingers lightly brushing the back of Vi’s hand.

"I know. Wait for me in my study, I’ll be there soon."

Maddie didn’t move from the door, jealousy written in the way she looked at Vi.

"Officer Nolen, wait for me in the study for instructions," Caitlyn said authoritatively, slightly leaning over Vi, as if trying to protect her from the venom in Maddie’s gaze, who finally started to withdraw.

"And tell Loris if he can come, I don’t want her waking up alone." Maddie nodded curtly, closing the door behind her.

Caitlyn lay back down on the bed, her cheek resting on Vi’s shoulder, holding her hand.

"I'm sorry I can't be here when you wake up." Footsteps approached the door, probably Loris. Caitlyn left a simple kiss on Vi's cheek, close to her lips. "Don't hate me."

By the time Loris entered the room, the Commander was already standing by the bed, giving him some instructions before she left the room.

[ratatatastic]

lmaoooo maffhew wanting the knot immediately and having to wait for sasha to catch up with that is so deeply funny like. this omega is not subtle and you’re not a stupid alpha babe! can only imagine what benny has to say to maffhew about it once he catches on and stops banging his head against a wall

idiots to lovers is always great but especially when its two people who would be hitched with 10 kids by now if they stopped being dumb for a single second like its that easy and yet...

to me they very much fall around the same time (infatuation at first scent if you will) just that sasha takes some time to get there not because he's dumb (okay he's a little dumb) but in the sense that its like "this person is very interested in me, i can see and recognise that but theres so much cognitive dissonance in my brain right now between knowing that intrinsically and finding that hard to believe so i unintentionally play dumb because obviously i'm reading too much into things it cant be me they're interested in haha that'd crazy but they're being awfully touchy and flirty with me wow"

but also it takes two to tango and we have to acknowledge that and this is when i would love to bring up the ways in which this man decides is the best way to go about that because he is a catholic school girlie... there's so much hilarity to be had here especially because his flirting is very uh how you say... a little ass backwards if you will especially considering dynamics

"I make it a point to keep the door closed when we're alone in a room together! That's basically a clear invitation that I'm down to fuck!!! Im basically asking to be ragdolled on his knot!!!"

and Benny just pinches the bridge of his nose like "I don't know how to explain to you in a way you'll understand that not everyone went to Catholic school."

But saying that Sasha does side-eye the door knob heavily when Maffhew goes over to close it the first time and he starts sweating like he just got dragged into a game of 7 Minutes in Heaven he did not sign up for and he's 13 again and oh god he got paired with a really cute girl, and he hasn't even had his first real kiss yet and-

And then absolutely nothing happens because Maffhew is just waiting with a polite expectant smile (because his work here is done, he did the heavy lifting know it's Sasha's turn) and this is when Sasha's dynamic classes training kicks in and he basically scolds himself for even assuming in the first place because this is clearly a show of trust (correct) not an invitation for extra circular activities (incorrect buzzer noise) and it basically becomes "This Omega really trusts me, I'm honoured especially as Pack Leader that I'm able to be so accepted into such a private space with the inherent knowledge that I will not encroach their boundaries whatsoever because consent is verbal, this is not in any way an invitation to take advantage of them this is deep platonic trust I will guard with my life :]"

and if you listen closely you can hear the lovely sounds of Maffhew bashing his head into a wall about how much of a gentleman Sasha is but also COME ONNNNNN... you know... once Maffhew realises what's happening which (looks at my watch) is not due for another few months really

Battle of wills: unstoppable force (maffhews catholic school understanding of dynamic interactions) vs immovable object (overseas alpha cotillion classes)

And if you think it's an Oh! An overseas dynamic thing! It's not. The Euros are watching the horrible car crash in front of them and doing absolutely nothing about it because it's none of their business, but they will stare at it... maybe judge it a bit but definitely are observing from the tall grass.

and I'm also not saying that luosty lundy forsy and bobby have a current running bet of how long it'll take for maffhew to break sasha in but i'm also not not saying that... luosty goaded lundy in the midst of a gossip session ("It has to be 3 months, right?) forsy happened to be around so lundy turned to him for advice ("7 months.") and maybeeee bobby overheard from all the way over from his stall and puts in his two cents for what it's worth ("6. Captain nice but not that nice. Very impatient." "So 3!" "No. Impatience makes him double the time, and wait longer. 6 months.") (lundy finally settles on a good 5 months because he's indecisive)

And Sasha does eventually pick up everything maffhew is throwing down... eventually... and when he does it becomes more so I want to court this omega the way they deserve I will take this slow and romance them sweetly :) *smash cut to maffhew caterwauling like a cat in heat*

but also once again its not like maffhew is helping sasha in any way this is idiot4idiot and benny would like to enjoy the car crash with the euros but unfortunately that's his soulmate, thats his bestie, his littermate from birth who has been weaned on the same teat as they climbed over each other to get to it, the first girl you kissed in your childhood bedroom because somehow you started play fighting on the bed because she was like i could totally pin you down easy and then she does and you always noticed how beautiful she was but shes even more gorgeous when she's pinning your wrists to your hannnah montana duvet you promised yourself youd changed out before she came over but you forget and well she teased you about it and you cant help but giggle about how perfect this all is and it seems that the natural conclusion to this is to taste the strawberry lipgloss of her lips because whats a kiss between besties huh its tacky and sticky and it tastes like summer and just other apt metaphors to put here about the inherent -isms of their relationship that i nearly cant put to words properly other than girls having fun (they are fucking)

and well anyways benny is watching and he has a lot of things to say about how its been proceeding so far

"You should really use your words."

"I am!"

"Right because smelling like a fucking perfume shop in the middle of October is using your words."

"This usually works with most Alphas okay!"

"Sasha isn't most Alphas."

"Tell me about it." Matthew grouses before he peeks over to Sam, looking up from beneath his eyelashes—the exact way he knows both endears him to Sam but also absolutely miffs him all the same, "Worked on you, didn't it?"

"Oh, is that what we're doing right now? We're calling getting a lapful of a preening O in preheat in the middle of a roadie a normal way to go about these things."

"It worked didn't it?" Matthew reiterates.

"It would work better if you use—"

"Okay! Alright!! I get it!!!" He does not.

like benny here is unfortunately an active listening participant in the going ons of the fuckery if not because hes involved by proxy because of maffhew because who else will hold his hair back as he calls him a dumb bitch you know

[forgottencassandra]

Cassandra found her heart sink at his words. She could imagine very well the lord she looked upon with the greatest admiration. Cormac Calleary had heard her speak many times of Lord Ormond -- there could be no mistake in whom he meant.

Imagine him lost to you.

"Oh, Cormac!" She cried, feeling as though she might cry at any moment, but resolved not to. It would not do to cry here. She would cry later, when she was alone -- perhaps as she gazed longingly from her window as the sun set?

For now, she would heed her friend's words and be brave.

"I will not ask you to break your confidence, but -- oh -- can you not tell me: who is the lady?" She asked, desperately. Had it been Roision, she was certain that she would have known. But who else had managed to catch Lord Cillian's eye? Had she been so blind by her own affections that she did not notice that his were otherwise engaged? It was hard for her to believe herself so horribly mistaken. Had he not flirted so with her? How could he have done such a thing if he meant to make another woman his wife?

"How long has this union been planned?" She found herself asking. Had it been long before they had met? Whether it had been from infancy or a presumed love match, perhaps she might have still won his heart. But were they to so tragically be torn apart?

Cassandra had secretly hoped for some other little drama to befall them before they would one day be married, and while images of Cillian leaving his betrothed at the altar to rush to be by her side, instead, made her heart swoon, there was part of her that wondered if he he would -- or could -- do such a thing. She must learn more about the conditions of this engagement. Until she did, she would worry that she might loose Lord Ormond forever. And she had no desire to end a tragic figure.

"Oh! How can you speak of samite at a time like this!" Cassandra cried. It was then that she knew she was truly distraught. Such a thing would have earned Cormac Cassandra's every sympathy on any other occasion, but today she cared nothing for it.

She hardly heard what he said afterwards, her mind too focused on the important matter at hand, when she was suddenly drawn from her ruminations by Lord Calleary holding back tears as he described the horrors of living through the night the convicts escaped into the lands where he now lived.

"Oh, Lord Calleary! I am terribly sorry for forcing you to dwell on such an awful time for you. Did you see them? The men who had escaped?" She offered him her own handkerchief, afraid that he would begin to weep right then and there. She was truly sorry for him -- he seemed terrified, poor soul -- but Cassandra was interested in the events that had surrounded that evening.

Part of her had even wished she had been caught up in it all. How could Lord Ormond even think of marrying another woman when her own life would have been at stake? Wouldn't he have dropped everything to make his attempts to rescue her?

"Oh, goodness!" Cassandra cried, clasping her hands as Cormac described the man who haunted the woods of Malconaire. "I had no idea that there was such a person! I am surprised that Lady Roisin had not thought to warn me, as we have ventured into those very woods on our own. Do you suppose she may not know of him?" Lord Calleary may be doing his very best to dissuade Cassandra from wishing to involve herself in dangerous situations, but between the heightened security and general lack of freedom she had experienced over these last few weeks and the new information that Lord Ormond was engaged, Cassandra found herself wishing for this very sort of excitement that seemed to terrify him so.

Time for Tea | Cassandra & Cormac

The Emperor had gathered all of the Astairan lords and stewards to his palace to discuss the continued efforts to locate the men who had escaped their executions. There would be more security added to their borders and their ports to stop any further escape attempts that would be made.

Cassandra didn't know all of the details -- nor did she feel the need to inquire further -- but when she heard that Cormac Calleary was to be at the palace, she extended an invitation to him to join her for tea in the gardens before he returned home.

"I cannot tell you have terrible it has all been for me, Lord Calleary, not being able to see anybody or do anything! I am so pleased that you are here. Goodness, it must be nearly a week since I have seen anybody and I hope you have some gossip to bring me?"

She sighed, stirring her spoon round in her cup rather absentmindedly, "I know it is only for my own safety that my father has refused to let me leave, but really I still feel as though it is terribly cruel to do so. And all because a few outlaws have escaped the noose? Tell me, Lord Calleary, do you not think him simply an overprotective father? I am certain that I should be very well protected and ... even if something should happen, I can't imagine that they would harm a hair upon my head. And it would be no time at all until I was rescued. Besides, when our own cousin was taken captive, she was returned unharmed."

She imagined that Lord Ormond, himself, might rescue her if she was ever kidnapped. Cassandra imagined that he would have stormed off the moment he heard that she was missing and it was such a lovely daydream to imagine him fighting off outlaws in order to save her, that she could have easily been lost in it for hours on end -- if this had not been the first time she had had any company outside her own family for days.

"It is much more exciting to be locked away at an outlaw camp than to be locked away here. Don't you think?"

[kurthorton]

im just saying i could do aria justice better than the show ever did and i dont even like aria

[carmarriage]

red vs blue restoration blew such huge chunks im actually mad. like completely enraged. and i wouldnt have it any other way. rest in peace you son of a bitch