#FEEL THE RAIN ON YOUR SKIN NO ONE CAN FEEL IT FOR YOU ONLY YOU CAN LET IT INNN NO ONE ELSE NO ELSE SKXJSJDJSNDDJDJAAAA | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aureatelys · 3 days ago

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as soft as the rain, pretty as a vine

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c.: 6k a/n: inspired by that one gifset of hotch desperately needing some moisturizer on his neck im so sorry. also my first time writing hotch's pov, pls be gentle. c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, kinda sunshine/girly!reader, mutual pining, alcohol mention, author pretending like they know about skincare, hotch is whipped and touch starved af, no y/n

summary:

You think Hotch needs to take better care of himself. Hotch doesn't know what to think. Or, 5 times you teach Hotch about skincare more than he wants to and 1 time he teaches you.

read below or ao3 here

one.

When Hotch first walks into the conference room ready to go over a new case, there’s something different that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Words dying in his throat, he sweeps his eyes over the entire room and doesn’t see anything significantly out of place. Then he’s passing over everyone’s faces, mentally keeping a note on how exhausted most of them are looking, and then landing on you.

Having only joined a couple of months ago, you were still fairly new to the team. However, with your sunny disposition and eagerness to learn, you blended right in. Hotch had watched in amusement as you were able to keep up with Reid’s ramblings, Morgan’s flirting, and Garcia’s antics. You were insightful, able to give new perspectives that Hotch would never have even considered, patient with victims and their families, and Hotch admired you for that.

Today, however, you look considerably suspicious as you give him a sheepish smile and a little wave. “Morning, Hotch,” you say, eyes sparkling, followed by a round of greetings from the rest of the team.

“Morning.” And then he spots a machine on the table near the wall, shaped and designed like a cat and spouting off what looks like steam at a steady and continuous rate.

Now that he’s noticed it, he realizes the conference room feels significantly stickier, the sudden humidity a stark contrast to the dry winter air outside. He can sense the slight congestion he’s been waking up to the past several months gradually disappearing.

“It’s a humidifier,” you explain after spotting the slightly confused expression Hotch was wearing, as if he’s never seen one before. To be fair, he doesn’t think he’s seen one in years as Haley was usually the one who dug it out of storage when Jack wasn’t feeling well. “I brought it from home, I thought it was a little dry in here. Is that okay?”

“I hope so, I was worried about getting a nosebleed the other day.”

“It’s good to have it around during this time of year, Hotch. Did you hear Anderson coughing this morning?”

“It’s also beneficial to have one on while you sleep, both with the white noise and being able to clear your sinuses and breathe easier with its optimal humidity levels.”

Truthfully, Hotch doesn’t care and he’s sure there isn’t some ridiculous regulation about not allowing a small humidifier, especially when Garcia has two space heaters in her office that you’ve had to ask to borrow at least twice a week.

However, the way you’re glancing up at him now from your spot at the round table, eyes wide and fluffy pink scarf wrapped around you because you apparently run colder than the rest of the team, Hotch would probably let you get away with anything.

He immediately sets that thought aside, not wanting to dwell on exactly what that means right now. He takes the only empty seat left that just happened to be right next to you, making sure to keep a respectable distance. “It’s fine. Just make sure to turn it off and empty it before we go.”

You give him a blinding smile that momentarily distracts him from the bubbling humidifier and the clouds of mist that are nearly falling into his face. “Sure thing. Did you know that it can also help with dry skin? So technically, we’re just taking care of our bodies if they ask why we need it.”

Although it makes sense now that he thinks about it, Hotch didn’t know that. He also doesn’t remember the last time he put on lotion or moisturizer, no matter how dry his hands felt.

Just then, Garcia wobbles in with her yellow heels and coffee mug, immediately launching into the brutal details of the case and where the team will be headed out to for the next couple of days.

When Hotch gets up to grab his go-bag from the office, he tries to ignore how it feels like he can breathe a little bit easier.

two.

“God, it’s freezing in here.”

Hotch glances up from his laptop mid-report to witness you taking the seat next to his with a resounding oof. You’re wrapped up in a blanket that you had brought from home that has somehow taken permanent residence on the jet, shivering despite the heater being on full blast. The corner of it lands on his knee, soft and warm.

The team had just finished a case in rural Montana, surrounded by mountains of snow and the wilderness. You had remembered to pack warmly at least, as Hotch had witnessed you struggling to take off the several layers of sweaters every time you arrived at the precinct. He remembers frowning in the car on the way to apprehend the unsub as you shivered in the passenger seat, having had to wear only a layer or two due to the bulky Kevlar vest and needing to be quick on your feet.

“It’ll warm up here in a second,” Hotch says, already wracking around his brain to see if there was another blanket hidden in a compartment somewhere. “A cup of tea will probably help.”

You slouch down further in your seat, cocooning yourself even further under the thick blanket. “I don’t want to get up.”

Hotch is almost tempted to lock his computer and get up to make you that cup of tea himself, however he glances around the cabin and notices several knowing pairs of eyes on him. He doesn’t have to be a profiler to know what the rest of the team thinks—that he’s gone soft on you.

You with your fuzzy blue blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape and the thick socks that you put in your bag specifically for the plane ride home. He knows he’s not imagining the lingering glances you throw at Hotch or the way you occasionally stay late as an excuse to bother him in his office.

And he doesn’t necessarily mind. There’s a strange, innate pull that tugs in his stomach when it comes to you, causing him to watch you more carefully and seeking out your presence at almost every opportunity. The sheer grip of panic on his heart when you were shot after taking down an unsub by yourself and without backup several months ago had Hotch re-evaluating everything he knew about himself.

He’s aware of the possible repercussions, which is exactly why Hotch has learned to be patient when it comes to you, who has threatened him to forgo his patience altogether with every bubbly laugh he can hear from his office or knock of your shoulders against his in the conference room.

So he doesn’t get up to make you that cup of tea despite knowing how you take it with a splash of milk and two sugars, and instead turns back to finish the action report.

It’s only several minutes later when he notices you rummaging around in your bag out of the corner of his eye before you pull out a small and colorful lotion bottle with a triumphant noise. You pop the cap open and slather some on your hands before you’re turning to face Hotch again, the novel that Reid recommended to you untouched on the table. “Do you want some?”

The bottle in your hand looks somewhat familiar, most likely something he’s passed by at the store or on your desk, but Hotch balks at the pink flowers painted all over the bottle. He’s lucky the undoubtedly suffocating smell hasn’t hit him yet. “I’m fine, thanks.”

But you don’t put the lotion back in your bag, instead shifting in your seat until you’re fully facing him. Your blanket is nearly draped over Hotch’s thigh. “Are you sure? You know, it’s really important to make sure your hands are moisturized, especially with how cold it is here.”

He doesn’t know why you’re so adamant about this, peering up at him with bright and eager eyes and the open lotion bottle poised over his hands. He’s never liked putting on lotion, or any kind of creams, as it always made his hands feel uncomfortably greasy. He would eventually wash it off anyway.

He turns his attention back to his laptop, yet wordlessly puts a hand out towards your direction.

He thinks you’re going to pour a generous dollop and let him rub his own hands together, but instead, he nearly jumps in his seat when you’re grabbing onto his hand with both of yours and slathering whatever’s leftover on your hands into his palms and the back of his hands.

Your hands are cold, even moreso than his, but the sharp tingle that runs up his arm at your touch causes something warm to bloom in his chest.

“I didn’t want to waste it,” you respond to the confusion on his face. You’re thorough; making sure to slather the cream in between his fingers and even down to his wrists. He senses the sneaking glances the rest of the team are throwing his way, maybe even smug, but he’s painstakingly distracted by the way your hands look in his, the way he can feel both of your hands gradually warming up.

And then you’re pulling away, and Hotch suddenly misses your tender touch.

Like he expected, his palms suddenly feel gross, unpleasantly slippery like he has oil all over them. He wants to rub his palms on his pants or go wash his hands, but your watchful eyes stop him.

And then it hits him— the sudden scent of you, floral with some hints of vanilla, overwhelming his senses. It’s undeniably the same scent as your perfume, the one that seems to linger every time you stride past him at the office or when you’re leaning over Hotch to laugh at something Morgan said. Now, it causes him to sharply inhale, chest feeling unnervingly tight as he unconsciously marks it to his memory.

You’re still watching him with an expectant smile, bottle stored away in your bag for you to pull out again after you’ve gotten up to use the restroom and used the cheap hand soap that you’ve repeatedly complained about before. You look unfazed, as if your simple touch hasn’t sent Hotch’s brain reeling.

“It’s nice,” Hotch manages to say, voice only slightly strained. The smell is not as strong as he expected, but it’s still doing strange things to his heart more than he’d like to admit.

If possible, your smile widens. “Just nice?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite my signature scent.”

You hum and turn away, picking up your book despite Hotch knowing you’re not going to read a single page of it today, the spine already creased from where you’ve been laying it face down multiple times over the past month. “No, your signature scent already fits you.”

Hotch says nothing, not entirely sure how to respond to that, but your attention is already caught by the game of cards Reid and Emily are playing several seats away. You immediately set your novel down and scramble up and out of your seat to be their enthusiastic audience, leaving a trail of vanilla behind you.

Hotch immediately misses the warmth of your blanket.

three.

“What are you looking for now?”

You’ve been digging through your bag, your pink personal one that’s almost as big as your go bag, for the past five minutes. Hotch can hear the various items clinking around and the crinkling of multiple old receipt papers as you curse under your breath. He frowns, tempted to encourage you to clean out your bag if only to make packing more convenient for you. He couldn’t count the number of times you’ve exclaimed on the jet that you had forgotten something.

The team had gotten called to another small rural town in North Dakota for an unsub that’s been killing during the protective guise of blizzards, which is why Hotch was driving so painstakingly slow that Morgan would’ve surely had an aneurysm if he was in the same car. Despite the roads having already been salted, there was still a concerning amount of ice on the roads that had Hotch sitting ramrod straight in his seat and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were nearly turning white.

Luckily, it was only you and Hotch in the car, heater on full blast. You’re wearing at least three sweaters today with your coat draped over your legs and haven’t even complained once about it being too cold, citing how you’ve never seen this much snow before in your life. Hotch found it all extremely endearing watching you nearly jump in your seat at how the evergreen trees looked covered in snow. Like a Christmas movie, you had said.

“Found it!” You pull out a travel sized bottle of sunscreen, hurriedly twisting the cap open to squeeze and draw lines down three fingers.

Hotch glances at you out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed in confusion at your strange method. “Sunscreen? Are we going to the beach?”

“God, I hope not. I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit.” You roll your eyes while slathering the cream on your forehead, cheeks, down your neck, and even strangely over your ears before rubbing the rest on the back of your hands.

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Hotch clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you to be so invested in your skin health.”

“It’s called skincare, Hotch,” you tease, screwing the cap back on but suspiciously leaving it out on your lap. “And it’s important to take care of your skin. Did you know that snow reflects UV rays, so even during winter you should put on sunscreen?”

Hotch chuckles before he could stop himself. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“Did you want some?” You’re twisting your body again to face Hotch, eyes sparkling despite it being horribly dreary and cloudy outside.

The only times Hotch has worn sunscreen was during especially hot summer days when he took Jack to the park or to go swimming. He’s seen you apply sunscreen in the office even when it was raining outside and the sun wasn’t forecasted to come out that day. He’s grown to learn not to ask questions.

“I’m okay, thanks.” The answer’s immediate, partly because he doesn’t need sunscreen and partly because he is concentrating on not crashing into a ditch.

“Come on, Hotch, it’s good for you!” He knows this is exactly the same thing you said on the jet several weeks ago, and since then, every time you’re putting on lotion and he’s somewhere in the near vicinity, you’re already squeezing some on his hands before he could respectfully decline. Luckily, you haven’t tried to apply it for him again.

You’re incredibly stubborn and Hotch wonders if you’re persuading the rest of the team to invest in expensive and fruity-smelling creams in an effort to have everyone properly take care of their bodies like you are with him.

“Alright.” And then he’s pulling his foot off the gas pedal just a bit to compensate for the distraction of having to put his hand out, desperately hoping you’re not going to lean over to apply it to his own face.

You luckily don’t squeal in excitement like he expected, just silently squirting the cream into careful and meticulous lines on his three fingers. Hotch can tell it’s definitely more of an expensive brand than what he was used to during the summer—lightweight and smelling like nothing.

Hotch carefully slathers it onto his face, starting at his forehead, down his nose, and then out to his cheeks and his chin. There’s still quite a lot left on his fingers and he remembers how you made sure to spread some on your neck, so Hotch does the same thing. However, he is definitely not going to put some on his ears.

Satisfied, you put the sunscreen away and twist as best as you could underneath your thick layers to put your bag in the backseat, because the floor of the car was too wet from the snow from your shoes.

“Happy?” Hotch’s face inexplicably feels greasier than he would like, but it’s not as bad as the vanilla-scented lotion or the cheap sunscreen laying forgotten in his closet. It’s already absorbed into his skin and when he rubs a hand along his jaw, he realizes that it must have had some moisturizer in it as well because his face feels softer than he was used to.

“Ecstatic,” you say, turning your face towards the window to hide the wide grin spreading across your face.

four.

The fourth time Hotch learns about skincare from you was completely and utterly by accident.

It had been a long and brutal couple of days chasing a serial in Tennessee, one that had nearly as much technological experience as Garcia. He had been two steps ahead of them until tonight, when they had finally caught a break and caught him before he could take any more women to hold hostage.

The all-consuming relief was palpable during dinner at the hotel restaurant despite the underlying knowledge that the same thing was going to happen next week. Conversation flowed, drinks were had, and Hotch was adamantly ignoring the fleeting looks you were throwing his way across the table.

Hotch and you had been dancing around each other for months, tension so tangible that the rest of the team were starting to feel uncomfortable. He’s been able to brush off Dave’s sly remarks in the privacy of his office, Morgan and Emily’s raised eyebrows tossed in his direction at every interaction he had with you, and Garcia’s elbow jabs at every possible second when you were in the room.

It's been frustrating for him, to say the least. He can’t tell them that he can’t make that choice for you, that he’s too conscious to not cross any of those professional boundaries himself. If that means that Hotch has to wait for several more months for you to make the first move, if that even happens, then so be it.

When Hotch watches the way you throw your head back in laughter at something Dave says at dinner, eyes bright and face slightly flushed from the wine, he thinks he’d be willing to wait as long as you wanted.

After being nearly kicked out of the restaurant from being too rowdy and Hotch hinting at being able to take the rest of tomorrow off once they fly back in town early, the team quietly shuffles back to their respective rooms. He knows there’s about a 50/50 chance that most of them will sneak out to a nearby bar in ten minutes, but at least he warned them ahead of time.

“Night, Hotch,” you had said, giving him a little smile and wave before your door across the hallway clicked shut.

Something warm settled in Hotch’s chest at that, so he did the most reasonable thing to cope with the unfamiliar and turned the TV on to a random news channel. With the volume on low and his laptop and files laid out on the rickety table, he got to work.

Several hours pass like that as he throws himself into the fine print, going over everyone’s action reports from last week and shuffling through old crime photos to make sure everything matched. It was a familiar process, and almost concerning with how much comfort he’s found in it—the scratch of his pen, the drone of the city several floors down, and the growing smudge of ink on his hand from his thoughts running faster than he could write.

When he gets to your report and notices it’s missing several key points of the case, as well as your loopy signature, he frowns.

The immediate thought that comes to mind would be to just put the file aside and move onto the other one. It wasn’t as if the report was due this second and he knows there were plenty of others that required more immediate attention.

The other thought that emerges, almost reluctantly, was that Hotch could easily go across the hallway and ask you to take a look at it and finish the report rather than waiting for the following morning on the jet when the rest of the team was undoubtedly going to be hungover. Prentiss was most certainly going to be cranky and demand everyone to be quiet because the hum of the jet was already grating enough. He’d just be doing the team a favor.

That’s what Hotch tells himself as he stands up from the low desk, neck and back aching, and makes his way out his room and to yours across the hall.

He briefly pauses, straining his ears as if he could hear anything through the door and over the erratic thumping of his own heart. Hotch is suddenly aware that you may be sleeping, or even out with the rest of the ladies to a sleazy bar, and he’s about to turn back around with defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders when he hears the click of the bathroom door open and your humming, faint even through the thick wooden door.

Feeling confident that he’s not disturbing you and something else Hotch can’t name at the fact that he’s going to be seeing you in the privacy of your hotel room, he raps twice against the door.

“Just a second!” And then the door swings open.

Hotch’s attention is immediately caught by the fluffy headband you’re wearing, light pink and with a comically large bow in the center. You’ve clearly just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash infiltrating Hotch’s senses and causing him to tighten his grip on the files he forgot he was holding in the first place.

You’re wearing a matching set of light blue pajamas, short and clinging to your body in a way that has Hotch immediately tearing his gaze away and back to your bare face. Your lips are glossy, slicker than normal, there’s a drop of water slowly trailing down the side of your neck, and a dab of cream on your cheek that you seem to have not noticed.

“Hotch?” you ask, confused, before letting out a squeak and crossing your arms over your chest in an effort to hide your modesty. Hotch ignores the fact that it just makes everything worse. “Is everything okay? Don’t tell me there’s a case.”

The droplet of water has disappeared underneath the collar of your shirt and the scent of vanilla nearly suffocates him. “No case. Just needed to get your final touches and signature on this report.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strained to you as it does to him as he remembers why he was standing in your hotel doorway in the first place, the files in his hand suddenly weighing like a ton.

You don’t seem to notice anything wrong, if anything, a slow smile spreads across your face that has Hotch’s stomach flipping.

You look radiant, the intimacy of being near you in your pajamas when you were clearly in the middle of your nighttime routine not going unnoticed. He peers over the top of your head to notice your go bag on your bed, clothes and your personal laptop strewn all over the comforter, and the TV being tuned to what you’d call an “entertaining yet trashy show.”

“You’re still working even though you’re the one who suggested having an early night? It’s late.”

Hotch blinks at you because what else would he have done if not attempt to catch up on the seemingly never-ending pile of papers and reports? “You’re still up late too.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just about to go to bed before you knocked, so technically I have better work-life boundaries than you.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

You study him—still wearing his suit sans the jacket, tie only slightly loosened and sleeves rolled up his forearms. He hadn’t even bothered to put his shoes back on, comfortable enough with the hotel’s reputation to be in his room and take the two steps across the carpeted hallway in his socks.

“As long as you make it fast.” And then you’re stepping aside and opening the door further, the sweetness of the vanilla nearly pulling Hotch in.

Except he’s somehow distracted by the dollop of cream still on your cheek, right underneath your eye. Witnessing first-hand the twinkling of your eyes as you glance up at him and the way your pink headband has your hair pushed back, baring the most of your face he’s ever seen, has him sidetracked.

“You have a little…” He motions to his own face, hoping that you will take the hint.

And you don’t, not exactly, because of course you don’t. You immediately swipe at your face but on the wrong cheek and stare down at your hand when you don’t catch anything. “What?”

Hotch is a problem-solver, meticulous, and always thinks things through. That’s his job, to always be two steps ahead of anyone and everyone. So he’s not sure how or why he’s suddenly reaching a hand out to swipe at the cream on your face with his thumb, his touch lingering on the warmth of your cheek.

Whatever Hotch was going to say dies in his throat at the very audible hitch of your breath, the way your eyes widen at his close proximity. Your skin is smooth, softer than anything he’s ever felt, and he ignores the way you’re staring into him as he pulls back and absentmindedly rubs the moisturizer in the palm of his other hand. If he tries hard enough, the cream on his own skin nearly replicates the feeling of yours.

He's about to clear his throat to apologize, maybe even mention something about how the report can technically wait until tomorrow and turn right on his heel back into his room to ignore the adamant weight pressing down on his chest, when your expression changes.

Something almost akin to smugness tugs at the corners of your lips, the shininess inexplicably different and more distracting than your usual lipstick. Your bright eyes dance with amusement before your arms fall from where they were crossed on your chest to your sides.

“You know, I’m wearing a lip mask right now if you want some of that too.”

“Excuse me?”

If possible, your grin widens, causing Hotch to internally deny that he was suddenly feeling breathless. “I use a lip mask every night. They just make them look so kissable, right?”

Something in Hotch snaps, because if that wasn’t a clear invitation, he doesn’t know what is.

When he finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him, you’re slowly backing up until you’re pressed up against the nearest wall with that infuriating grin on your face.

You’re playing with him, you’ve been playing with him, but he doesn’t care and can’t even think about that when you’re peering up at him with soft eyes.

When Hotch brings a hand up to cradle your cheek, he thinks his stomach nearly twists itself into a knot at the immediate way you lean into him and the way your eyes flutter shut.

When he finally kisses you, he can smell the sweetness of the raspberry lip mask before he tastes it, seamlessly blending in with your vanilla body wash and making him feel more drunk than he’s felt in a long time.

You place your hands on his chest, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and something about touching him has you unconsciously parting your lips to deepen the kiss, causing the smell of raspberry to become stronger.

Hotch can immediately feel the stickiness of your mask on his mouth, and he’s tempted to pull away at the unfamiliarity of something on his lips, but then you’re sighing into him and his hands are suddenly on your waist where the bottom of your pajama top has barely lifted. The warmth of your skin was intoxicating.

You have to be the first one to break the kiss, and when Hotch opens his eyes, you’re staring at him, your smirk having morphed into a smile of disbelief. His eyes flit to the almost imperceptible smear of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

“You have a little…” You trail off, your eyes drifting to his own lips, your smile doing nothing to calm the erratic rhythm Hotch’s heart has taken.

Hotch wonders how much you had put on yourself because the amount that he can feel on his lips makes him immediately want to swipe at his mouth. But that would mean having to take his hands off of you and he doesn’t think he has the willpower for that.

Instead, he rubs his lips together in an effort to spread the tackiness equally over his lips before he says “I like it, but I don’t think I got enough.”

You huff a laugh at that, your fingers tightening from where they’re gripping the lapels of his dress shirt. “I think I can help you with that.”

five.

“Are you okay in there?”

“Just five more minutes, I promise!”

That’s what you had said ten minutes ago. It’s not like Hotch is impatient per se, just content that you had agreed to sleep over again after another late date night and there wasn’t a looming case coming up.

You had only slept over one other time when the team had gotten back from a case late and Hotch wasn’t going to let you drive yourself home when you could barely keep yourself standing. You had dozed off the entire car ride home, head leaning against the window which caused Hotch to adamantly avoid all the potholes and tight turns, and yet you still managed to do your skincare routine in his ensuite bathroom before coming to bed.

After that night in your hotel room, you’ve become bolder. You’re now sitting next to Hotch on the jet, you make your way up to his office when there were still plenty of people milling about in the bullpen, and the way you peer up at him through your eyelashes during case briefings has him itching for a cold shower.

Neither have you said anything to the rest of the team, but at this point, Hotch doesn’t think he has to with the way both Dave and Morgan have patted him on the back the day after you laughed at something Emily had said and leaned against him, leaving his shoulder thrumming from your warmth for the next hour.

Another five minutes pass and Hotch can still hear the clinking of your serums as you rummage through your cosmetics bag. He silently sets aside his phone to get up from his extremely comfortable spot in the bed to pad his way over to the bathroom.

The sight that greets him has Hotch’s stomach plummeting all over again.

You’re sporting that same headband with the pink bow again, however this time, you’re wearing one of his old academy shirts that had mysteriously gone missing from his dresser several weeks ago. You’re freshly showered and you’re holding onto some kind of strangely shaped metallic instrument that you’re scraping over your cheekbones and then down your neck. The way it drags over your skin has Hotch cringing sympathetically.

You immediately spot him, meeting his gaze through the mirror, and the way your eyes immediately light up has a small smile forming on Hotch’s face before he can help it. “Hey you.”

“Hey.” Hotch leans against the doorway, content to watch the clearly practiced movements of you rubbing your skin with this strange contraption. “It’s been over five minutes.”

You pout. “Sorry, I’ve been holding this off all week and I need to do it tonight.”

Hotch was sure that “need” was a strong word, but he doesn’t question it. He stopped questioning your thorough skincare routine months ago.

And then you turn to him, something mischievous tugging at your glossy lips. “Wanna try it?”

Apprehension thuds in his chest, but he takes a step forward into the glow of the bathroom anyway. “And what is it exactly?”

Detecting your hesitation a mile away, you give him a warm smile as you hold it up to him. “It’s called a gua sha. It’s supposed to help with blood flow and getting rid of toxins and all that.”

Hotch may not be a beauty or skincare expert, but he has doubts that this piece of metal can actually do all of those things. To be fair, he’s had quite a few doubts about most of the items you use and not so subtly make him try.

The delight painted clear on your face though has Hotch tucking those thoughts away. He’s sure he has no right to question one’s own method on how to relax.

“Okay.”

You immediately muffle a squeal and turn to grab some other serum you left out on the sink, a light gold swimming around in the bottle.

“I’ll only do half of your face, I promise.” You squeeze some of the mysterious liquid on your hands and reach up to pat the left side of his face.

It’s thicker than your usual products, most likely some kind of oil that smells like roses, but the heat from your hand and your close proximity has Hotch feeling inexplicably warm all over.

“Okay, now you just use this side to run up your cheekbone like this.” You demonstrate for him and he adamantly makes note of the light pressure you’re using. “And then you run it down your face and down your neck.”

When he attempts to copy your movements with the warm metal, he doesn’t notice any difference in how his skin feels or the blood flow in his face, but you’re studying him so closely that Hotch is tempted to say he does.

It’s a strange sensation, but honestly it doesn’t feel any different than if he used his own fingers to rub up against his cheekbone or jawline.

When he puts the piece of metal back in your open palm, you’re nearly teeming with excitement. “So, what do you think?”

He pauses. “I don’t think it’s for me, sweetheart.”

You pout but he can tell that you’re not offended. “Boo. Fine, I’ll meet you in bed, handsome.”

Hotch is about to turn back to go to bed before he remembers the thick oil covering half of his face, evenly dispersed but still uncomfortable and will surely stain his pillowcase. He attempts to discreetly wipe at it with his hand as best as he can before quickly rubbing it off on your arm and escaping.

The screech you let out echoes in his bathroom as you try to swat at him and narrowly miss, and the way he feels heat tinge at the tip of his ears is better than any metallic contraption’s claim to improve blood flow.

On his days off, Hotch much prefers spending as much time as he can at home, either with Jack, you, or, more recently, both. Even if Hotch technically sees you every day in the bullpen, you at work is much different than the you at home.

Or at least, he likes to think there’s a difference as you drag him to the grocery store during what was possibly the quietest afternoon he’s had in several months.

I just have to pick up a couple of things, you had said as you buckle your seatbelt in the passenger side. We’ll be back home in a jiffy.

Never mind the fact that the word home coming from your lips has Hotch’s mind reeling. You’ve been seeing each other for several months now and he’s almost sure that you haven’t stepped foot in your own apartment for at least a month. You’ve taken up half of his dresser, most of his closet space, and the entirety of the counter space in the bathroom with your multi-colored serums and skincare tools that don’t work no matter what you claim.

He follows you around the store, dutifully pushing the grocery cart, as you mentally go through your checklist on all the toiletries you’re almost out of. Which is why he finds himself in the cosmetics aisle when you exclaim “Oh, I forgot about tomatoes for taco Tuesday!” and scamper off before he could say there were plenty of tomatoes from last time in the fridge because Jack has suddenly decided he doesn’t like them anymore.

He's content to wait, maybe check his emails on his phone, when he spots the familiar label of his face wash out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a brand that Haley had recommended for him when they were in college and Hotch knew absolutely nothing about skincare then, so he just continued buying it. He’s gone through countless bottles over the years, having used it nearly every day, yet Hotch finds himself frowning as he stares at the bright orange bottle.

The large bold letters advertise the cleanser being able to effectively combat oiliness, but Hotch distinctly remembers you offhandedly mentioning how lucky he was to have dry skin and not a combination like you.

Honestly, he had no idea, but it would make sense with how you were constantly slathering him in lotions and creams any chance you got.

He browses through the available cleansers, keeping an eye out for those that treat dry skin, when you sidle up next to him with a bag of tomatoes that were undoubtedly not going to get eaten. He can hear the hesitation in your voice when you ask “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something different.”

“Oh yeah? I knew I was wearing you down, Hotchner. Soon, you’re going to be begging me to take you to Sephora.” You’re joking but Hotch can detect the underlying seriousness in your voice.

He continues as if he didn’t hear you. “I’ve been using the wrong face wash for my skin so I’m looking for a different one. I probably haven’t been doing my skin any favors all these years.”

A pause. And then, incredulously, you say “Who taught you that?”

Finding one that was a good size and affordable enough to try, Hotch grabs it and throws it into the cart. When he meets your eyes, you’re staring up at him with a disbelieving smile.

“You did.” And it’s true—Hotch would’ve never thought about the long-term benefits of having a humidifier in the bedroom or the importance of sunscreen everyday if it weren’t for you. Taking care of your appearance was clearly important to you, which meant it was now important to him.

You stare at him, lips parted as if you’re at a loss for words. Your skin is glowing even under the harsh fluorescent grocery store lighting. “You’re such a sweet talker, you know that?”

You toss the tomatoes in the cart, making him wince, and loop your arm through his to tug him along the aisle. You smell sugary sweet with maybe a hint of his cologne from where you had slept in one of his old shirts last night. Hotch remembers how he had felt lightheaded, fondness flooding his chest, when he woke to you laying on his chest this morning. He tugs you closer into his side.

“Does this mean that you’ll try that new light therapy mask that I bought?”

“One step at a time, honey.”

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lubdubology · 20 hours ago

Text

Come A Long, Long Way

SYNOPSIS: His days are long and his nights are longer. He comes to you during those hours when the rest of the world stills, lured in by something almost like fate.

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 12.2k

WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, scars and healing; gratuitous sexual tension; mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption; dirty talk; frottage; nipple play; surprise appearance by Charles; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; sex with feelings; cowgirl; mating press; creampie; brief mentions of Laura; happy ending because I said so

A/N: The idea for this story came to me through a song--My Fair Lady by Kaleo. I was struck by this verse: I'm weary from my travels // I've come a long, long way // I haven't felt a woman // Since last that I was here // Oh, won't you bring me whisky // And run your fingers through my hair? // Oh, won't you whisper sweet words // Oh, so softly in my ear? I thought, "Wow, that's so Old Man Logan" and this is what I birthed from that. This may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, and I sincerely hope you think so too. Huge, huge thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for betaing this for me and making the final draft what it is; you helped end this in such a beautiful way. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

He shouldn’t care about the car pulled over on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking as the rain pours down.

For three days, Logan’s entertained a rowdy bachelorette party, chauffeuring them from bar to bar, dinner to dinner. The scent of cheap perfume and desperation still linger inside the limo, the drunken, whispered advances still burn against his skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted down to his very marrow and he wants nothing more than to crawl onto his sagging mattress and steal whatever amount of sleep his shattered mind will give him.

So, no. He shouldn’t care about the car.

But he finds himself easing off the gas, the limo starting to slow as he nears. He feels drawn, like a month to a flame, as if some unseen force has wound itself around his sternum and is pulling him forward.

Pulling him to you.

As the limo approaches, he spots you crouched down by the front left tire, struggling with a lug wrench, the tool slipping in your rain-soaked fingers. He can almost hear the curses spilling from your lips as you glance up and look towards where he’s sitting.

Logan knows you can’t see him, not well anyway with the headlights shining directly upon you and the rain pouring down in sheets, but he swears you find his gaze, your eyes seeming to pierce down directly to his soul. He feels the flutter of something deep in his chest and he feels exposed, like a raw wound that hasn’t quite healed.

For a moment, he hesitates, and wonders if you’re a siren, out here in your element to lure him to his death. Then your gaze drops and the thought dissolves but only just. Before he can talk himself out of it, Logan’s throwing the car in park and opening the door.

The rain is frigid, the cold biting at his skin as the downpour soaks him down to the bone. You glance up at him as he approaches, your fingers loosening around the wench but still keeping it firmly in your grasp. Straightening up, you push wet strands of hair out of your face, your fingers trembling from the cold.

“Need a lift?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. What he should do is swap out the old tire for the spare and let you go on your way. But those eyes of yours are piercing him again, the hook you’ve sunk deep in his sinew pulling taut once more and Logan feels compelled to take you home.

For a few moments, you continue to silently assess him, your gaze flitting between your car, the limo behind him and back to his now soaked frame. Then, you stand and open the driver’s side door, tossing in the wrench and pulling your purse close to your chest. You follow him to the limo and climb into the backseat as Logan slips back in behind the wheel.

He glances back at you through the rearview mirror, watching as you lean back into the seat, your wet clothes clinging to every curve of your body. Which is another thing he shouldn’t care about and yet…

Clearing his throat, he turns up the heat. “Where you headed?”

“North. About twenty miles or so.”

Logan nods and shifts the car into drive, heading back down the road as the rain continues to come down. Several minutes pass in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers. Finally, your voice breaks through the silence, soft and lilting.

“Got a name?”

“Who’s asking?”

A half smile tugs at your lips as you slide from the seat and slip into the row directly behind the partition. Logan can feel the damp of your skin as you lean into his space, the scent of rain flooding his nostrils almost intoxicating. You say your name and wait for him to respond in kind.

“Logan,” he answers, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it, Logan?” you ask, his name dripping from your lips like honey and just as sweet.

Logan stiffens, his grip tightening on the wheel as your words cut through the night. There’s no pity in your tone, which he’s silently grateful for, but an unsettling mixture of curiosity and understanding.

At the best of times, he doesn’t like anyone trying to scratch below the surface, to worm themselves into all the soft and vulnerable bits he tries so desperately to hide away. Now that he’s older and feeling every bit of his age, the weight of his bones threatening to drag him down with each step, he likes it even less.

“It’s not kind to anyone,” he answers, turning his head just enough to glance sideways at you.

You tilt your head slightly, a wordless noise humming in your throat. “Maybe,” you concede, voice soft, like you’re mulling over his words. “Except your life has carved itself into you a little more than most.”

He wants to be annoyed, to slam his foot on the brake and send the limo careening into reverse back towards your broken down car. But something stirs in him, thrumming in time with the pulse beating in his veins—a spark of irritation mixed with that pull that’s been gnawing at him since he first saw you.

“You a therapist or somethin’?”

You chuckle softly, the sound low and intimate, as you lean back into the seat, finally putting some space between you. “No. Just intuitive.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you through the rearview mirror with a scowl. “Intuit less. Just tell me where I’m goin’.”

A soft, chiding “tsk” falls from your lips and you shake your head, but Logan doesn’t miss the smile playing on your lips. You give him directions to your house and for moment you both sit in silence but the air remains heavy with unspoken tension.

Logan pulls off the highway, beginning to wind through the smaller streets of the town as he gets closer to your place. The thought of this ride ending, of you leaving this car, both thrill and disappoint him.

“You believe in fate?”

The question cuts through the silence, pulling Logan’s focus back to you. He glances at you briefly, your expression thoughtful as you wait for him to answer.

“No,” he finally says, voice flat.

A soft hum escapes your throat. “Unsurprising. But don’t you think, Logan,” you begin, leaning back into his space, “that maybe fate is what brought us together?”

You have that knowing look in your eye again, a sly smile tugging at your lips. As if you’re in on some cosmic secret he’s not privy to. It unnerves him.

But it intrigues him, too.

“I think a broken down car brought us together.”

“Or maybe life decided to be kind to you,” you challenge. “To bring me to you.”

Logan turns into a quiet subdivision as your words rattle around in his brain. The rain has mostly subsided, but is still falling in a gentle drizzle as he pulls up in front of your house, a single porch light illuminated in welcome. It looks small, yet homey, the kind of place he could have seen himself in once if life had been kinder to him.

“You should come in,” you say as you gather your belongings. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Your eyes meet his again through the review mirror, a mischievous glint in your gaze and an even more sinful smile on your lips.

It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone. The thrill of finding a partner for the night having lost its luster around the time his bones started to ache. More often than not, his sexual escapades involve his own calloused hands and memories from when he was a younger man.

“Think about it,” you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. “Door’ll be open.”

Logan sits, hands gripping the steering wheel, contemplating whether or not to follow you into the house.

Your offer is tantalizing, ripe for the picking, and the baser part of himself wants to accept—follow you into sin. You’ve already injected yourself into his veins, he might as well see the high through.

The rational part of his brain knows he should leave, throw the limo in reverse and tail it back to the life he’s carved out for himself in the desert. Experience has hardened him, left him unable to, or maybe unwilling to, open himself to others. He doesn’t need whatever it is you think you can offer him, no matter how alluring and sweet your words may be.

The weight of his wet clothes against his skin begins to feel almost suffocating and with a low curse under his breath, Logan steps from the limo and follows the path you took up the porch and into the house.

A trail of water leads from the front door to a small laundry room just off the foyer and then damp footprints lead deeper into the house. He can hear the low rumble of a dryer as he steps further into the space, the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood doing nothing to hide his approach.

Logan finds you in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, standing in only a pair of mismatched underwear, the damp fabric barely concealing what’s underneath as you gently swirl a glass of whiskey. A second, untouched glass sits next to your hip on the counter.

“You seem like a whiskey man,” you say, your smile curving around the glass as you take a slow sip. “Did I get it right?”

Stopping in the doorway, he flexes his hands at his sides, and wills himself to move—forward, backward, he’s not quite sure. The muted light catches along your curves, the damp sheen of your skin enticing, the dark outline of your nipples and curls between your thighs acting like a beacon. Logan can feel himself hardening against his slacks.

He can smell you—bright and earthy and wholly intoxicating. Your heartbeat echoes in his ears, quick, but steady, betraying no fear.

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now,” you say and he has half a thought to wonder if you can read his mind.

A sly smile spreads across your face as his eyes finally meet yours, a knowing edge to your expression that further sets him off balance.

“What’s happenin’ here?” Logan finally rasps, his voice low and rough.

You give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as you grab the glass next to you and take a step towards him, your movements slow yet deliberate. He doesn’t move, rooted to the spot as you approach him.

“That’s up to you,” you reply, handing him the glass. “You can get out of those wet clothes and enjoy this whiskey with me, or,” you pause to step closer, “you can walk back out that door and pretend like you weren’t curious about what’s waiting for you here.”

Logan’s fingers grip the glass in his hands just a little too tight as you stare up at him, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. You’re challenging him, daring him to act, and he knows the minute he breaks, he’s done for. He won’t be able to stop.

You risk another step closer, leaving barely a breadth of space between you. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can smell the rain on your skin, as your closeness overwhelms his senses. He wants to drown in you.

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask in a whisper, your fingers trailing along the edge of his belt buckle.

Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin. His free hand moves on instinct, wrapping around your wrist, halting your teasing fingers before they venture any further. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying and threatening to snap.

“You sure this is what you want?” His voice is low, all gravel and grit as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened by a hunger begging to be fed.

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as you press yourself fully against him, soft and warm. Rising up onto the balls of your feet, you drop your gaze to his lips before flicking your eyes back up to his and ghosting your mouth along his jawline. “Stay with me,” you whisper, sliding your hand up his chest. “Just this once.”

Logan’s restraint snaps. The glass tumbles from his hand, shattering against the floor, but neither of you seem to notice. His hand moves to the small of your back, wanting to press you impossibly closer as his lips crash into yours, hot and demanding.

You respond in kind, a whimper dying in your throat as your fingers tangle in his damp hair, urging him closer. A growl tumbles from his lips as he trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and tasting as he goes, his tongue finding your pulse point and sucking. His hands roam freely, his calloused fingers sliding over your smooth flesh, palming your hips and gripping you as if you’re the only thing grounding him to earth.

He feels alive. Every cell in his body hums beneath your touch, the constant aches and pains temporarily erased. You’re a balm to his very soul, smoothing the ever deepening cracks and making him feel whole.

You gasp as he nips at a spot just below your ear and he smirks against your skin, the sound spurring him on. “Tell me where your room is, or I’m fuckin’ you right here on the table,” he husks, his voice thick with desire, breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips swollen and eyes dark, you reach for his hand and wordlessly lead him past the living room and down the small hallway to your room. Once inside, he pulls you back towards him, mouth slanting back over yours, stealing the very air from your lungs.

His cock is almost painfully hard as he walks you towards the bed, only pulling his mouth away from yours as your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Instead of sitting back on the bed, you reach for the buttons on his shirt, easing them open before sliding the fabric from his shoulders. There’s an eagerness to your movements, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle as he sheds his undershirt and tosses it somewhere behind him.

Logan watches with a hooded gaze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as you shove his pants down his legs, barely getting them past his knees before you’re reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

His fingers curl around your wrist, halting your movements and you gaze up at him, licking your lips. “Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We have all night.”

A shiver runs through you and then his mouth is on you again, hungry and all-consuming. He drinks you in like a man parched, lips and teeth mapping the curve of your jaw, the solid edge of your collarbone as your pretty little moans and gasps fill the air. You tilt your head back and offer yourself to him, your hands grasping at his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle to keep him close.

His hands are rough against your skin as he slides them up your sides, tracing the soft, damp skin below the band of your bra. Unfastening the clasps, he trails the fabric down your arms, his eyes darkening as he finally takes in your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice dripping with raw want.

Any final restraint he has evaporates and he kicks the last of his clothes off before tightening his hands around your waist and setting you down on the bed. Logan steals the gasp from your mouth as his body covers yours, easing himself between your thighs and thrusting once against your clothed cunt.

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to wet the skin. “Last chance,” he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. “Last chance to stop before I ruin you.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to elicit a growl, his teeth bared. A sinful smile spreads across your face. “Oh, Logan,” you coo, “who says I’m not going to ruin you?”

Logan lets out a deep, guttural sound, something between a growl and a groan before he slots his mouth back over yours and follows you into temptation.

“Figured you’d try and sneak out.”

Logan whirls around at the sound of your voice, claws slowly unsheathing from between his knuckles. Blood wells up from the wounds, dripping between his fingers as he finds you dressed in an oversized shirt, the hem just concealing the edge of your panties. Your expression belies no fear as you take in the metal jutting out between his skin, your eyes alight with an acceptance he’s not use to.

Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance.

Slowly, he retracts his claws as you move further into the kitchen, stopping at the sink to grab and moisten a washcloth before coming to stand in front of him. Logan instinctively pulls away from your touch, but you’re undeterred, taking his hands in yours and wiping the blood away from his skin. Your movements are gentle, taking care to avoid the still healing slits.

Washed of blood, you finally glance up at him. “You can stay, you know.”

“I’m not the stayin’ kind, sweetheart,” he mutters.

One of those slow, knowing smiles tugs at your lips as you release his hands and Logan actually mourns the loss. “We’ll see,” you say with a shrug, stepping back just enough to put space between you. “I don’t think fate is done with us yet.”

Your words hang in the air like smoke, curling around him and pressing into his skin. He wants to argue, the words burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t. Because despite his earlier claims that he didn’t believe in fate, he can’t deny the unnatural pull you have on him. A pull Logan doesn’t necessarily dislike.

At his silence, you lean up and press the faintest of kisses to the corner of his jaw. “I’ll leave the light on for you,” you whisper into his skin.

It’s then he knows—he won’t be able to stay away.

Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later.

He’s been driving around some bigwig CEO, chauffeuring him from conference to conference during the day and dropping him off at random hotels during the night. When he gives Logan the address to tonight’s hotel, Logan knows instantly he’s in trouble. Just his luck the hotel is in your town.

Pulling off the freeway, he feels that familiar tug behind his ribs. His hands itch with the want, the need, to turn the wheel towards you instead of the address on his GPS. Since that night, you’ve haunted him, your face showing up in his dreams, waking with the sensation of your softness burning into his skin.

Logan knows he could stay at the hotel or sleep in the back of the limo like he’s done so many times before. But as he slowly inhales at his cigar and waits for Mr. CEO to stop fingering his mistress in the back seat and get the fuck out, the need to be near you only grows stronger.

And damned if he knows why.

He doesn’t need a relationship, or whatever the hell this is. Enough of him has been spread to others, for better or worse, and he’s already worn thin. The last remnants of any family he has are hanging off a very precarious ledge and he can’t bear the heartache of more loss if he opens himself to you.

But as much as Logan keeps telling himself he’s closed off, fortified against anything new, he can feel himself bleeding through the cracks.

By the time he finally turns down your street, it’s well past a respectable visiting hour. Most houses are dark for the night, but not yours. The front porch light illuminates just like it did two weeks ago and the dim lights of the kitchen shine through the pulled blinds. You’re up and a frisson of anticipation shoots through him.

He parks the limo and stamps out the cigar before walking up your driveway. As he approaches the door, he hesitates. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. While your final words to him were open ended, did that give him the right to just show up in the middle of the night?

You open the door as he contemplates and when his gaze finally focuses on you, he relaxes. A well worn robe is tied around your waist, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your face cleaned of makeup and yet you’re more alluring to him than you were that night in the rain.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he confesses, stepping just a bit closer towards you.

A slow, soft smile spreads across your face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” you reply. You open the door to allow him entrance and he steps in after you.

Logan follows you into the kitchen, where you already have a glass of whiskey ready for him. Handing him the glass, you nod your head towards the living room. “Come. Relax for a bit.”

He follows you into he living room, the single lamp casting a soft glow within the space. You settle onto the sectional, tucking your legs beneath you and turning yourself towards him as he joins you. For a moment, neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable, like it always is around you.

“You look tired,” you say, finally breaking the quiet. Your voice is soft, a sense of familiarity laced in with your words, as if you understand the magnitude of his fatigue.

Logan huffs as he swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Honey, I’m always tired,” he replies. “Comes with the territory.”

You give a small hum, your head tilting to the side as you assess him. “You’re in pain, too.”

Logan freezes at your words, his eyes flicking up to your face. His gaze locks with yours, sharp and guarded, like you’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready to expose. And yet, you’ve been doing this since the beginning. Finding the cracks in his facade and wedging yourself in until the gap widens, uncovering the raw nerves underneath.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, his tone challenging.

You gaze remains steady and calm, holding a softness that unnerves him more than the question itself. “Because it’s written all over you,” you say simply. “I see it in your scars, in the way your hands are always clenched, as if steeling yourself against a blow that’ll never come.”

Logan exhales a low, humorless laugh before taking a long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat. “Don’t even notice it anymore,” he lies, shifting in his seat.

Your mouth tugs into a gentle frown as you shift, crawling closer to where he sits. You pluck the glass from his fingers, swallowing down the rest of the whiskey before setting it on the coffee table. Logan watches as you swing your legs over his lap, your robe riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of your thighs.

The weight of you against his lap sends a rush of arousal down his spine and he can feel his cock stir in his slacks. If you notice, you ignore it, instead reaching for a small bottle of lotion on the end table and squeezing a dollop into your palm. You rub your hands together twice before reaching for his right hand.

Your thumbs dig into the meat of his palm, a low groan slipping from his throat before he can stop himself. You bite your lip, but Logan can see the sly smile beneath.

“You help take care of everyone else,” you begin, rubbing the lotion further into his calloused palms. “Who helps care for you?”

Logan feels flayed open, that pull that spins him into your orbit only growing stronger as you see down to his very soul. Caliban swore you weren’t a mutant but Logan still couldn’t shake the idea that you were something more.

“What are you?” he asks, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, watching you concentrate on his hand.

You slide your fingers along the pink, puffy lines between his knuckles, a slow hiss escaping between his teeth as you massage the tender flesh. He wonders if you know how sensitive his skin is now, how each time his claws come out it hurts just a little bit more than the last time.

“I’m human,” you reply, positioning his hand to focus on the back, tracing the fine scars there. “Same as you.”

“I ain’t human.”

Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. “You’re human where it counts,” you say, beginning to massage his hand.

Logan scoffs. “Yeah? And where’s that?”

You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. “In here.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are resting against him. You touch him like you’re unafraid, undeterred by the metal in his bones and the sometimes primal rage that courses through his blood. His killed—for the sake of war, self preservation, and for reasons not so innocent—but you can somehow still see past that, to some soft part of him that still lingers.

Logan itches to touch you, to pull you closer and—

“You can touch me,” you say, as if pulling the thought from his head. “I like when you touch me.”

Logan slides his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap, your clothed center pressing against the fly of his slacks. He doesn’t miss the gasp that falls from your lips or the shift of your hips as you try and press closer.

That thrum of aliveness begins to churn in his veins as he slowly unties the sash of your robe, allowing the fabric to fall to the side. You’re bare underneath and Logan can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to the center of your chest.

“You dress like this jus’ for me?” he asks, dragging his lips towards your breast and pulling a nipple into his mouth, working into a taut peak beneath his tongue.

Your fingers wind themselves into his hair, holding him close. “Yes,” you breathe, a whimper falling from your lips as he moves to your other breast. “Only for you.”

A surge of possessiveness rushes through his veins and Logan can feel the prickle between his knuckles, his claws threatening to unsheathe at the thought of you with another man. Instead, he doubles his focus onto you, his beard scraping against your skin as he licks a hot stripe across your nipple. “Damn right, only for me,” he growls.

You shift your hips in response, seeking more friction against the hard length of his cock pressing against you. Logan groans, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, urging you to move against him. The soft, wet heat of your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties and his slacks sets his control on a razors edge.

Logan leans back slightly to lock eyes with you, your pupils blown wide with want, your skin flushed with desire. You find his gaze, hazy with pleasure, but focused and then you smile at him, bottom lip pinned between your teeth.

“And you, Logan,” you whisper, your hands sliding down the column of his neck, “you’re only for me.”

That hook you’ve lodged in him sinks deeper and he’s too far gone to care. The mystery behind your presence in his life is one he’s willing to spend the rest of his days unraveling so long as you stay right here, continuing to bewitch him with the beauty of your soul.

Your allure was more potent than any pheromone, more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. In his waking moments, Logan found his thoughts drifting to you more often than not and the frequency between his visits grew shorter and shorter until he found himself lured into your embrace almost every night.

He was good at lying to himself, writing off these visits as nothing more than comfort—the need to find warmth in a world that so seldom offered him that luxury. But that lie grew bitter, warped in the liminal space between midnight and dawn where you stripped him down to his very bones, saw through the gruff and grit he wrapped himself in. Saw him as something more than the sum of his sins.

Logan couldn’t hide from you and he didn’t know if he wanted to. Those carefully crafted walls that surrounded him cracked and crumbled, turning to dust at his feet. In that mysterious way of yours, you always knew what he needed—a warm meal; your tender, healing touch as you helped him stitch the worst of his wounds; the soft, pliant feel of your skin on his as you kissed him deep, the kind of kiss that burned like wildfire and whiskey.

God help him as your gravity pulled him in closer, your orbits circling tighter and tighter, destined for an inevitable crash.

“What am I to you?”

Those five words root him where he stands, flaying him down to his very marrow. Logan should have expected this question, should have known that eventually you’d ask.

He wants to tell you the truth, speak those words that burn against his tongue, begging to be said.

He wants to tell you of his need to find you when the days are long and the nights are longer. When the weariness he feels in his bones aches more than usual and seems to bleed into his very soul.

When he needs to feel something more than the hollowness that seems to grow inside his chest. The slow carving away of his humanity that’s been scraping closer and closer to emptiness for years.

When he needs to be wrapped in warmth and set afire by something almost like love. Like home.

But he says none of this as he gazes over at you sitting at the kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest. You look small sitting there, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen before.

And instead, he remains silent, praying you’ll let the conversation slide. But he knows better.

You glance up at him, your gaze piercing straight through the heart of him and then you devastate him with three simple words.

“I love you.”

The air punches from his lungs and for a moment it feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Your words tear through him, cutting deeper than any knife, and his hands curl into fists as you slice him open.

“Don’t,” Logan rasps, his voice rough, barely more than whisper. He avoids your eyes, knowing that if he looks and sees the sincerity in your gaze, it’ll be his undoing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks with emotion as you push away from the table, your arms wrapping around yourself. “What about those words can’t you hear?”

His jaw clenches and for every step you take closer him, he takes a half step back, as if he’s trying to distance himself from the truth beginning to swirl between you. You can’t love him. Loving someone has brought him nothing but misery and pain, loss and suffering and he’ll be damned if he drags you down that road.

So, instead he lies, the words bitter in his mouth.

“This ain’t love, sweatheart,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “This is fuckin’.”

You inhale sharply between your teeth and your expression twists into disbelief, the beginning of tears welling in your eyes. “Fucking?” you bite back, your voice trembling but still firm. “You think after all these months that this is just fucking?”

Logan doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t move. He simply stands there, jaw clenched so tightly he could shatter bones. He can’t say yes. If he does that, if he voices that lie into existence, he’ll have to spend the rest of his days remembering the look in your eyes right now—destroyed.

Your breath starts to shudder as you continue to step closer towards him. And he can feel you, warm and comforting, even though you shake with barely contained anger. “Look me in the eye and tell me that’s all this is,” you demand, your voice thick with emotion. “Tell me that when you come to me in the middle of the night, broken down, bloody and bruised, it’s just fucking. Tell me that when I touch you, hold you, love you, that it means nothing.”

He remain silent.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “God, for someone with heightened senses, you’re blind to what’s right in front of you.” Your trembling voice matches the shake to your hands, your fury pouring off you in waves. “You really are a coward, aren’t you?”

Logan nostrils flare at the insult and he can feel the prickle of his claws between his knuckles. He knows his rage isn’t with you, but himself. And yet he can still feel his lips curl into a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he growls.

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you seethe, your voice now raw, pain bleeding through every syllable. “You can’t even look me in the eye when you lie.”

His jaw clenches impossibly harder and he swears he can taste bone. Then, he finally meets your gaze head on, eyes flashing. “You think this ends well between us? You think I get to have somethin’ like this? Like you?” Logan’s voice cracks in a way that he loathes. “I can’t—”

The crack of your palm against his face is deafening. He barely moves from the impact, but emotionally you’ve landed him on his ass. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unblinking.

Logan stands there, immobile, as he processes the sting of your slap. It doesn’t hurt, not physically. It’s the fact that you did it, the fact that you’re standing in front of him, chest heaving from the effort of your breathing as if you just ripped yourself open for him.

“Get out of my house,” you seethe, your voice softer than before, deflated.

Your words shouldn’t sting as much as they do. They shouldn’t wreck him and make him feel like he’s been ripped apart limb from limb. He should relish them, the push, the shove. He should revel in the confirmation that you’re finally seeing him for what he truly is—something undeserving of all the warmth and love you’ve given him. A stray animal that never should have been fed.

Logan swallows, his throat tight as he gives you a small nod. And then he does the only thing he knows how to do.

He turns. And he walks.

His legs feel like lead, each step a feat and his brain is screaming at him to turn around. To fight. To beg. To plead. To say something, anything.

But he doesn’t.

Logan exits the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. As he steps off the front step, the porch light above him clicks off, plunging the house into darkness. Your guiding light is gone, lost in the storm of his destruction.

Of all the wounds he’s ever taken, of all the scars that mar his skin, nothing has ever bled quite like this.

Charles watches with sharp eyes as Logan enters the old water tank and shuts the door behind him. The older man is in his wheelchair, tending to his plants as Logan walks around the place, picking up random bits of trash and the tray from breakfast.

A soft “tsk” falls from Charles’ lips and echos in the small space. “Will you ever learn, Logan?” Charles’ voice seems tired, weary.

Logan pauses and looks over at him, irritation already prickling along his skin. “Stay outta my head,” he snaps, slamming the tray down on a nearby table.

He doesn’t need this, doesn’t want Charles sifting through his mind, seeing those pieces of you he so deeply cherishes. Pieces he doesn’t deserve. Pieces he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have within his grasp again.

“She loves you,” Charles continues, seeming to ignore his request.

Logan strides over to where Charles is sitting, unable to keep the ire from boiling over. He wants to sweep all the plants to the floor, destroy the one creative outlet Charles has, retaliate for the way he presses into the fresh bruises on his mind. “I’m begging you, just—”

Charles lifts the spray bottle beside him and directs the spray in Logan’s face, showering him in a fine mist of water. Logan freezes, water dripping from his face as his lips tighten in a thin line. He grits his teeth, an ache already blooming in his jaw.

“What the fuck was that for?” he growls.

“Are you a cat?” Charles asks, lowering the bottle. “No? Then stop being such a pussy.”

Logan stares at Charles, the vulgarity of the of man’s words leaving him temporarily speechless. He scrubs a hand down his face, wiping the rest of the water off with the sleeve of his shirt, scowl deepening.

“You’re pushin’ it,” Logan warns.

Charles simply smirks, finally setting the bottle down on the table. “Someone should. God knows you won’t push yourself. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Logan sucks in a sharp breath and steps back from Charles, sitting down on the bed across from him. The old metal springs groan beneath his weight. He wants a bottle of whiskey, to quiet the thoughts in his head, at least temporarily, and fall into a drunken stupor. Anything but flaying open his feelings, especially his feelings about you.

“What are you so afraid of?” Charles asks gently. “That she’ll see all your broken pieces?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charles raises his eyebrow. “No? Logan, she’s already seen them. She knows what you are and she’s still here.”

“That’s not the point!” Logan roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His breathing comes out in short gasps and he knows he needs to rein himself in. Not only for himself but for Charles. It doesn’t take much to trigger a seizure these days and he doesn’t need the stress of this conversation to become a catalyst.

Charles remains quiet, expression calm and Logan hangs his head, his voice softening into something raw. “It’s not about what she knows. It’s about who, about what, I am. I don’t deserve her.”

Bracing his elbows on his legs, Charles leans forward, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “She knows all that, Logan. And she chooses you. Every night you come to her, she chooses you. How can you not see that?”

Logan doesn’t respond, but the weight of Charles’ words hang heavy against his shoulders. He looks down at his hands, seeing the callouses and crisscrossing scars. His body is a physical map of violence, each faded pink line a story of pain, regret and death.

But you’ve never seen them that way. You’ve only ever looked at them with reverence, traced your fingertips along each one and wondered about their stories. Made him feel whole instead of broken and used.

“You have a choice to make, Logan,” Charles says, interrupting the silence. “Let her in…or keep running. Don’t make her choose for you.”

For days, Logan’s mind is plagued by replays of his last moments with you and his conversation with Charles. His already sleepless nights are further tormented by dreams of you, the devastated expression on your face haunting him.

The memory of your face, the crack in your usually steadfast voice, the tremor in your hand after you struck him. They all play in a nauseating loop in his brain, punishing him in a way he’s never felt before.

His life reverts to autopilot—drink, fight, drive, but nothing quells the gnawing ache in his chest. He couldn’t stay in the smelting plant with both Caliban and Charles staring at him, watching his every move as if he were a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Charles was running out of medications, a few days supply left at most, and Logan knew he was better off leaving Charles in Caliban’s care than his own.

Now, he sits on the edge of a dingy motel bed, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. His eyes are dry and heavy with exhaustion and his skin is itching with that familiar want to be near you. It started as an annoying tug, but has now grown into a maddening want.

He knows he should ignore it. But he was never that strong.

Before he can talk himself out of it, convince himself that this is an astronomically stupid fucking idea, he’s on his feet, keys in hand and driving down those lonely roads towards you.

It’s late when he reaches your house, like it usually is, and he half expects the porch light to remain dark, a cold, bleak reminder of how badly he’s fucked up. Instead, he finds that single porch light illuminated, shining like a beacon of hope. Logan walks up onto the porch, but you don’t open the door like you’ve done so many times before.

He contemplates leaving, turning around and getting back in the car and drinking himself into a semblance of sleep. But then he hears you, your heartbeat echoing beyond the wooden frame, as steady and as comforting as it’s always been. Logan pauses, wondering if he should try the knob and come inside—if you’ll even let him.

If you even should.

With a sigh, he lowers himself to the ground, his joints aching in protest as he rests his back against the door. “I’m not good at this,” he finally says, hoping you’re listening. “I’ve been alive for too long. Seen too much shit.” Logan pauses, his words burning in his throat. “I’ve lost too many people.”

He hears you shift behind him, your head thudding softly against the door as you listen. His relief is almost palpable knowing you’re there, that you’re at least willing to listen to him. Leaning back, Logan closes his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. “The only way I know how to keep people safe is to push ‘em away. And I need to keep you safe.”

The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, as if they’re uncovering a truth he’s long kept secret. He feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, raw and honest, and the truth of his words burns. Logan can still hear you on the other side of the door, your breathing slow and steady, yet laced with something—hesitation, maybe, or hurt. It makes his chest ache in a new and unfamiliar way.

“I’m tired,” he continues, his voice softer. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, sweetheart. Tired of fightin’ when all I want—” Logan swallows hard. “All I want is you.”

The porch light hums above him, the night is alive with the chirping of crickets, but the silence that follows is almost deafening.

Logan doesn’t deserve you, he knows that. You should turn him away, tell him to leave, to kick him back to the desert to lick his wounds alone. He doesn’t know how to be someone’s partner, their lover. He’s not sure if he ever has, really, too hung up on all the ways he paints himself as a bad man. Someone unworthy.

Except with you, he finds himself wanting to fight. To prove he’s not as hard and unyielding as the metal bones inside him. That somewhere deep inside him there still lingers warmth and affection and the capacity to love.

He’s bracing himself for the worst when he hears the faint sounds of the lock turning. The door creaks open and he shifts to look up at you. One of your well used blankets is wrapped around your shoulders, your hair tousled from sleep and your eyes are red and wet with unshed tears. Logan’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as you stand there and he turns to face you, pushing up onto his knees. Your expression is carefully masked, betraying little of your underlying emotions, and he carefully crawls forward, testing the waters of how close you’ll let him get.

His knees ache as he kneels on the hard concrete, but he’d crawl through glass if you asked him to. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him as he nuzzles his face into the softness and warmth of your belly. Your comforting scent floods his senses as he waits for your anger, your rejection.

Instead, you sigh, a long pent up breath released in a steady exhale and your fingers sink into the disheveled hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close to you. “You’re an asshole,” you finally say, though your tone lacks any venom or spite.

Logan feels it then, the tension slowly easing from your body as you allow him to sink further into your frame. His heart lurches his chest, the faintest flicker of hope fluttering against his ribs.

“Yes,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“You hurt me.”

He pulls back as you gently push at his shoulders and sink down to the ground in front of him. But you don’t push him away any further and instead, lace your fingers through his. “I should tell you to fuck off,” you continue, your eyes focused on where you’re touching him. “But I can’t.”

His voice comes out in a whisper. “Why?”

Your eyes meet his and your gaze pierces straight through his soul. “You know why.”

And he does. In truth, he thinks he’s always known, long before you ever spoke those three little words out loud. Words so simple, yet so profound. Words he rarely speaks, while others casually toss them around. Words he has rarely felt, but with you feel as natural as breathing, as the sun rising in east.

Words he’s still afraid to say, despite everything, despite every cell in his body screaming at him.

You look at him like you know, because of course you do. You’ve always known him, in that uncanny way of yours since he first saw you standing in the rain. So instead of ire or disappointment at his lack of response, you simply squeeze his hand, grounding him to your reality.

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, your voice soft and steady. “Not yet.”

Logan looks at you, his brows furrowed. He can’t fathom what he’s done in this life to deserve you, your patience, your unwavering belief in him. “You make it hard not to,” he finally rasps, his voice rough and uneven. “Love you, I mean.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and jagged, much like him. It’s close to what you want to hear, but not quite. And yet he sees something warm and bright blossom on your face.

You lean in, raising your free hand to lightly trace the curve of his jaw, scratching at the scruff there. “You’re a man of action, Logan,” you say, pressing in closer, your breath mingling with his. “Wanna show me instead?”

This—this is a language he’s fluent in.

Using his lips, tongue, hands and cock to write on your body all the words he cannot say. He’s mastered your shape, the way your hips curve beneath his palm, the softness of your belly and breasts, the heat between your thighs stoked hotter only by him. He knows exactly where to press, where to nip and suck and tease to elicit all those pretty little moans and gasps of pleasure.

Logan’s already drawn one orgasm out of you, his fingers still thrusting against you as you ride out your high, your thighs shuddering against his forearm. You’re flushed and breathy as you reach for him, urging him up from between your thighs.

You pull him close, fingers sinking into his hair as you lick into his mouth, not caring that your slick still stains his beard and lingers against his tongue. He swallows your gasp as he knocks your knees apart and slots himself between your legs, his cock heavy against your belly.

He wants you. In all the ways he can think of and not just like this, naked and pliant beneath him. He wants your sleepily whispered hellos each morning and your softly murmured goodnights each evening. He wants the warm, weighty press of your body against his as you sit on the couch beside him sipping whiskey.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

As his kisses grow more fervent, you grow impatient and push at his chest, urging him back. “Lie back,” you command softly, your breath damp against his lips, “Let me take care of you.”

He wants to protest, deny you this request. This is supposed to be about you, about using his body to show you all the things his words can’t say. He’d spend the whole night between your thighs, using his mouth, tongue and fingers to worship if you’d let him. But there’s something in your gaze that forces him to comply and he gives in, rolling onto his back.

You straddle his thighs, your slick cunt sliding along the length of his cock. Logan groans and his hands reach for your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he encourages you to move. “This is s’pose to be about you,” he husks as you slowly begin to rock your hips back and forth.

“Oh, it is,” you answer, licking your lips as you brace your hands on his chest. “Who else can get you hard and needy beneath them?”

A low growl escapes from his throat. “No one.”

A wicked smile curls at your lips as you drag your heat along him, the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit with every slow, deliberate rock of your hips. The sensation has his control unraveling and he slides his hands along your thighs to palm the curve of your ass.

You press into his touch, continuing to roll your hips as you lean forward to press an open mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You see,” you murmur, “this is for me.”

Reaching between your bodies, you grasp him in your hand and line him up. Slowly, almost tortuously slow, you sink down on his cock, taking him inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. A sharp inhale escapes him as your warm, tight walls surround him and Logan knows this feels different.

This isn’t merely fucking anymore, the melding of flesh for the pure sake of pleasure, of briefly escaping the nightmare of his life, of finding solace in sin. You’ve somehow managed to bleed yourself into him, to wrap yourself around his heart.

You feel as if you’re a part of him, lodged deep between his ribs and that if he were to try to remove you, he’d kill himself in the process. A part of him knows this feeling has always been there, back when you first entered his limo. The feeling threatens to choke him, to fill his love soaked lungs until all he can breathe is you.

He loves you.

Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him.

“I—fuck, I,” he chokes out, the words caught in his throat. “I feel—”

Your hands run over his chest, up along his collarbones, your fingers blazing a trail over his skin. “I know, Logan,” you whisper, your hips rocking languidly against his.

He grips your thighs, almost tight enough to bruise, helping guide your movements, but also prove to himself you’re real. Logan’s chest heaves as he watches you ride him, your hips rocking harder, faster, dragging moans out of both of you. You lean back just enough to change the angle, driving him deeper and he bucks his hips, meeting your thrusts with a force that has you crying out his name.

And yet it’s not enough. He needs to wrap himself around you, twine his fingers through your hair and hold your mouth to his until he’s completely consumed you. His hands slide up your back towards your waist and he pulls you down against him, mouth hot and insistent against your neck as he continues to fuck up into you.

In one fluid motion, Logan grips your thighs and flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, cock still sheathed deep within your cunt. You arch beneath him as he sets a brutal, devastating pace, the raw intensity of his movements stealing short, gasps breaths from your lips with each thrust. A shiver ripples through you as he draws a nipple into his mouth, his name tumbling from you like a prayer.

“Fuck, there it is,” he growls. “I love all those little sounds you make.”

His choice of word isn’t lost on either of you and your eyes meet his as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint red crescents as you cling to him. “Logan,” you gasp, your voice trembling as he hits that soft spot deep inside you. “More.”

“You want more?” he rasps, gripping your thighs and pulling them higher around his waist. The new angle has you crying out, the sound echoing in the room as he continues to slam into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you.

“Ah, fuck, yes,” you moan, your head tipping back.

Logan takes advantage of your offering, his lips and teeth marking a path down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that’s sure to leave a burn come the morning. There’s a possessiveness to his touch, a need to claim you, to prove to you that this is all he needs—your embrace, your warmth, your love.

“You’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he growls against your skin, his hand sliding down between your bodies and finding where you’re joined. He can feel himself pounding into you, your combined arousal coating his fingers as he finds your clit and begins to rub in tight circles. “So goddamn perfect. You were made for me, sweetheart, you know that?”

Your cunt flutters around him and he knows you’re close, your thrusts against him growing erratic. He feels his own impending release, but he needs you to come first, needs to feel you shatter against him. His fingers press more firmly against your clit and with a breathy moan, your body tenses, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes into you.

“That’s it,” Logan groans, his own thrusts faltering as he feels you tighten around him, pulling him in deeper. “Look at you, comin’ so pretty for me.” He slows just enough to prolong your release, his thrusts deliberate as he draws out every ounces of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him.

It’s overwhelming—the sensation of you beneath him, around him; the cling of your fingers to his shoulders; the warm, damp breath against his neck; the absolute perfection of this moment right now. In all his years on this earth, he’s never experienced anything like this. The desire to completely consume someone, body and soul, and be consumed return. He wants his dying breath to be your name.

Something inside of Logan snaps, and as you try and catch your breath as you come down from your high, he presses your legs higher, folding you beneath him in a way that has his cock pressing deeper than before. The change has you whimpering and he looks down to find your expression as wrecked as he feels. He pauses his thrusts just long enough to grasp both your wrists and pin them above your head before he picks up his pace again, fucking into you with an almost ruthless intensity.

“I love you,” he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, his control quickly unraveling with every whimper and cry of his name. “God, I fucking love you.”

For a few moments, he doesn’t even realized what he’s said. Then he looks down at you, your gaze trained on his face and that soft, knowing smile of yours on your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, “I know. I’ve always known.”

Logan lets out a rough, shuddering breath, his entire body trembling with the weight of his confession. Any response he has dies in his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his entire body wound tight. He’s so fucking close, can feel his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, but it’s more than your warm heat drawing him in—it’s everything.

“Tell me,” he grits out, his hips chasing, chasing, chasing that release.

You lean up as much as you can with your hands still pinned above you and lick an open mouthed kiss against his lips. “I love you, Logan.”

And that’s all it takes. He groans into your mouth as he finally lets go, his body tensing as his release crashes into him. He spills himself deep inside you, shallowly thrusting into your cunt as his rhythm slows.

Logan releases your hands, and for a long moment, there’s only the sound of heavy breathing, of heartbeats slowing, the two of you tangled in the aftermath.

Logan’s restless and unable to sleep despite your smaller frame tucked alongside him, the weight of your head resting against his chest. From his periphery, he can see his phone illuminating with unread texts, no doubt from Caliban urging his return. Charles has been deteriorating faster than Logan cares to admit, his mind gone more often than not, raving about new mutants. He needs drugs faster than Logan can procure them.

His mind churns, the reality of the outside world looming closer and he contemplates slipping from your grasp when you shift, curling yourself further into him. You don’t speak, not yet, but he can tell you’re alert, floating somewhere in that space between sleep and full wakefulness. Your fingers start to move of their own accord, the gentle pressure of your fingertips tracing over an old scar along his ribs, mapping out an old battle he no longer remembers.

Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.

“Sounds important,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

He wants to keep ignoring it, stay wrapped in the quiet cocoon you’ve thrown around him, but Logan knows he can’t. It’s a cruel reminder of the chaos that plagues him beyond the sanctuary of your embrace.

“You can go to him, Logan,” you continue, fingers never stopping their slow path along his skin. “I know you’ll be back.”

“How,” he starts, licking his dry lips, “how do you always know?”

Logan’s asked versions of this question before. You’ve always brushed him off, given a coy answer and steered the conversation towards something else. For a moment, he thinks tonight will be the same.

But then you answer.

“I can feel you,” you answer softly, your breath warm and damp against his skin. “I just—” You pause and turn to look up at him and then disentangle yourself from his embrace. “Stand up,” you urge, nudging at his side until he complies.

He blinks at you in confusion, but you just smile at him, soft and sleepy, and gently cup the side of his face. “Now, close your eyes.”

Logan does as he’s told, chasing after your touch as you step back from him, settling somewhere beyond him on the bed. “I’m going to move and you tell me where I am.”

The soft rustle of bedsheets follows and then, stillness. You’re quiet, but he can sense you, just off to his right, but too far away to touch. “My right, but farther back in the room.”

You move again, keeping your movements light. Again, he pinpoints you, this time towards his left, closer, but still too far away to grasp. “Left.”

A final movement, this time even closer, your proximity flooding his senses, sending a rush of warmth down his spine. Logan reaches out, finding the curve of your hips, hands tucking underneath the shirt you had slipped on earlier in the night, splaying his palms against your back. He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, alive in the predawn glow.

“How did you know?” you ask, looping your arms around his neck.

Understanding dawns on him, the answer so simple, yet so profound. Pinpointing where you were had nothing to do with his heightened senses and everything to do with just you—the way you’ve molded yourself to him like a second skin. “I could feel you,” he answers. “I could—I just knew.”

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. Logan sighs into your mouth, his eyes fluttering close as you press your forehead to his. “It’s like that,” you whisper. “This undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, until…there you are.”

His phone continues to buzz, growing more insistent as the soft blues and grays of the morning bleed into more golden hues. With a reluctance you both feel, Logan peels himself away, finally answering the phone with an irritation he doesn’t bother hiding.

You watch him go, standing on the porch with the light casting a halo around your head. Your smile is gentle, but stained with worry and yet you remain stoic, the steady pillar holding up the fractured remains of his life.

As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and he’ll spend the next few months wishing he told you—he feels you too.

The last one hundred miles have dragged on for eons, the road before him stretching into an almost infinite distance. Logan finds himself darting his eyes towards the dashboard clock, growing increasingly frustrated when the numbers move only a few minutes at a time, the slow passage of time seeming to taunt him.

It’s been months since he saw you last, though no fault of his own. His memories are hazy—a swirling fog of confusion, pain and burning fever. He’s not even sure how he survived, whether it was modern medicine or sheer stubbornness. Or something more.

You believe in fate?

Your words echo in his mind, soft and sweet, and he feels a familiar pang of longing in his chest.

Fate or not, something kept a spark alive in him, pulsing through his veins with each sluggish beat as he slowly and painfully healed. His wounds are still pink and tender to the touch, more of his skin marred by death and destruction.

As he turns into your subdivision, the night quiet, a cold, creeping anxiety snakes along his spine. What if you’ve given up on him? Figured this last absence was the real deal, all his idle promises of staying away finally coming to fruition.

But as Logan drives down your street, he sees it—the single porch light illuminating in the night. Acting like the beacon it’s always been, leading him safely to land.

To you.

Logan pulls into the driveway and shifts the truck into park. Turning in his seat, he glances back towards the young girl curled up on the backseat. Laura’s face is relaxed in sleep, her hands tucked protectively under her chin. She fell asleep several hours ago, the soft rhythm of the tires against pavement lulling her to sleep.

Logan’s been many things in his life. Son, brother, fighter, friend. Lover. He never thought he’d add father to that list. While he can’t quite find it in him to call himself that just yet—even though Laura readily and easily calls him dad—he no longer denies the protectiveness he feels towards her.

Easing the door to the truck open, Logan steps out and gently shuts it behind him, loathe to disturb her just yet.

Here he is showing up at your door like he always has—late, quiet, and carrying a heavy weight he feels only he can shoulder. His hand is poised to knock, knuckles clenched, but he pauses, unsure if he even has the right to be here.

But then there you are, the front door opening to reveal your tired but relieved face, months of worry etched into your skin, your eyes already brimming with unshed tears.

“Logan,” you breathe, pulling him gently by the wrist and leading him inside. You don’t ask why he’s there. He suspects you already know.

The air inside the house is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting and laced with the faint, comforting smell of you. Logan inhales deeply, letting the scent settle somewhere in the parts of him that still feel alive, that thrum with the memory of your touch.

Your fingers still linger against his wrist and he can feel the heat radiating from your body, but you’re not close enough. And yet, he’s afraid to reach out, pull you into his arms. Afraid of the pity or obligation you’ll feel to comfort him, to allay all his fears.

As if reading his thoughts, you gently cup the side of his face, your nails scratching along his jaw. Logan flinches slightly, his body so used to pain these past months he’s almost forgotten the tenderness of your touch. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he closes his eyes, a ragged breath falling from his lips and his head dips forward.

“C’mere,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, but then he slides his arms along your back, pulling you against him. You feel real and solid and alive pressed this close. Never one for overt physical touch, Logan’s surprised by how much he missed this—the simple act of just holding you. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he inhales deeply, his breath warm and damp against your skin.

He doesn’t say anything, unsure where to even begin. The weight of his grief, his weariness, feels heavier than any burden he’s ever shouldered before and it’s almost desperate the way he clings to you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. If you were to let go, he’d fall apart.

Logan doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the hot trail of tears against his cheeks. You run your fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as you hold him.

“I couldn’t feel you, Logan,” you whisper into his neck. “Several days of just…nothing. I thought that—”

The words lodge themselves in your throat, but he knows what they are just the same.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your eyes glistening with tears that match the ones rolling down his weathered face. Your expression is marred with pain, raw and unfiltered, but also with a bright flicker of relief.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice rough with emotion. “I got dragged into some bad fuckin’ shit. I almost…we—”

You quiet him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips. “It’s okay, Logan,” you whisper. “Tell me about it later. I’m just happy you’re home.”

Home.

Logan gaze softens at your words, but guilt gnaws at him. He doesn’t deserve this—your unwavering faith in him, the patience you’ve shown him, the light you’ve been in his dark, endless nights. But here you are, giving him everything he’s never asked for but so desperately craved.

“C’mon,” you murmur, dragging him from his thoughts, “Let’s get you settled.”

It’s well past two in the morning by the time Logan finally carries Laura into the house, tucking her comfortably into the guest bedroom. Turning from the bed, he finds you there, leaning against the doorframe. You reach for him, in that soft, gentle way you always do, and lead him into your bedroom.

He doesn’t protest when you sit him down at the edge of the bed and begin undressing him. Kneeling before him, you unlace his boots and peel off his socks, setting them aside. With a slight press to his knees, you force his legs wider, slotting yourself between them.

Despite the late hour, the weariness and fatigue tugging at his bones, Logan feels his cock twitch as your fingers brush underneath the hem of his shirt.

It’s been so long since he’s felt you.

He dreamt of you, in those fevered moments where he didn’t know where one part of his body began or ended. When his entire existence had been boiled down to raw nerves and sluggishly knitting flesh. Through the haze of pain, he wondered if he’d ever feel your kiss again, feel the frantic press of your fingers into his shoulders, feel the warm, wet heat of your cunt stretching around him.

You toss the shirt aside and he can feel your gaze lingering over the new scars, the pink, raised lines of flesh that are still healing. With a reverence he’s not worthy of, you trace your fingertips along the three jagged scars from where X-24 had ripped into him.

“What happened to you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper as you move to trace more of his scars.

Logan tells you then about Pierce and the Reavers, about Laura and the other mutant children. His throat grows tight as he continues, relaying the loss of Caliban, Charles and the Munsons, and the final confrontation between himself and his clone.

He tells you how Laura saved him. How her and the other children brought him to safety over the Canadian border. How he spent the next months fighting with every fiber of his being to knit himself whole.

For you.

You lean into him as he looks away, jaw tightening as he tries to shove down the memories of everything he’s lost. Your touch is light against his face as you trace the angle of his jaw, and reach up to press the lightest of kisses against his lips.

Logan exhales into your mouth as you kiss him again, soft and tender and warm. You seem to breathe him in, imbue life into his weary flesh and reignite the spark he’s kept alive for you.

He wants to do more—to pull you into his arms, to taste you, to fuck into you until he can’t breathe. But exhaustion pulls heavily on his bones, threatening to sink him.

Logan knows you can feel his hesitancy because you keep kissing him softly, punctuating each press of your lips with whispered reassurance. Your fingers card through his hair as you lean back. “Just let me hold you?”

Your voice cracks at your request and Logan can only nod, unable to deny you. You help him shuffle out of his pants before coaxing him further into the bed. He moves slowly and he knows you don’t miss the creaking of his joints, the soft groan of discomfort.

Coming to rest on his side, you tuck into him, throwing a leg over his hips and pulling him close. He sighs into your touch, the weight of the last few months pressing just a little bit less as you press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“Don’t leave me,” you whisper into his skin, soft and damp.

Logan feels his heart clench at your words. He’s hurt you. He knows that. Not just inadvertently with his most recent disappearance, but all the other times, too. Those times when he ran, afraid of what your words and touch meant. Afraid to accept what you’ve always so freely given.

His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your back. “You kept the light on,” he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.”

Your lips quirk into a soft smile. “I always will, Logan.”

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aspenmissing · 2 days ago

Note

Hi there~ First off, just wanna say I absolutely love your writing — I have notifications set up so I can read everything you post! ❤️

Second, I’d love to submit a request for something a little specific. Please feel free to ignore it if you aren’t feeling it! Apologies for the incoming ramble as well. Just wanted to give a little context. 😅

I am, unfortunately, highly genetically predisposed to cancer — most of my family members have developed some type of it. My luck of the draw has been skin cancer, which is luckily something that’s highly treatable and mostly preventable. The good thing is that I’m a goth introvert who doesn’t mind avoiding the sun, so I haven’t gotten a positive diagnosis yet! (Little wins, lol.)

That being said, I’ve had to have several abnormal moles fully removed as preventative care. And while I’m grateful that doing so catches the issue before it fully develops and spreads, each surgery requires several stitches and leaves some fairly big and ugly scars. Most have been on my back, out of my sight. But this last removal was on my chest, and seeing it has definitely been a blow to my self confidence and body image. There’s a high likelihood that the next one will be on my face, too.

I was hoping I could maybe read something about Arcane characters reassuring a self-conscious reader over their medical scars? Something along the lines of telling them they’re still beautiful and loved? I would enjoy reading any characters you feel open to writing, but my favorites are Jayce, Viktor, and Silco.

If anything, thanks for reading my long message! You’re amazing at what you do. ❤️

ᴍᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ || 4135 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴏᴜꜱ, ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ, ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɪ'ᴍ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢ (ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʟꜱᴏ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ). ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴏɴ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ꜱᴀʏꜱ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴡɪꜱᴇ, ᴀʀᴇ ᴀꜱꜱʜᴏʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ <3 <3

JAYCE

The candlelight flickered softly in the dimly lit bedroom, casting golden hues over the walls as the sound of rain pattered gently against the windowpane. You sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing over the scars that lined your arms—silent reminders of surgeries, of painful recoveries, of the battle your body had waged against illness. The faint, raised lines told a story of resilience, but in moments like these, they only reminded you of what had been taken.

You hated how your mind spiraled in these moments, how the weight of insecurity wrapped around your chest like a vice. You had tried to push past it, to pretend that you didn't care. But some days were harder than others.

Jayce noticed, of course he did. He always did.

"Y/N?" His voice was gentle, laced with concern as he approached, kneeling in front of you. His large hands found yours, warm and grounding. "Talk to me."

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "It’s nothing," you murmured, eyes fixated on the floor.

Jayce wasn’t having it. He carefully loosened your fingers from their grip around your wrist, his gaze following the scars you tried to hide. He traced them lightly, his touch reverent rather than hesitant. There was no pity in his expression—only warmth, only love.

"You don’t have to pretend with me," he said softly. "I see you, Y/N. Every part of you. And I love you."

Your throat tightened at his words, emotions welling up before you could stop them. "They make me feel…less," you admitted in a whisper. "Like I’ll never be beautiful again. Like my body is ruined."

Jayce exhaled softly, shaking his head as his hands came to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing gently against your skin. "No, Y/N. You're not ‘less’ because of them. They don’t take anything away from you. If anything, they show how strong you are. How much you've been through. They’re a part of you, but they don’t define you. And they sure as hell don’t make you any less beautiful."

Your breath hitched as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss against each mark with slow, deliberate care. His lips whispered love into every line, every faded wound, as if willing away your pain with every gentle touch.

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. "I see someone who has fought battles I can only imagine. Someone who faced fear, pain, and uncertainty and still found the strength to keep going. That’s beauty, Y/N. That’s the kind of beauty that never fades."

Your chest ached at his words, the tightness loosening as warmth flooded in its place. "But what if I never feel that way about myself?" you asked, voice small.

Jayce smiled softly, resting his forehead against yours. "Then I'll remind you. Every single day, for as long as it takes."

A shaky breath escaped you, the weight in your chest easing as you let yourself lean into his touch. Jayce had always had a way of making you feel safe, seen—loved.

"You really mean that?" your voice wavered, and he chuckled softly, his grip on you tightening just slightly as if anchoring you to the truth in his words.

"With everything I have."

You closed your eyes, letting his warmth surround you, letting yourself believe him. Because with Jayce, love was never anything less than whole.

VIKTOR

The sun hung high over Piltover, casting shimmering waves of heat along the stone streets. The city bustled with life, citizens fanning themselves with delicate lace and folded paper as they sought respite from the sweltering day. Even in the Academy, where thick walls and towering shelves provided some relief, the air remained heavy.

Viktor leaned against his cane as he wiped the sweat from his brow, sighing before looking over at you. His sharp eyes lingered on the long sleeves covering your arms, fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin despite the oppressive warmth.

"You must be boiling in that," he remarked, voice light but laced with concern.

You forced a small smile, gripping your sleeve as if to hold it in place. "I'm fine. Just… comfortable like this."

Viktor frowned, his sharp mind already piecing things together. He had noticed it before—how you flinched when someone brushed against your arm, how you tugged at your sleeves when passing reflective surfaces. He knew all too well the silent battles fought in the mirror, the way old wounds whispered insecurities long after they had healed.

His gaze softened as he exhaled, shifting his weight to lean closer. His cane tapped against the floor with each slow step before he settled beside you. His fingers, calloused from hours of invention, brushed against your wrist—a silent request rather than a demand.

"May I?"

You hesitated. Even with him—even with Viktor, who bore his own scars, who knew pain as intimately as you did—the thought of revealing them made your stomach twist. But his touch was patient, steady, warm. Slowly, you let go of your sleeve.

The fabric slid down, exposing the scars beneath. Jagged, uneven lines stretched across your skin—some faded to a soft silver, others still pink, as if whispering the pain they once held. These were not simple scrapes or childhood accidents. No, they were the remnants of something deeper. Something medical.

Viktor's gaze traced over them, not in horror or pity, but in reverence.

"How did this happen?" His voice was quiet, careful, as though he feared pushing too hard.

You swallowed, the memory thick on your tongue. "I was sick. When I was younger. There were… surgeries. Treatments. Some of them worked, some of them didn’t. These—" You glanced down at your arms, tracing one of the scars yourself. "These are what’s left of it."

Viktor was silent for a moment, his golden eyes studying every inch of the marks you had spent years hiding. Then, without hesitation, he reached for your hand, threading his fingers with yours.

"You are not hiding something ugly," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. "These marks, they tell stories of what you have endured. They are part of you. And I love every part of you."

Your throat tightened. "But—"

"No," he interrupted gently, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering certainty. "I know what it is to feel like your body betrays you. To think others might see weakness where you feel strength. But you are not weak. You are…" His fingers curled over yours, holding you steady. "You are breathtaking."

You blinked, feeling the sting of unshed tears. "You really think that?"

Viktor exhaled a soft chuckle, his thumb running absentmindedly over your knuckles. "Of course I do. Do you think I would love you any less because of these?" He motioned toward your arm. "I have scars too, you know."

You looked at him then, really looked. At the way he carried himself, the way he leaned on his cane, the way his own body bore the marks of battles fought—not with swords, but with time and toil. You had always admired him for his mind, his relentless drive, but in this moment, you saw him as something more. Someone who understood.

"You don't have to cover yourself for my sake," he continued, squeezing your hand. "Not ever."

A warm breeze drifted through the open window, shifting the light against the room's walls. You swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat. Maybe, just maybe, you could start believing him.

And as Viktor leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to one of your scars, you felt, for the first time in a long while, something like peace.

JAYVIK

The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the room as you stood in front of the mirror, clad only in your underwear. Your fingers traced over the scars, following the paths left behind by each removed mole. Your back, your arms, your stomach—all bore evidence of battles fought before they could begin. Rationally, you knew they were victories, but each one felt like a reminder of something stolen from you. The thought of more, especially on your face, sent a shiver down your spine, an uneasy weight settling in your chest.

You let out a slow breath, willing yourself to see past the imperfections your mind magnified, but it was difficult. The scars were a testament to resilience, to survival, and yet, all you could feel was loss. The soft hum of the night filled the space around you, the quiet almost suffocating as you stood there, trapped in your own thoughts.

The quiet click of the door and the familiar creak of the floorboards pulled you from your thoughts. Viktor entered first, his gaze immediately finding yours in the reflection. He approached with careful steps, resting his cane against the dresser before standing behind you. Jayce followed moments later, his larger frame warm and solid as he moved to your side, his presence an immediate comfort.

Neither of them spoke at first. Instead, Viktor’s fingers brushed against yours, coaxing them away from your scars. His golden eyes, always sharp and filled with thought, softened as they roamed over you. Jayce’s hands found your shoulders, rubbing gentle circles before one slid down to rest over your heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his palm.

“You’re doing it again,” Viktor murmured, his voice thick with warmth. “Worrying about things that do not lessen you in the slightest.” His breath was gentle against your neck, the weight of his words sinking into your skin.

Jayce hummed in agreement, his lips pressing to your temple. “He’s right, you know. You’re still the same incredible woman we love.” His voice carried certainty, a deep warmth that settled into your bones.

Your throat tightened. “I just… I don’t feel like myself,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I look at them, all I see is—”

Viktor silenced you with a kiss to your shoulder, his lips gentle against the scarred skin, his hands coming to rest on your arms, grounding you. “Strength,” he interrupted, firm but kind. “Proof that you are fighting, that you are winning.” His hands ran down your arms in slow, reverent strokes, a silent reminder that every mark was something he cherished.

Jayce followed his lead, dipping his head to press a kiss over a mark on your collarbone, lingering there as if to soak in every part of you. “Do you think so little of us that we would see anything less?” His voice was almost teasing, but the seriousness in his gaze as he pulled back told you just how much he meant it.

Your breath hitched as their hands and lips continued to trace the places you had been so self-conscious about. Viktor kissed the curve of your spine, the scars dotting your back like constellations only they could read, a map of survival painted across your skin.

Jayce knelt, pressing reverent kisses along your thigh, your knee, your calf, his hands stroking up and down your legs in slow, soothing patterns. Their touch wasn’t just reassurance—it was worship, devotion, an unspoken promise that they would always love you, no matter what.

Viktor’s voice was a whisper against your skin, a warmth that seeped into you. “Your scars are not imperfections, můj drahý. They are simply another part of you—one we cherish as much as the rest.” (My Dear)

Jayce stood again, his strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest as Viktor followed suit until you were enveloped in them, in their warmth, their certainty, their unwavering love. You felt the steady beat of their hearts against you, solid and real.

“We love you,” Jayce murmured into your hair, his lips brushing against your forehead. “All of you.”

And, for the first time since seeing your reflection, you believed them.

And maybe, just maybe, you could begin to love yourself the way they did.

VANDER

The warm, amber glow of the Last Drop cast soft shadows across the wooden walls, the scent of ale and faint smoke lingering in the air. It was a slow evening, and Vander relished the rare moment of quiet. He leaned against the counter, polishing a glass absently, his sharp blue eyes flicking over to where you sat by the fireplace, lost in thought.

Your fingers ghosted over the scar tracing down your cheek, a mark left behind from one of your many mole removals—an act of precaution, but still a reminder of battles fought against your own body. You weren’t new to scars. The ones beneath your clothes, hidden from view, told their own stories. But this one, out in the open for all to see, felt different. It made you different.

Your thoughts were pulled away when a small voice piped up.

“Why does your face have that line?” Powder, ever curious, tilted her head, her large, expressive eyes locked onto you. She had no malice in her question, only genuine wonder. Still, your stomach tightened as you lowered your hand from your face.

“Powder,” Vander warned gently, setting the glass down, but you shook your head. You knew the child meant no harm.

“It’s... a scar,” you answered softly, forcing a small smile. “Something that had to be done to keep me safe.”

“Oh.” Powder considered this for a moment, then her little face scrunched up in thought. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

Vi, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her sister, eyed you with a look far too knowing for someone her age. “Does it bother you?”

You hesitated, caught between wanting to reassure the girls and the raw honesty of your own insecurities. “Sometimes,” you admitted, looking away. “People stare.”

A warm, heavy hand settled over yours, grounding you. You hadn’t even noticed Vander moving, but there he was, standing beside you with that steady, reassuring presence that always made you feel safe.

“Let ‘em stare,” he rumbled, his voice firm but gentle. “What do they know? You’ve got more strength in you than they could dream of.”

Your throat tightened at his words, but you let him continue.

He knelt slightly to catch your gaze, his hand lifting to brush his knuckles tenderly along the length of your scar. “You think this changes how I see you? How much I love you?” His voice dropped to something meant only for you. “Nothing could.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears. He always had a way of saying exactly what you needed to hear, as if he could read your heart without you speaking a word.

Powder grinned suddenly, hopping up onto the chair beside you. “I think it makes you look cool! Like you fought a beast and won.”

Vi nodded in agreement. “Yeah, like a warrior.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, the tightness in your chest easing. You glanced up at Vander, who was already watching you with a soft smile, his thumb now idly tracing circles on the back of your hand.

“See?” he murmured. “Even the kids know what I do.”

You sighed, leaning slightly into his warmth. Maybe he was right. Maybe, just maybe, there was nothing about you that needed to be hidden.

Vander pressed a lingering kiss to your temple before pulling you into his arms, wrapping you in an embrace that made the world outside seem small and insignificant. His arms around you were solid, unyielding, a fortress you could always retreat into. You let yourself relax against him, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, smoke, and the faintest hint of ale.

“I don’t get why people would stare,” Powder mused, tilting her head again. “It’s just a part of you. Like how I’ve got freckles.”

Vi smirked. “Or how Vander’s got that big ol’ beard.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. “That so? My beard’s just a part of me, huh?”

The girls giggled, and you couldn’t help but join in, the sound light and unburdened. The fire crackled, casting a comforting warmth over the room, and for the first time in a long while, you felt at ease.

Vander squeezed your hand again, a silent promise that no matter what, you would always have a place here. With him. With them.

Because in their eyes—in Vander’s eyes—you were already enough.

SILCO

The dim lantern light flickered against the water-stained walls of his office. The scent of cigar smoke and whiskey clung to the air, mingling with the sharper tang of chemicals from the Shimmer vials stacked along the desk. Silco sat in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, mismatched eyes tracing over you as you stood near the edge of the room—hesitant, withdrawn, guarded.

He noticed, of course. Silco always noticed.

His sharp gaze flickered to the pile of your discarded clothing, then back to you, wrapped in one of his silk sheets, clinging to the fabric like armor. You should have been glowing in the dim light, reveling in the aftermath of passion, but instead… there was a weight in your eyes. A flicker of something you tried to hide.

"You’re thinking too much." His voice was smooth, laced with authority.

You swallowed, gripping the sheet tighter, the fabric bunched between your fingers. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin the moment. But still, you couldn't shake the creeping insecurity wrapping around your mind.

His gaze narrowed. "Come here."

You hesitated. Silco was not a man you disobeyed, but…

"Now, darling" he coaxed, his voice lower, dangerous—yet still patient.

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, the sheet slipping lower with each movement, baring more of your skin—and the scars that littered it. Marks of past removals, of flesh cut away in the name of preservation. You’d long since stopped counting them, but they were there, a roadmap of battles fought against something lurking beneath your skin.

You watched as Silco’s expression darkened—not with disgust, but with something deeper. Something possessive.

The scarred side of his face twitched as he exhaled, long fingers reaching for your wrist, tugging you forward until you stood between his legs, so close you could smell the whiskey on his breath.

"Let me see," he murmured, gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin, over every line, every imperfection. Devouring. Reverent.

You flinched, moving to pull away, but his grip tightened—not painful, just firm.

"Don’t hide from me," he commanded, his voice almost a whisper. "I want to see all of you."

Your lips parted, your breath uneven. "They’re—"

"Beautiful," Silco interrupted, his other hand moving to trace the scar that ran across your collarbone, fingertips feather-light. "Like maps carved into flesh. Like proof that you still stand despite what tried to consume you."

Your throat tightened, emotion welling up. "You don’t have to say that."

Silco scoffed, lips twitching in amusement. "You think me a liar, darling?"

His hand slid lower, ghosting over your ribs, then your waist, fingers tracing each mark with the kind of reverence usually reserved for worship.

"You speak as if I don’t understand," he murmured, tilting his head, his own scar catching the lantern light. "As if I don’t know what it is to be reshaped by pain."

Your breath hitched when he leaned forward, lips brushing against the line of a particularly deep scar along your stomach. Heat pooled low in your belly, your skin prickling under his attention.

"Yet here you are," he continued, voice dropping, turning molten. "Still mine. Still exquisite."

A shiver rolled through you, his touch no longer gentle but possessive, demanding. Fingers sliding over bare skin, tracing the dips of your hips, the curve of your thighs.

"You think this makes you less desirable?" he rasped, eyes flicking up, dark and hungry. "Then let me remind you—properly."

His fingers hooked into the silk, pulling it away, leaving you bare before him. You gasped, but before you could protest, his lips pressed to your scars, his tongue following, slow and deliberate.

Silco had never seen flaws. Only devotion to be carved into flesh.

And he would spend all night proving it.

MEL

Golden candlelight flickered across the opulent room, painting warmth across silk sheets and marble floors. Mel lay beside you, her golden skin glowing beneath the soft light, her dark eyes tracing over you with a gaze so intense it felt like a caress. You couldn’t meet it.

You had turned away, arms curled around yourself, fingers ghosting over the ridges of scars that marred your skin. Old reminders—each one a moment of caution, of necessity. But reminders, too, that you were not like her.

Mel Medarda was exquisite. A painting given breath, carved from gold and power. There was not a single imperfection on her. And you—

"You are quiet tonight," she murmured, reaching out. Her fingertips brushed your shoulder, featherlight, before trailing down your back. Her touch followed the path of your scars, tracing them with the kind of reverence you couldn't understand.

You shivered but said nothing.

"You think I do not see you, don’t you?" Mel's voice was soft, carrying the weight of understanding.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. "It’s not that. It’s just..." You exhaled. "When I look at you, I see someone so perfect, so untouchable. And then I look at myself, and all I see are—" You hesitated, unable to say the word aloud.

Mel didn’t let you. Instead, she shifted, pressing closer until her warmth enveloped you. "Strength," she whispered against your shoulder. "I see strength. I see resilience. I see a body that has carried you through more than anyone should ever have to endure. And that is beautiful."

Your breath hitched as she tilted your chin up, finally making you meet her gaze. Her expression was tender, but there was steel in her eyes—fierce and unwavering.

"Do you know what true beauty is, my love?" She traced the curve of your jaw, her thumb brushing over your cheek with aching gentleness. "It is not flawlessness. It is not perfection. It is the way someone endures and still dares to love, to be loved. And you, my darling, are beautiful beyond measure."

You felt your throat tighten, something inside you cracking open at her words.

Mel smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering as if she could pour all her devotion into you. "You do not need to compare yourself to me, because I have already decided—there is no one else in this world who could be more perfect for me than you."

A shaky breath left your lips, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe her.

Mel moved then, slipping from the bed with the grace of royalty. You watched as she walked towards her ornate vanity, reaching for something small and delicate. When she returned, her hands held a tiny jar of gold pigment, its surface shimmering beneath the candlelight.

"What is that?" you asked, puzzled as she settled beside you again.

"A tradition," she murmured, dipping two fingers into the rich, golden paint. "In my home, we do not discard things that are broken. We mend them with gold. We honour the cracks, because they tell a story of resilience."

Slowly, carefully, she touched your skin. The cool paint met the warmth of your scars, her fingers tracing each one with deliberate reverence. She painted along the ridges, following the paths they carved across your body like rivers of history.

She worked in silence, her expression focused, yet soft with affection. The gold shimmered as it dried, a gilded map of the battles you had fought and survived.

When she was done, she leaned back, admiring her work with a quiet satisfaction. "Now," she whispered, cupping your cheek, "you are even more radiant than before."

You looked down at yourself, at the way the gold caught the light, transforming each scar into something beautiful, something cherished. The weight of self-consciousness did not vanish entirely—but it shifted, just enough.

"You always do this," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

Mel arched an elegant brow. "Do what?"

"Turn the things I hate into something precious."

Her lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. "That’s because they already are."

You exhaled a soft laugh, letting your forehead rest against hers. And when Mel kissed you next, slow and deep, you let yourself be loved. Scars and all.

And this time, you let yourself believe you were worthy of it.

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ikbitchssss · 3 days ago

Text

I Just Want Your Heart (Daryl x Half-Walker!Reader)

Warnings/Tags: Major Character Death, Angst, Cussing, Blood, Violence, and Normal TWD stuff. If anymore, please tell me and I'll add it!

Season: In the 30 days between season 3 and 4.

Words: 3K

Plot: Daryl finds a walker, but she can talk. She’s always chewing on gum, and her body is a bit rotten. It’s like she was half dead. He goes ok to help her and take care of her, not knowing why. Until one day, he does something he might regret.

A/N: Hope y'all enjoy;3

(OG BLOG: @idkbishsss)

Daryl Dixon was a man who did not fall in love with anyone. He was a rough around the edges, redneck, quiet, distant, guy. He did not fall in love. He loved only one person, his brother. Lost together somewhere in an apocalypse world and treated him like shit most of the time sure, but he did love him. As much as he wouldn’t admit it because Merle would just scoff and roll his eyes.

Daryl Dixon was not a man of groups. He was a part of one, only because he had to. Merle said it was because they needed him, but Daryl had a feeling that it was because Merle needed them. Daryl didn’t do groups, but he understands the importance of them. As long as they left him only he was okay.

Daryl Dixon was not a family man. He never wanted a family. His only brother was now dead. He didn’t need a family. Sure, he had a small care for the kids in the group, and didn’t want them to die. He would protect them, but it wasn’t his family.

Daryl Dixon was a lair. He was a family man, these people at the prison were his family. It was his group. He lied about it himself and others about those things for sure, but he never lied about not falling in love. Sure he’d love, in like, a family way. He’d never fall in love though, he’d never allow himself to.

Rick had ordered Daryl to go out and get more fuel for the cars. They were low and needed more for runs.

Daryl got in a trunk and rode up to a few big ass rich people houses he’d seen a few weeks ago. They had a lot of cars and trucks in the neighborhood, meaning a lotta fuel if no one raided it already. In fact, a few houses were having parties, so there were more than usual for bug neighborhoods.

He pulled up to the first house and went to go get the fuel out of the cars and trucks. Using the classic suck on a hose until you feel like passing out method, he got nothing. Hence the sucking too long. He decided he’d check the houses later if he had time and moved on to the next set of cars and trucks. These ones look promising, and were very promising. Fuel came pouring out like the rain, he filled two gallons worth of gas from four cars and one truck.

He put those gallons back in the back seat, and went to the truck bed to grab more fuel cans. However, something stopped him, a loud screaming noise. He grabbed his crossbow and looked around for the source. He heard giggling and saw the house it was coming from.

He slowly approached the home with extreme caution. He turned around the halls that lead him to a bedroom. He could hear the smacking of gum coming from the room. A girl was sitting there on the bed. A girl was graying skin, dead walker eyes, and a few broken limbs. You.

You casually popped the bones back into place. You looked over to him and smiled, he drew his crossbow up and pointed it to you.

“Woah! I’m not gonna bite you, I am not like the other ones.” You made a joke out of it while putting your hands up. He was confused, what the hell is happening? Why is a Walker, a dead woman, talking? And why isn’t he shooting it’s head off?

You got up and walked over to him, still with your hands up. Your smile faded and you looked a little nervous. “Look I was freaked out and confused when I woke up and was… somewhat alive. But I don’t hurt people, and it still hurts when you hurt me… so please just let me go…” You begged for your life as if you were human. Daryl didn’t understand, you aren’t human, you barely look human. Well, you didn’t look like a walker, you still had flesh, but still, you looked dead. It freaked him out.

You knew he was freaked out, it was all over his face after you said those words. But honestly? Daryl was more than just freaked out, a small part of him was intrigued. Which wasn’t like him. He wasn’t an intrigued guy, but he wanted to know you, know what happened to you.

“Why’d ya scream?” He asked gruffly. You didn’t expect his voice to be that deep, he must smoke something.

You wave it off and shrug. “Walker grabbed my leg, forgot they don’t bite me anymore.” He was even more intrigued by this, you were immune? Or just half turned. He knew the group would shoot you as soon as you got close because of what you looked like. He’s had personal experience in that at the fram, but he wanted to know you.

“Look… I’ll show you the best water and food and well anything you need! In this area and neighborhood… just let me live… please.” As you begged him again he put his crossbow down. He told himself not to, to put it back up, kill you, threaten you. But he didn’t. He just nodded and let you lead the way to show him things.

You were a talker, and walkers didn’t even look at you when you were being so loud. Daryl found it strangely interesting. He’d never been interested in anyone really, let alone a woman. Yet, there was something about you that made him wonder and think more than he ever let himself before.

You were showing him a map of the area and places that hadn’t been raided already. “Now there’s a horde here, but when you go just tell me about a week before and I can steer them clear from your path!”

He looked up at you, an expression on his face that could only be described as a little confused. “Now why would ya’ help us..?” He asked, quietly, you guessed he wasn’t much of a talker.

“Meh! If we are neighbors I have to help you right?” You said it like it was obvious. Like people just help one another in these conditions. “It’s what good neighbors do!” You exclaimed, Daryl just nodded. It wasn’t the old world normal people knew any more, but you act like it. Then again, Daryl didn’t know much of normal, so who was he to judge? Besides, the help would be nice.

You altered your smile, your big grin going away into a slight smile. For a dead girl, you seemed happier than most people. Maybe that was the secret, being dead. But Daryl had people, he wasn’t going to leave them. They needed him just as much as he needed them.

After it was all said and done Daryl went back to getting fuel. You stayed around just kind of watching him. It made him nervous, and he felt a strange new feeling he hadn’t felt before. He wished he could place it, but after years of controlling his emotions, they were all over the place. He didn’t know how to pen point the feeling he felt.

After he was all done with one car, he’d move onto the next one. You’d follow him, just standing around, watching. It almost creeped him out at some points, almost. He wasn’t used to people watching him so closely. Maybe this is how people felt about him. But earlier you were so talkative, and now you just watched, quietly.

He put the last two gallons of fuel in the truck and turned around after closing the door. He jumped a little when he saw you behind him. It wasn’t noticeable to you, just him. You just smiled and put a new piece of gum in your mouth.

“I have to… leave.” He mumbled walking over to the truck door. He glanced back at you, seeing that you were no longer smiling. You stood back, looking back at your house.

“I’ll be back…” He said. He thought he was stupid for saying it, but when he looked up and saw your smile, those thoughts faded into nothing. He pulled out of there immediately, why does he feel this way? Questions plagued his mind as he drove back to the prison.

He pulled back into the prison and didn’t say a word to anyone, not even to Rick, who’d asked him many questions about the area. He just helped unload his truck and stayed quiet with the small nod a few times. As the sun started to go down over the hills and people started to go inside, Daryl soon followed them. He then walked back into his cell and pulled the thin sheet as a door over the opening.

Daryl put his crossbow down with his stuff. He took his shoes off and threw them next to his boots. Beth found him “nice” sneakers to wear. He only wore them because it made her happy. He took off his vets and threw it on the top bunk

He laid down on the bottom bunk. He was on his back trying to sleep, but he just kept thinking about you. He knew it was a bad idea to think about you this much, but he couldn’t control himself anymore like he used to. You were talkative and almost happy, even though you were dead.

He has so many questions. Why’d you look freshly dead? Why’d you chew gum? If you bite him, will he turn? Can he even get these answered? Probably not, he’d probably not even go back. A broken promise he gave you based on impulse.

He wasn’t like this. He didn’t let himself be like this, he wasn’t weak. Yet, he was thinking about you. He just wanted to see you, but he won’t let himself. He’s not going to let himself. But then again, what if you didn’t like him?

He switched onto his side and buried the side of his head into his pillow. He groaned, he wasn’t going to sleep with his thoughts racing like this. Why was he so obsessed with you? You weren’t anything other than another traveler he met, a very interesting undead traveler he met. He needed to let it go.

If he just doesn’t go near the houses, he’d be fine!

Unfortunately, Rick wanted to go to the houses to raid them. They needed more food and supplies. He was planning everything out for a few days. He told Daryl to lead the car and truck on his motorcycle.

He led them there but was far ahead. You were out killing walkers and humming. You turned and saw Daryl, you dropped your knife and ran up to his bike. “Hey! You’re back!” You said joyfully. Daryl looked worried.

“My group, they’re gonna be here soon. Ya gotta hide…” he said. You looked confused, as if you didn’t understand that his group could hurt you. He turned over to the car and truck coming in and shoved you in the pile. He killed a walker and put it on top of you.

You started to breathe heavily. You started to get scared. It reminded you of your death, but Daryl put you here. And you trusted him. He’s the only thing or person that hasn’t tried to kill you.

Daryl said he’d raid your home, as he did half of it already. The rest of the group went into other houses. He waited till they were out of sight and he picked you up from the ground and walked into the house.

“I said hide, girl.” He shoved you on the couch. And sighed. He picked up a few things and shoved them into his bag. One of two lighters, a water bottle, a few canned foods, and a knife. He then sat down next to you. “Won’t take it all from here...” he mumbles looking anywhere but at you.

You just grabbed some gum and chewed on it. Not paying much mind to him.

“So. Your group. How come I can’t meet them?” You asked like it was urgent, like somehow you needed to meet them right now.

He mumbled a little to himself before answering, “I don’t know how they’ll react to ya,” he paused and looked at your eyes, yellow and bloodshot, “hell I still don’t really know what to think…” He said with a grunt. You giggled, giggled at him.

He looked confused by it. “I’m a walker, who would know what to think?” You explained. He smiled a little and nodded his head. He guessed he understood that, who would react well?

You got up and walked up stairs, you came back down with a bag. “Here. My old bag of supplies before I turned, enjoy your raid of my neighborhood stranger.” She smiled and he noticed that you weren’t chewing gum anymore, why?

He looked down and opened the bag, it was full of food and maps. It had a few knives too. He looked up thank you but you were gone, just like that. He missed his chance to talk to you. He just sat there, what was he meant to do? Go look for you? He had a job, raid this place.

He got up and looked through the house a little more, he found some things others could use. He guessed you didn’t use soap or cleaning things, you were dead. He had your bag and another full one of needs and others of wants. Beth and Carl requested things since they are still too young for runs.

He walked back outside and put the stuff in the truck. Rick and Michonne got done with theirs and walked over, same with Maggie and Glenn. A few new guys as well, but Daryl didn’t care to know their names. He should really learn your name.

Also, you weren’t as talkative as last time… why?

The next time Daryl went on a hunt he stopped by that neighborhood, you were nowhere to be found. You just disappeared into thin air. At a blink of an eye you were gone when he saw you last and you never showed up again. What happened? Did you not like him? Lots of why’s with you.

He looked up and down the neighborhood, but it was no use. He didn’t want to give up. You were so; no. He needed to stop, he couldn’t let himself get this close to you. It almost felt like… love.

What if you were dead?

That thought hit him when he sat on his bike. Dead. No? You? But it was completely reasonable. You were half walker, you almost blended right in. You could’ve easily been killed by someone. What if it was someone in his group? What if his family killed you?

No. They aren’t his family and you are nothing to him. You talk together only a few times, yet it felt like he knew you longer.

He got on his bike and headed back on the open road. He was going to the prison again, he got a few rabbits that would be fine for now.

The breeze was cold, a nice contrast to the hot sun that beat his pale skin to a tan. He always loved taking these bike rides. They were peaceful, especially when he was stressing about stupid things. No more of that, but there was something he the road

He pressed the brakes, hard. You stood in the middle of the road, scared. He got off his bike and ran to you. The whole, not stressing about things always lasts him two seconds.!“Are you okay?” He said, you hugged him.

“Hey stranger..” You just sobbed into his neck. His beautiful, fleshy, biteable neck. You pushed him away. He was confused, why? Did you really not like him? Is what he feared right?

“I’m going to bite you… I want to bite you… I keep wanting to bite people… I’m freaking out! Gum doesn’t help anymore!”

Daryl grabbed your hand. “Then let’s find some asshole to cure that hunger.” You looked at him like he was crazy. Hell, he knew the plan was crazy, but losing you was crazier. He couldn’t lose you, he loved you. Goddamn it, he fell fast and hard, but he loved you. He really did.

You pulled your hand away from his. He wanted to run and hug you, make you stop running from this, he can handle a bite. “It doesn't work like that! I just got hungrier..” You mumble, you tried it already. It didn’t work. He grabbed your hand.

“I’ll find a way. I need you…” he mumbled that last part but it made your heart break. It happened in three swift moves. He kissed you, you bite his lip, you pull back. It was all so fast that you nor Daryl had time to realize what happened. What you both did. A kiss and a bite.

“Stranger-“

“Daryl.”

“Daryl… I, you’ll turn…” You mumble, you’d be crying if your tear ducts worked. Goddamn it, he had a family, you were going to kill him. He nodded and laid his head on yours. “And I’ll be yours…” he mumbles. He knows he’ll miss his family, it’s why he sheds a tear, but he wants to be with you. Maybe you’ll both be half dead. Maybe you’ll find a way to live. Maybe his family will accept you guys.

Daryl Dixon was a man of love. Fast, messy, sweet, heartbreaking love. He’d give the world, he’d give himself, for the one he loved. Over and over and over again. He was a lover, because he allowed himself to fall in love. He was all the things he thought he wasn’t, because he was a liar. But he would no longer be a liar, because he knew he was these things. He was just Daryl Dixon. A very half-dead and in love Daryl Dixon.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #idkbish writes #the walking dead #fanfiction #fanfic #twd #norman reedus #writing #daryl x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl twd #daryl dixon imagine #twd daryl #twd daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic

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prettyangellllll · 6 hours ago

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Self control

Summary: rafe is bored and he wants to test eachoters self control by cockwarming you to see who can go longest without moving

Warnings: NSFW, cockwarming, sexual tension, teasing, dominance/submission themes, power play, heavy temptation, loss of control, season two Rafe energy, mutual torment.

----

The weekend had started off exciting, but by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, boredom settled in like an unwanted guest. You and Rafe had spent the past few days holed up in his house, doing a whole lot of nothing—lounging, eating, watching random TV shows that neither of you really cared about. The rain outside made sure you were stuck inside with no distractions, no plans.

You were sprawled across the couch, scrolling through your phone, while Rafe lay beside you, lazily running a hand up and down your thigh. His touch was absentminded at first, but then it turned deliberate. Slow, teasing strokes that made you glance at him, catching the way his blue eyes darkened with something dangerous.

"Got an idea," he murmured, his fingers dipping under the hem of your shorts.

You raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He smirked. "Mhm. Something to make things… interesting."

You could already tell by the way he was looking at you that whatever he was thinking had nothing to do with movies or playing cards. Rafe never handled boredom well. When he wanted something, he went after it with a single-minded determination, and right now, you had a feeling that you were his next source of entertainment.

When he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his voice dropped to a low rasp. "How much self-control do you think you have?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

His hand on your thigh tightened. "I mean…" He kissed just below your ear, dragging his lips along your jaw before pulling back to look you in the eye. "Think you can handle sitting on my cock without moving?"

The bluntness of it sent a jolt of heat straight through you, making you tense.

"Rafe," you muttered, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to say anything else.

He grinned, knowing damn well he already had you. "What? Scared you'll lose?"

That did it. You never liked backing down from a challenge, and Rafe knew it. Which was exactly why he said it.

"Fine," you said before you could second-guess yourself.

And that was how you ended up here—straddling him on the bed, completely bare, his cock buried deep inside you. The stretch was almost too much, your body clenched tight around him, but neither of you had moved.

You were supposed to be winning this, supposed to be showing him that you had all the restraint in the world. But the way he was looking at you—eyes dark, jaw clenched, his hands gripping your hips just to keep himself from fucking up into you—made it so hard to focus on anything but how badly you wanted to move.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

You swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat roll down your spine.

Rafe smirked. "Starting to squirm, baby."

You narrowed your eyes, forcing yourself still. "Not even close."

"Liar." His hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate, making goosebumps rise on your skin. He traced your waist, up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing just under your breasts. "I can feel how bad you want it."

You sucked in a breath, digging your nails into his shoulders.

His voice dropped lower. "Be honest. How bad do you wanna move right now?"

"Not at all," you lied, even though your body was screaming otherwise.

Rafe chuckled darkly. His grip on your hips tightened before he shifted the slightest bit underneath you, just enough for you to feel it.

Your breath hitched.

"Oops," he said, all fake innocence.

You clenched around him instinctively, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, his fingers twitching against your skin.

The tension between you crackled like fire.

It was only a matter of time before one of you gave in.

Every passing second made it harder to breathe. Harder to think.

The ache between your legs was unbearable. Rafe filled you up completely, stretching you in a way that left you dizzy, and the worst part was that you couldn't do anything about it.

Your thighs burned from holding still. Your hands clenched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin just to ground yourself. But the worst part? You could feel him. Every twitch, every subtle pulse of his cock inside you, making the heat between you even more unbearable.

Rafe wasn’t doing much better. His jaw was locked, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was moments away from snapping.

Still, you refused to give in first.

But God, it was so hard.

Your body was betraying you, your hips twitching the slightest bit no matter how hard you tried to stay still. The more you resisted, the more desperate you became. You could feel yourself soaking him, your arousal pooling between you, making it impossible to ignore just how much you needed him to move.

A whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

Rafe let out a low groan, his hands tightening on your waist. "Fuck," he muttered, head falling back against the pillows.

You clenched around him at the sound, another soft, helpless noise escaping your throat.

His grip on you turned bruising. "You're making this real fuckin’ hard, baby," he rasped. His voice was deeper now, rough with restraint. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling beneath you. "You're so wet—fuck."

You could barely form a sentence. "Rafe—"

Another needy sound tore from you as he twitched inside you again.

His hands flexed, and then his control snapped.

With a growl, he grabbed your hips and thrust up into you.

The sudden movement made you gasp, a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine as your hands flew to his chest.

"Fuck, baby—"

He didn’t stop. His fingers dug into your skin as he fucked up into you, the slow, torturous game you’d been playing thrown out the window. He was done holding back.

"You wanted to play, huh?" His voice was breathless, low, dangerous. "Now you wanna get all fuckin’ whiny, like you're not the one who started this?"

Your head was spinning. All you could do was feel—feel the way he filled you, the way he hit deep, every movement sending sparks through your body.

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your gaze down to meet his. His eyes were dark, wild, hungry. "Look at me when you come," he ordered, thrusting up into you harder. "I want you to watch who won this fuckin’ game."

And just like that, you shattered.

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cloudtransprncy · 3 days ago

Text

"Get You" Teaser

Male Reader x Yves Coming Soon tags: dom fem, noona kink, older woman, hot as fuck filthy yves

You drink her in—like she’s the only thing that matters, like you’ll never get enough.

The way she perches over you, thighs spread wide, back arched, moving with slow, devastating precision. The curve of her waist shifting with every roll of her hips, her hands sliding over your chest, tracing the ink before pressing down, claiming you. Her thigh-high socks cling to her legs, framing the way her muscles flex with each deliberate movement. Her spiked messy bun barely shifts, stray strands clinging to the sweat at her temples. And then—her nails dragging down, sharp and teasing, before she rips one hand away from your arm. She doesn’t have to tell you to keep it there. You just do.

Yves traces your jawline first, fingers grazing your throat, then down, lower, slow enough to drive you insane. She knows exactly what she’s doing. How easy it is to wreck you. How you’re already fucking gone for her.

Her nails scrape over your chest, just enough to make you shudder, just enough to remind you who’s in control.

"Oh, I can feel how much you need it," she teases, pressing her hips down a little harder. "You gonna be good and let Noona take what she wants?"

Outside, the rain patters against the high-rise window, the scent of burnt-out incense and her skin thick in the air, wrapping around you like she does—like she always does.

You love this. Love her. Love the way she ruins you so effortlessly, love how she looks down at you like you’re hers to break apart and put back together. And you can tell she loves it too—the way her breath hitches just slightly when she sinks down, the way her nails dig in just a little deeper, how she licks her lips like she’s savoring the sight of you unraveling beneath her.

She relishes how you look up at her, how wide your eyes are, how your mouth parts like you want to say something but don’t trust yourself to speak. Loves how your fingers twitch at your sides, how she can see you aching to grab her hips, to pull her down faster—but you don’t.

Because you know better. You know she sets the pace.

"Such a good boy for me," she purrs, nails scraping your chest again. "Stretching me so good—fuck, baby, you feel so perfect like this."

She pushes damp strands of hair away from your face, fingers stroking along your temple, slowly, softer now, like she’s letting herself savor you. And then, just as easily, she leans down, kissing you slow, deep.

It always catches you off guard.

Not because she doesn’t love you—you know she does. But Yves never gives more than she means to. Never lets things spill over. So when she kisses you like this—lingering, unhurried, like she wants to keep you there just a little longer—you don’t just feel it. You believe it.

#cloudtrnsprncy #cloudtsmut #teaser

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rafessweetgirl · 1 day ago

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better than the movies / rafe cameron

a/n: if ur seein this its my first fic on here <3 hope its good, i actually don't hate it. it's long for my first tho.

word count / 1.3k

to you, love was just something people found in the movies. it was fiction. you had given up on finding love a long time ago.

but here you were. looking at him and feeling so much love. rafe cameron. you smiled to yourself. how did you get here? how did you even know that you loved him? that you were in love with him? you just knew.

if someone had told you that you'd be here in bed, spending your early morning with rafe, you wouldn't have laughed. no, you would've looked at them like they were deranged. "are you fucking crazy?" you'd say. "never in a million years."

you hated each other. rafe was the biggest asshole ever and you were the only girl who wouldn't put up with his shit. in your eyes he was some spoiled brat who turned to drugs when things didn't go his way. you hated how everyone glorified rafe and ignored who he really was. and you were like a punching bag to him. you frustrated him immensely. he hit and hit and hit you over and over again. only you hit back. he was so used to running over people with no regard to their feelings. he had to admit, he enjoyed the fight a bit.

the first time you had seen rafe differently was at topper's party, last spring. it was hot and muggy outside. it had stopped raining a couple hours earlier, before the party started. you were out back, sitting on the edge of the pool with your best friend niya. there were people everywhere and you were starting to sweat. "i need out or im gonna die," you told niya. you got up and walked toward the house.

she shouted after you. "please don’t take your sweet time!"

you rolled your eyes and smiled.

i need to find a bathroom. i can get away from everybody in there.

you kept walking throughout the house knocking on and opening doors until you found one. finally, shit. when you opened the door all the way, you were met with an unfortunately familiar face.

"what the fuck?" he looked at you with disbelief.

"rafe?" you're kidding.

you were pissed now. you were hot and sweaty and just when you thought you had a chance to breathe you run into him.

"get out."

"gladly," you were about to turn around when you noticed something. his nose was red, his eyes watery. almost as if he’d been crying. "wait, were you crying?”

"get the fuck out, now."

"no, not until you answer my question."

he rolled his bloodshot eyes. "no, i wasn't crying."

"it's okay to have feelings rafe, i know you're not used to it."

that set him off. his tough exterior crumbled when he was around you. you never failed to get under his skin. he lunged for you, grabbing you by your arm before you could react. he dragged you inside the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind you, reaching down to lock it.

"and i know you're not used to being anything other than a fucking bitch."

while you would've fired back with some smart ass comment any other time, you weren't worried about his insults right now. no matter how rude he was to you, you were genuinely concerned. you'd never seen him show any emotion other than anger or annoyance.

"rafe, i'm serious. are you okay?" you asked softly. you and rafe stared at each other for what felt like years. he was scared now. he didn't show it but it felt like you could see right through his big, scary act. but he couldn't look away. you had him hypnotized and he could see the genuine worry in your eyes.

"what do you care?"

"im not as big of a bitch as you say i am. i have a heart."

he realized he had you against the door, your head caged between his arms. he stepped back and broke eye contact to stare at the ground.

"i just- i'm going through it right now." he dragged his hands down his face. "i dont wanna talk-" the tears were back.

you stepped towards him and wrapped your arms around his waist. the fuck? what is she doing? he stood there confused. the hug actually felt....good. so he let his arms hang and the tears fall.

"it's okay rafe, you don't even have to tell me."

he finally hugged you back. now he was sobbing, pouring his heart out into the hug. into you. you hugged him tighter. you were so sweet, he realized. he couldn't believe he spent all this time hating you, insulting you every chance he got. how could anyone hate this sweet, sweet girl? nobody had been there for him like this.

his father didn't believe in emotions. maybe that was why he was like this. he felt like he had to be an asshole. not because he wanted to but because if he didn't protect himself, who would?

rafe tucked his head into your shoulder. you smelled amazing, like strawberries and vanilla. it added to your sweetness.

"shhh it's okay." you rubbed his back. "let it all out."

so he did. and when he was done, he pulled away from you and you let him. your heart panged a little at the loss of warmth. but you were glad he let you in. it wasn't as hard as you thought because you genuinely were a good person. rafe just had it out for you for some reason. you acted how you did towards him in self defense.

"dont say shit about this to anyone." good ole rafe.

"oh im so ready to tell everyone," you deadpanned.

"seriously."

"i would never."

"thanks." he sniffled, glancing at you then at himself in the mirror. "really, thank you."

"anytime." you smiled that sweet smile. he hated that he actually liked it.

rafe found a hand towel then turned the sink on, wetting it. he turned it off and wiped his tears away. he looked at you one more time and actually smiled. you stepped out of the way as he reached for the door, opening it and walking out.

you hadn't talked to rafe for a couple months after that. you'd see him around but he'd make it a point not to look at you. at least not while you were looking at him.

it wasn’t until the beginning of summer that you’d heard from him again. you were lying in bed, watching the sunset out the opened doors of your balcony when he called you. how rafe got your number you couldn’t figure out (you make a mental note to ask him about it when he wakes up). but you picked up, and thank God you didn't hate him anymore or you would've hung up when you heard his voice.

thank God you didn't hate him.

he hated to admit it but, "i need you." he said. "please."

and so you ran out your room and drove over to tanneyhill without a second thought. and you were there for rafe. eventually it became routine. he would call you when he needed a shoulder to lean on.

suddenly, his hate for you was gone. maybe it had been love masked as hate.

rafe let you know that he was there for you too, of course. after being around a vunerable rafe for a while, you finally let him in.

you and rafe spent the whole summer together. at the end of everyday, you found yourself wrapped in his warm embrace. you pretty much lived at tanneyhill. being with him felt better than the all the movies you’d watched and the books you had read.

you made love. you argued. you cried in each others arms. you laughed together. and kissed. and held each other, and so much more. but most importantly, you loved each other. and looking at him now, lying on his stomach , the sunrise shining on his toned back, you realized love wasn't fiction. it was real. you had found love. or maybe it had found you.

rafe was love.

a/n: i thought my first fic would be a drabble or smth, but it kept goin and goin and goin. i have drabbles in my drafts and they'll prob turn into full on fics. hope smb see's this and loves it! i would love feed back and suggestions. i dont have a masterlist or anything yet so this is just me trying smth out, thanks @littlelamy for encouraging me. i’m dedicating this to you! <3

cute divider by @dollywons

#rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe fluff #rafe angst #mean!rafe #soft!rafe #rafe x reader #drew starkey #rafe’s actually a decent human being???

46 notes · View notes

respectfulrebel · 3 days ago

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WHAT A FREAKING MASTERPIECE 😭😭😭😭😭

I love this story so much, the drama, the mystery, the tension, the TENSION! The fact that I’m on the edge of my seat every time I read a chapter and that every chapter ends on a cliffhanger and I have so many questions 😭😭😭😭 It’s just AAAAAAAAJDJDHAGAKDLDHSJDKS SO GOOD!

Finally, you told him about what spawned your move across the country. The fight for your life that had ended with you taking one instead. Vane's. A few stabs to his body in the heat of the moment had done the trick.

I KNEW IT! but why do I have the feeling we haven’t seen the last of him 👀

Shaking your head, you realized how close you still were to him and took half a step back. You didn't want to. You actually wanted to be as close as you possibly could. Preferably so close that he was insi-

🤭🤭🤭🤭

His hair had previously been styled back away from his face, but the forecasted rain had clearly loosened the strands that now hung at his cheekbones. His lips were slightly parted and just begging to be abused by your own, just as the heavily tattooed skin of his neck was.

Idk that was just such an incredibly vivid description

Both inked hands closed around your calves so he could tug your body closer to the edge of the pool table. Your legs would ve been dangling off had they not been bent to close in at his hips once he released you, only to lean over your upper body. One hand planted itself by your head to support his weight as the other trailed slowly along the side of your thigh, over your hip, and all the way up to your face where he cradled your jaw.

🫠🫠🫠 Giiiiiirl I’m so weak for this fictional man

"When we fuck for the first time," he murmured low, "you're going to remember it."

Damm okay 😳😳😳

"I also don't want to take advantage of you."

I know this is the bare minimum a man can do but still 🥺🥺🥺🥺

You studied the basic items in eyesight: couch, television, lamp, a plant. You paused while bringing the Nutrigrain bar up for another bite. A plant?

HE GOT A PLANT FOR HER TO LOOK AT???? 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I love him

Also the sushi date was so cute and the “goodbye” was just 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

I just really love this story 🥺🥺🥺🥺

「 ON DISPLAY 」 noah sebastian ⨯ f!reader

▷ chapter four

noah is your neighbor and your new favorite view thanks to his lack of curtains. you're pretty sure he prefers it this way. but the man you've created in your imagination is nothing like reality and you soon find yourself falling prey to a past lifestyle you had been desperately on the run from. trigger warnings : language, eventual smut, violence, mention/flashbacks of abuse, alcohol and drug use, sexual harassment/assault (nongraphic). word count : 11k

masterlist

You told him everything.

Well, mostly everything. You had skipped over some of the more gritty details after noticing how Noah’s hands would clench into fists anytime there was a vague mention of someone laying a malicious finger on you. He was protective of you, for reasons unknown, but you figured it wasn't best to question him in the middle of your sob story. It wasn't his sympathy you wanted, anyway, nor his pity.

You told him of how your father basically sold you to Vane in a bid to grow his empire. He saw how quickly Vane was coming into his own power, all by striking fear into others, and your father thought it best to align with him for his own selfish reasons. Your father was getting older and didn't want his legacy to falter. What better way to do that than to promise Vane his own flesh and blood? He didn't give a shit about you, his only daughter. He didn't care about how cruel Vane could be or how you had tried to escape on more than one occasion. Honestly, you had never made a true motivated attempt until the last time when the opportunity simply happened to present itself. Every other time you had been too scared, too ill prepared, too slow.

You told him about Vane’s business ventures; the drugs, the weapons, the aspiration to move to 'bigger and better things’, so Vane had said. You had no idea what that meant. What went beyond your typical drug and weapon smuggling? A few ideas popped into your head when you thought about it long enough but you didn't want to believe Vane was that monstrous of a person. But, maybe he was. Years of your life were wasted on him and you still felt as if you barely knew the menace.

Finally, you told him about what spawned your move across the country. The fight for your life that had ended with you taking one instead. Vane’s. A few stabs to his body in the heat of the moment had done the trick. This was also where you left out the more gory details again. Not just for the benefit of Noah’s temper, but for your own past trauma. It wasn't something you wanted to relive.

“No one tried to help you?” Noah pondered aloud after you fell silent. You looked at him, offered a sympathetic smile, and shook your head.

“No one could. I was cut off from everyone who wasn't my family or in Vane’s inner circle.”

“But your friend, the one you said you moved here for?”

You took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled while tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. To say that you were exhausted would've been an understatement and the constant curious questions weren't helping. The morning light was already beginning to shine through your window, casting a faint golden glow across your living room where you sat with Noah. He had finally abandoned the Nocturnal mask again, once more returning to the mildly nerdy but kind neighbor you had watched from your window.

“I've known Mel since I was a kid but we drifted apart once Vane stepped into my life. We spoke whenever possible, if possible, but then when I found out she had moved here…it's the only place I thought to go.” Another glance was taken his way, his brows furrowed as he tried to put all of the crumbled pieces of your life together. Good luck.

“She didn't know anything about what was happening,” you concluded before Noah could add Melinda to his list of people to make disappear. “And she still doesn't…which I’d like to keep that way.”

Noah nodded in understanding. You knew he would be able to relate with your need to keep the people closest to you safe, and since all you had was Mel, she needed to be kept far, far away from all of this. Even if that meant you having to uproot your life again for her sake.

“I'm going to keep you safe, okay?” Noah reached over the couch cushion that separated you and lightly cradled your jaw. You couldn't help but to nuzzle into his palm as the warmth of his skin instantly calmed you, allowing you to take in a much needed deep breath. “I'll talk to Jolly. We’ll get it figured out and–”

“No! Noah, no.” You quickly interjected, your eyes widening. You snatched his hand from your cheek but kept it within your grasp, the hold you had on him firm. “No one else can know. Please. Don't tell him.”

“You can trust Jolly the same as you trust me. I've known him nearly my entire life. He wouldn't–”

Again you cut him off with a strong shake of your head. “Do not tell him, Noah. Promise me that you won't. I can't run the risk of someone else possibly getting hurt because of me.”

Noah was looking at you with great confusion. You could see it swimming within his eyes, the words to make digging questions not forming just right to actually be spoken. He opened his mouth to speak but you beat him to it.

“If you believe me like you say you do, then this has to stay between us.”

“And what am I supposed to tell him about who you are?”

You heavily sighed, your head falling back against the couch cushions in near defeat. Shrugging as your hands scrubbed over your face, you took a few seconds for yourself before looking at him again. He was beautiful, even when his eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and he was still looking at you as if you were a puzzle to figure out. You hated it. No one was supposed to want to know all the inner workings of you. A man like Noah was going to be the death of you.

“I don't know,” you finally replied. “Just…tell him that I showed you family pictures or something to prove who I am. Tell him those guys were just…debt collectors. I don't know.”

Noah rolled his eyes and lightly laughed under his breath. “Debt collectors,” he repeated in disbelief. “Those guys could only be debt collectors if they were coming to take one of your organs as payment.”

You couldn't help but to laugh along with him because you knew how horrible of a lie that was. Although, maybe it was just bad enough to be believable.

X X X

It wasn't long ago that you dreaded being at Nocturnal and wished to remain employed at Red’s only. After the most recent turn of events, though, you were constantly thinking about what was happening at the club. Noah was always on your mind. What was he doing? Had he told Jolly? Was he truly an ally? Well, you had already revealed all of your closest secrets, so it wasn't as if the latter mattered too much now. You were just hoping he was someone you could actually trust and rely on. Your gut told you that he was exactly that, but you could never be too sure.

Taking a sharp right, you hustled into Red’s home with a fury to get out of the cold. You were early, and only realized this after checking your phone too late that morning. Red had messaged you to say he had a meeting and for you to arrive later than your original agreed upon daily time. But since you were already on the subway at that point, you decided to head in and just start helping out wherever you could. What was an extra hour really?

It was quiet around the house, though you could hear the faint murmur of voices coming from Red’s office. You passed by it without pause since you didn't want to be caught as a snoop, and instead began gathering the laundry from the designated room not much further down the hall. As you were folding a fresh load in the sitting room, an older man with a suit on waltzed in, phone and briefcase in hand. He regarded you with a passive smile, which you returned with one of your own.

“Are you another one of Red’s grandchildren? I've yet to meet them all.” He inquired after a few beats, his hands now clasped down at his waist and his attention fully on you.

You softly laughed and shook your head. “I work for him,” you explained. “But I'm sure I see him a lot more than any of his grandchildren do.”

The man chuckled before taking a quick glance over his shoulder. “I wouldn't say that too loud or else one of them may hear you.”

“Oh…” you glanced over your shoulder. “Is one visiting now?”

You had never encountered any of Red’s family. He's spoken of them, not always too fondly, and you've seen pictures, yet you've never crossed paths. Which wasn't too unusual to you considering you worked the same time during the day as most people also did.

The man released a heavy breath as he nodded. “Nicholas, his youngest. Watch out for that one. He has a liking for…trouble.”

His final words were quickly murmured because a door heavily closing could be heard throughout the entire lower level of the city mansion. The suddenness of it caused you to jump slightly, your eyes darting to the entryway of the sitting room. A short moment later, a figure appeared that you only recognized from a family photo hanging on Red’s wall. The guy was older now, but you remembered the unique shade of his eyes.

“I'm guessing your Red’s newest wife?” He looked you up and down with disinterest, then turned to the other man. “That would make…what? Wife number four?”

Did people really not know that Red had other employees?

The man said nothing beyond a faint grunt of acknowledgment, his focus only on his phone that he was quickly typing away on. He was probably trying to ignore Nicholas, and you couldn't say you blamed him. There was something about Red’s youngest grandchild that rubbed you the wrong way right off the bat.

“I'm definitely not his wife,” you quickly defended.

“No…no, you're not.” A slight smirk appeared over his lips. You noticed the way his eyes traveled you from head to toe again, but this time with a bit more intrigue. His gaze lingered much too long on your chest for your liking, though you were thankful for the crew neck sweater you had tossed on. At least it wasn't anything low cut.

You forced a tight smile, returning to the laundry. You could still feel Nicholas' sights on you. There was also what sounded like a click every now and then, and a brief glance his way showed you the zippo lighter in his grasp. Jesus Christ, what was with this guy?

Appearing unfazed, you loaded the folded laundry back into the basket to be carried away to the upstairs closets. Just as you were going to lift said basket, though, the sound of Red’s cane hitting the hardwood floor garnered your attention. He seemed surprised to see you, maybe even a little perturbed by your presence. He still plastered on a smile of his own, but that didn’t stop the tension in the room from remaining.

“Nicholas. What are you still doing here?” Red held a stern look over his grandson, his tone unable to hide his aggravation. “I thought you had another meeting to rush to.”

Still flipping the lighter, he shrugged. “I was just introducing myself to your new…”

“Assistant,” you finished the sentence for him. If you could even call yourself that. Sometimes “housekeeper” felt too proper for what you did.

“Assistant,” Nicholas repeated with an amused grin.

Red sighed as he walked towards Nicholas with the intent on ushering him out. He murmured a few choice words to him, most of which you couldn't make out, but you could assume.

“I'll be sure to stop by more often to see how things are going with you,” Nicholas said.

The statement was directed at you, but you didn't look his way again. He set you on edge and you couldn't really place your finger on why. You had been around enough psychopaths to know one when you saw one, so your plan was to steer clear.

Excusing yourself from the suit man with nothing more than a mumble, you carried the laundry basket up to the second floor to be put away. Even a floor up you could still hear the bickering of Red and his grandson on the front step. As their voices grew in volume, so did your curiosity.

Slowly, you inched closer and closer to the window that was right above where they stood. Nicholas' jaw was clenched, his bright eyes glaring daggers at the older man you had become fond of. Red was going in on him, but you could unfortunately only make out a few words here and there.

“– even think about it.”

“– brain of – ruin everything –”

“I mean it, Nicholas. – out of line.”

You watched Red’s hands move haphazardly with his words, though his back was to you so you couldn't see his expression. You could only imagine his face was the same shade of his namesake.

Quickly, you stepped out from in front of the window when Red turned to head back inside, but not before Nicholas’ eyes shifted to you. You pressed yourself against the wall, heart pounding within your chest for having just been caught. Again. Why the fuck were you so bad at this sneaking around thing?

Deep breath in, slowly out. Deep breath in, slowly out. You repeated this a few times until you assumed enough time had passed for Nicholas to clear out. Oh, but of course, you were wrong.

Your head slowly dropped into view of the window again, curious eyes immediately going to where Nicholas and Red had been on the doorstep. Empty. With your gaze quickly dancing around, you could feel the anxiety releasing from your body, only until you spotted him a little further up the sidewalk.

Nicholas stood at the waist-high gate, his sights set directly on you. You nervously swallowed because there was no way to explain this away. No way to say that you hadn't been eavesdropping. The expression Nicholas wore wasn't one of anger, though. He appeared more so amused as he watched you through the second story window. The joy of catching you lighting up his eyes.

X X X

A month quickly passed and thankfully without incident. No one stopping by the club to see if you were there. No random phone calls or messages like you were partly expecting. All seemed…normal. At least, for the most part.

Things with Noah were a little odd at times, though. You didn't see him outside of Nocturnal very much, and you hated to admit that you kind of…missed him. Would you be mad to wake up again and find him in your living room? Nope. It was better than gazing out your window for a glimpse of him like some love sick stalker.

He even kept his distance when you were working together. You weren't really sure how that equaled keeping you safe, but you assumed there was some sort of method to his madness.

YOU: You should get some plants or a pet or something.

YOU: Staring at your empty living room is kinda boring sometimes. Liven it up a bit.

HOT NEIGHBOR: I'll be sure to let my interior designer know that my Peeping Tom would like some visual stimulation.

You chuckled to yourself, following it up with an eye roll at Noah’s sarcastic response. It wasn't too often that he would stop being serious long enough to joke back with you, but it always made you smile when he did.

YOU: I'm being dragged out with Melinda tonight for drinks. Do you want to come?

You didn't even want to admit how long it took you to pluck up the courage to ask that. Nothing weird about the offer, right? Just two friends hanging out with other people. Casual. Normal.

HOT NEIGHBOR: I'm working later. Sorry. Maybe next time.

Like he didn't basically make his own schedule. Jackass. You heaved an irritated sigh while giving the response a thumbs down so he at least knew you read it. No other messages were exchanged.

“Let's just go to Limelight!” You whined as you tugged on Mel’s hand in an attempt to drag her across the street later that night.

Your best friend was hell bent on going to Nocturnal despite your pleas to go anywhere else. Not only did you not want to spend time at work while off the clock, but you also didn't want to see Noah. It was only a few days ago that you finally caved and told Melinda about how he worked there with you and was basically your boss. Of course, you left out all the extra details, like how he broke into your house and also had an affinity for cornering and touching you. You figured those weren't really too important. She was ecstatic, just as expected.

“Ugh! Limelight is so lame and you know it! All they do is play shitty Taylor Swift remixes and –”

“Okay, yeah! Maybe! But they have those fun little drinks they drop a glow stick into!”

Melinda deadpanned her expression and stared at you as if to say 'fucking really?’. You dramatically groaned at her silent response, the pregame drinks in your system already working their magic to help you loosen up.

“Fine! Let's go to stupid Nocturnal.”

Skipping the line and getting into the club was a breeze since the bouncer obviously knew you. The angry complaints from the patrons waiting were of no concern to either of you and you thanked him with a quick kiss to the cheek. Marco appeared big and bad due to his rather large stature, but he and his boyfriend liked to foster Greyhounds and go antique hunting on the weekends. He was the nicest guy you had ever met. But would he punch someone in the gut if necessary? Yes. You had seen it more than once.

You giggled along with Melinda as you both sauntered down the long red-lit hallway that led to the main area of the club. Even though you didn't really want to be at your place of work on your day off, you weren't going to let it ruin your mood. Nope, nothing and no one was going to fuck it up. Not even…

“Noah,” you gasped as soon as you stepped into the thunderous sounds of Nocturnal, only to come face to face with your neighbor slash boss slash protector? Fuck, you had no idea what the hell he was to you.

“Jesus Christ, you're even taller in person.” Melinda looked him up and down unapologetically, but his eyes were set on you.

Considering you had just fully crashed into him, though, that wasn't surprising.

“Please tell me this is not where you would've taken me to get drinks.” His tone read as serious but you could see the faint little smirk on the corners of his lips.

“No,” you finally voiced before you could finish that thought. “We were going to go to Aqua but the line was ridiculous, and Mel refused to go to Limelight, so here we are.”

Noah slowly nodded. “On your day off.”

“On my day off,” you repeated with a sideways glance to Mel.

The frustration in Noah’s eyes was evident, at least to you. He released a long breath, looked left and right as if in search of someone, then settled his gaze back on yours. Oh, how you could so easily get lost in the warm brown of his eyes. Even with the red lights of Nocturnal drowning out most colors, that was one they couldn't touch.

Leaning down a bit closer, probably only just a fraction of an inch but enough to cause your breath to hitch, Noah lowered his tone for only you to hear.

“Be careful,” he warned, worry flaring in his eyes. “I'll be watching.”

Most would regard his words as a threat, but you knew their true meaning. He would be looking out for you. Keeping you safe, just as he promised. Although you wanted to argue that you could take care of yourself (your stubbornness knew no bounds), you both knew otherwise. Noah had so easily broken into your apartment. No alarms had been sounded, no uneasy tingling to signal to you that you hadn't been alone. Nothing. So, maybe you did need another set of eyes watching your back.

“That was…weird,” Melinda said loud enough for you to hear over the heavy bass of the music once Noah had disappeared into the sea of people. “Is he always so tense?”

You raised your brows as you looked at her, laughing. “You have no idea.”

“Anywho!” She quickly changed the subject while guiding your shoulder forward. “We need drinks!”

As much as you loved to drink, you didn’t do it nearly to the extent as you used to. It was a helpful tool when you were with Vane to help drown out the pain of actually being with him, one that lessened in frequency once you were free. Not just because you didn't need the mental escape anymore, but because keeping your senses dulled could be dangerous. The last thing you needed was someone coming for you when you were a wine bottle deep.

You winced as the alcohol burned down your throat before making your face twist in disgust. It was your third shot and you still weren't numb to its effects yet. God, you really hated tequila.

“This is horrible,” you shivered while pushing the miniature glass away from yourself.

“Don't be such a sourpuss,” Melinda struggled to speak through her own grimace. “It's great!”

“Not the word I'd use to describe it but sure.”

“What's got your panties in a twist tonight? I can basically see the storm cloud following you around.”

You cut a look at Mel and shook your head to silently relay that you didn’t want to talk about it. Really, you'd love to talk about it, though. You'd love nothing more than to be able to come clean about everything happening but you weren't going to put Melinda in the middle of it. Selfishly doing just that to Noah was bad enough.

“I'm just tired,” you shrugged. “Haven't really been sleeping well.”

Not entirely a lie.

“Prepare to wake up even more tired tomorrow because we're partying tonight!”

Melinda reached for your hand and was dragging you to the dance floor without another word. You inwardly groaned, already annoyed with all the sweaty bodies bumping into you and making you press closer to your best friend. It was odd for you to be such a buzzkill, even you knew this, but everything happening was truly just weighing on you.

You spent most days terrified. Leaving your apartment was basically a thing of the past unless you were going to and from work. With that came you bumming rides off Noah if your schedules aligned or letting him know when you left and when you arrived at your destination. That was his idea, not yours. You would normally be extremely annoyed with his overprotective nature but you understood. And that's how it would remain until he inevitably crossed a line.

Shaking out your hands, you tried your best to loosen up. The alcohol helped, your head already swimming and your body swaying to the music. It was just hard to forget about it all completely. You did a damn good job at masking it, though.

“I can't believe you get to work here!” Melinda yelled over the music, her arms above her head. “It’s so much fun!”

You laughed as you did a turn along with her, your hands settling loosely on her waist. “It's not like I get to hang out on the dance floor all night!”

Melinda shrugged, a hand waving off another one of your downer comments.

The lights on the dance floor shifted from red to blue to purple in random patterns, making it hard to focus on the familiar face of your best friend. You assumed there was a point to this so people could really lose their inhibitions but Melinda wasn't who you wanted to lose them with.

Your eyes cut up to the ceiling where you knew a camera was mounted. He was watching, just as he said he would be. Even with Noah being floors and rooms away, you could still feel his heavy gaze. You debated putting on a show for him like you did during the housewarming party at your apartment not too long ago, but ultimately decided against it. Too many people. The last thing you wanted was some random guy near you to think you were trying to lure him in.

Eyes closed and fingers running through your hair, you tried to let the music take you. The bass hummed through you, vibrating from your head to your toes in a sensation that actually did make it easier to get lost in. When you turned around and opened your eyes again, you didn't see Melinda right away. You did a quick glance before finding her in the arms of some college-age looking guy with bleached hair and wandering hands that made you grimace. Gross.

Well, she seemed thoroughly distracted, so you decided this was the best moment to take your leave from the dance floor. You maneuvered your way back through the crowd of people and took solace at the bar, close to where the servers would be gathering their drinks.

“Love us so much that you had to come hang on your night off?” Shauna grinned as she filled her tray, sending a wink your way.

“Oh yeah,” you teased. “Just can't get enough.”

“Guy at the other end of the bar has been looking at you, by the way.”

Following her line of sight, you tilted your head enough to see the newly discovered light eyes of Red’s grandson. Nicholas, was it? Your brows furrowed in slight confusion, an expression you only wore for a split second.

“I think he's related to my other boss,” you explained with a shrug. “He's probably trying to figure out where he knows me from.”

At least, that's what you were telling yourself.

“Well, I think he figured it out because he's on his way down.” Shauna gave you a gentle bump with her hip as she sauntered away to serve her drinks, leaving you with no one to distract yourself with for when Nicholas ultimately closed the space.

Which he did in a matter of seconds.

“Imagine all the people to run into,” he began with a lighthearted chuckle. Funny how just a few weeks ago he was sizing you up, and now he was acting like you were a long time friend.

“Yeah, imagine that.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Wow, is that really the line you're going to open with?” You laugh, both brows raising at him.

Nicholas shrugged in a nonchalant manner, his own faint laughter still escaping. He was looking at you again as if he was trying to read who you were right away, possibly like he knew something you didn't. It made you uneasy, but what could truly happen when you were surrounded by hundreds of people?

“I thought it was pretty original. Creative, even.”

“Well, I already know that you don't come here often,” you pivoted. “So what could be the reason you're here tonight?”

Arching a thick brow of his own, he squinted ever so slightly before motioning for the bartender - Paul - to come down your way.

“I'll have a bourbon and she'll take…” Nicholas looked your way with an expectant stare.

“She'll take a gin and tonic, and she’ll also buy her own drink.”

Nicholas flinched playfully, his hand grasping at where his heart was. “Oof, that's gonna leave a mark,” he teased.

“Keep avoiding my question and I'm going to assume you came here to see me.”

You weren't flirting…were you? No, of course not. You were going to explain it away by saying it was just the drinks in your system making you extra bold. You had no interest in Nicholas. You didn't even know him.

You didn't know Noah at first either and you still wanted to fuc–

Nope. That was just another thought you were going to prevent yourself from fully manifesting.

Nicholas nudged your glass towards you once the drinks were set down. “What if I did?”

Taking in the way you only stared at him, slowly blinking with bemusement, Nicholas shook his head. “I just came to scope out the scenery,” he explained. “Seeing you here is merely a…happy coincidence.”

You wanted to call ‘bullshit’, but you kept it in. For now. At least he wasn't giving you the creeps like your last encounter.

It was then that you realized Nicholas was looking past you, his lips again pulling up into a grin. You didn't need to glance back to see who he was staring at because you knew as soon as a hand was lightly pressed to your lower back.

A warmth immediately spread through you and it took whatever self control you still had to not lean back into his touch.

“Ruffilo,” Noah greeted with a blatant disinterest. “Last I checked, you were banned from Nocturnal.”

Your eyes widened but you remained silent, your focus instead falling onto the drink you were now taking a generous swallow from.

Noah leaned down closer to your ear, his voice dropping as he relayed the explanation. “He almost set VIP on fire last time he was here.”

“Accidentally,” Nicholas quickly defended, his tone clipped.

“That still has yet to be determined.”

“I see you're just as much of an asshole as you've always been, King.” The name Noah used while in the club was spoken with a condescending wretch, just before Nicholas tilted his drink back to finish off the remnants.

Noah gave a sideways smirk, his fingers still splayed across your lower back. They occasionally brushed your bare skin from where your shirt had ridden up, and you assumed this wasn't done on accident. “Possibly even more.”

Nicholas glanced back and forth between the two of you, realization finally hitting him. “Oh, that's rich. You're so predictable sometimes,” he chuckled to himself.

What the fuck was going on? It was clear that these two men had some amount of bad blood between them, but to what extent? You had no idea. You wanted to tell Noah that it was okay, that Nicholas was just harmlessly talking to you, though the clench of his jaw and the hard set of his brow told you to not. Despite how angry Noah was, he was doing his best to keep it in check.

“Allow me to see you out?” Noah suggested, although you knew it was more of a demand.

Nicholas didn't put up a fuss as Noah stepped around you and motioned towards the exit of the club. He didn't so much as even look back your way before he was swallowed by the crowd again, leaving you to stew in your own thoughts.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you murmured to yourself. Paul came stepping up in front of you from behind the bar a short moment later, both of his brows raised in an expression of curiosity.

“I'm assuming you didn't know who that was?”

Shaking your head, you quickly finished your own drink. You were beginning to come to terms with the fact that you didn't give a fuck anymore. Every time you turned around there was someone new to be weary of.

“Can I just get a shot of whatever, please?”

X X X

What was it about you allowing strong men to overtake your life? Your father, Vane, and now Noah to a certain degree. Why?

You kept telling yourself that the first two were only out for themselves, whereas Noah was trying to help you. That made it okay to let him be so controlling, right? It wasn't like you were making any effort to stop him.

This wasn't just history repeating itself. Not with Noah. He was funny and kind and had never truly hurt you even when given the prime opportunity to do so. He was keeping you safe. Maybe he was simply a man of his word and took promises seriously. Maybe he would see it through that you were kept out of harm's way.

These were the things that you kept trying to tell yourself. Was it helping to convince you? Eh, sort of.

“There you are,” Noah breathed, the sound of a door softly closing and locking to follow.

You didn’t even remember how you got up here. Wherever ‘here’ was. Your eyes slowly fluttered open to make immediate contact with a light hanging above you, making you slightly wince. It was dim, just as every light in Nocturnal was, but it was still bright enough to force you to turn your head away.

“You had me worried that trouble had found you again.”

You knew you were still in the club. The pounding of the bass behind the closed door told you this. Your hand moved at your side as you lifted it to push your hair from your face, though it hit a hard object in the process. The same object, or so you assumed, then made a soft collision with your hip before disappearing again.

Wait. You now vaguely remember finding the employees only lounge area and making yourself comfortable. It used to be part of a VIP section on the opposite side of the one now currently used, but at some point before your time at Nocturnal it had changed to somewhere employees occasionally came to relax. From what you could tell, it wasn't used very often.

The hard surface you were laying on must be the pool table. The object your hand hit, one of the colorful billiard balls.

“Trouble does always have a way of seeking me out,” you retorted after a long moment. Your eyes cut to where you could sense him standing because maybe he was currently the trouble that had found you this time.

Noah paused at the end of the pool table, his fingers lightly caressing your ankle and working his way up along your calf. Chills formed in their wake, your body immediately coming to life for him. You had been on the verge of fully passing out only moments prior, but now that he was there, you felt like you could run a marathon.

“Or maybe you attract trouble.”

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you silently eyed him. His hair had previously been styled back away from his face, but the forecasted rain had clearly loosened the strands that now hung at his cheekbones. His lips were slightly parted and just begging to be abused by your own, just as the heavily tattooed skin of his neck was. You wanted to know how quickly he would lose his stoic control at your hands…and mouth.

Both inked hands closed around your calves so he could tug your body closer to the edge of the pool table. Your legs would've been dangling off had they not been bent to close in at his hips once he released you, only to lean over your upper body. One hand planted itself by your head to support his weight as the other trailed slowly along the side of your thigh, over your hip, and all the way up to your face where he cradled your jaw.

Your breathing stalled as your emotions went into overdrive. Just the feeling of his skin against yours could make you lose all control, which you knew was very bad, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You wanted him. Every piece, every inch. And you could tell by the way he was looking down at you that he wanted you too.

“Why did you come up here?” His voice was soft and low as his eyes traveled every detail of your face.

It took you a second to process his question, but you eventually found your words and swallowed in preparation. “I wanted to be somewhere quiet,” you nearly whispered. “And I know the cameras aren't routinely checked here.”

“Were you trying to hide from me?”

There's a flash of pain within his dark eyes and you want to soothe whatever unpleasant thought just ran through his mind.

“No,” you exhaled slowly. “I knew you'd find me.”

And just like that, the pain you noticed was extinguished and replaced by something much softer.

Suddenly his lips were on yours in a collision of desperate need. There was nothing slow and tantalizing about the kiss. It was all tongue and teeth, heavy breaths taken when able to, but those were far and few in between. You arched up into him and your hips rubbed against his, the friction forcing a groan from deep within Noah’s chest.

Oh, you wanted to hear that sound again.

A strong hand grasped the back of your neck as your own fingers dragged along his chest, eager to push his shirt up. You only got as far as slipping your hands beneath the dark fabric, both of your tongues still working in tandem in an attempt to dominate the other. Fuck, he tasted so good, but felt even better.

The hem of your skirt was bunched at the top of your thighs, allowing you easier motion to grind up against the man you should be terrified of. Fat chance of that when he could get this sort of reaction out of you. And you him, considering the hard bulge you felt pressed right between your thighs.

Noah broke from your lips so he could hungrily kiss along your jaw and neck. His hand slid around to grip your throat in a firm hold; not enough to hurt, but just enough to drag a whimper from you. Every nerve within your body was on fire. They threatened to fully combust the longer Noah teased your delicate skin, leaving you a writhing mess beneath him.

“Is this allowed?” You heard the words before you even realized you had spoken them.

“What?” Noah’s voice was slightly muffled from where he was now kissing along the exposed portions of your chest. His free hand had somehow dipped down between your thighs without you noticing, giving him free rein to stroke the sensitive skin.

“This…” you swallowed, silently begging for him to bring his fingers closer to where you knew you were wet and ready for him. “Fucking one of your employees?”

You felt him smile before he lifted his head enough for you to actually see it too. His pupils were blown, lips swollen from the forceful kissing you had both just indulged in.

It was then that you felt his fingertips graze the thin fabric of your panties, his eyes further narrowing in on your own. He had obviously noticed how wet you were. You were sure he felt it but you had zero shame. Just looking at him most days could get your blood boiling.

Noah smirked, his fingers still drawing slow and taunting designs over the damp fabric. “Who said anything about fucking?”

What. The. Fuck.

You squinted up at him in confusion. Your head was still swimming and you felt like you were in a haze, but you knew damn well you weren't imagining this. No way was this a dream.

The hold he had on your throat tightened and his hips forcefully pushed forward into yours. Your mouth fell open, brows knitting together as you did your best to swallow all the noises you wanted to make. Noah then loosened his grip on your neck, his lips lowering back to yours for a kiss that was the exact opposite of what they had been. It was gentle and slow, as if he was savoring your taste this time instead of trying to devour you.

“When we fuck for the first time,” he murmured low, “you're going to remember it.”

Noah stood to his full height, his hands caressing the sides of your thighs one last time before he was tugging your skirt down to return you to a mostly modest state.

“Why wouldn't I remember it?”

He quirked a brow at you as he took a step back and began to straighten out his clothing, as well as adjust the bulge in his dark pants. “I watched you order a handful of drinks and take multiple shots,” he stated. “I'd rather avoid the whole ‘did we have sex last night?’ conversation in the morning if I were to fuck you right now.”

You rolled your eyes, your body shooting up into a sitting position so you could follow his lead with trying to appear more presentable. The way he worded what he had said made you inwardly grimace. Was it just an excuse not to fuck you whether drunk or sober? Considering you had been sober the last couple of times he initiated anything between the two of you, you were beginning to think he was just…bored.

“I also don't want to take advantage of you.”

Your eyes cut up to his from under your lashes, lips pressed into a thin line that accurately portrayed your annoyance. What a line that was.

“I can make decisions for myself,” you grumbled before carefully sliding off the edge of the pool table. Noah was quick to reach for your elbow when you stumbled a bit, his much larger form helping to steady you.

“Right, because you're very much not out of it right now.”

Okay, fine. Maybe he was right and you weren't as sober as you liked to believe you were. Didn't mean you were going to admit it though.

You opted to simply remain silent. He could kiss your ass.

Noah released a heavy sigh as he stared at you, his shoulders dropping in defeat. His hand remained wrapped around your elbow even when you refused to meet his gaze now. But what did he expect? You were embarrassed.

“Let me get you home,” he spoke after leaning down to plant a kiss to the crown of your head, his grip on your arm tightening so he could pull you in closer.

One more thing you weren't going to admit was how that small gesture had made your stomach do a somersault.

X X X

The next morning you were sporting a massive hangover. Who was shocked? Not you.

You groaned as you tossed and turned in bed, pulled the comforter over your head, and tried your best to block out the annoying as fuck dinging. What the hell even was that?

“Fucking hell,” you grumbled. Tossing the blankets back, you then realized it was your phone going off, to which you quickly sat up and reached for it.

You had five missed texts from Red, seven from Mel, and one from Noah. Your eyes shifted to the top corner of your phone screen so you could check the time, your heart dropping to your ass when you saw it was well after noon.

Fuck! You had missed work. No wonder Red was blowing up your phone. You were surprised he hadn't called the police to do a wellness check yet. Not once had you ever been late to his house. Early, yes. Late, never.

YOU: I'm so sorry! I was feeling a bit under the weather and didn't realize I had slept through my alarm. I'm on my way right now!

Red responded within a matter of seconds, his punctuality barely giving you the time to even drag yourself out of bed.

RED: No need to worry about today. I'm just glad you're alright. Please rest and do give me a call if you need anything. -R

Well, at least that meant you didn't have to be anywhere now. You heavily sighed as you dropped back against your bed again, mentally preparing yourself for whatever nonsense Melinda had texted you. Actually…you were going to deal with that later. Instead you went right for the single message from Noah.

HOT NEIGHBOR: Let me know when you're awake. There's some aspirin and a glass of water on your nightstand. I'll be at the club if you need me.

A smile crept over your lips as you looked to your bedside table where a bottle of pain medication and a glass of water sat, just as he had said. While you didn't remember all of last night, it would've been impossible for you to forget the weight of his body on yours or how he had helped you up to your apartment in the early morning hours.

But this also meant that you remembered asking him to stay with you…which you assumed he had declined considering there was no indication that anyone had slept in your bed other than you. Fuck, that was going to haunt you for the rest of time.

You downed the aspirin in a single gulp, hoping and praying that it would ease the pressure in your head as soon as possible. After responding to Mel’s multiple angry messages about how the guy she met at Nocturnal sucked, you finally ventured out of your room to find something to eat. That quest left you mostly empty handed since all you could really find was a strawberry Nutrigrain bar. Yeah, you really needed to go grocery shopping.

Snack in hand and your arms crossed over your chest for warmth, you slowly approached the large window in your apartment. Noah’s apartment across the breeze way was empty as far as you could tell, just as it typically was. You studied the basic items in eyesight: couch, television, lamp, a plant. You paused while bringing the Nutrigrain bar up for another bite. A plant?

A small side table was now positioned off to the left of the window and on top of it was a potted plant. The leaves were bright green with flecks of white that you assumed were flowers beginning to bloom. You couldn't stop the smile from overtaking your lips before you rushed back to your room to grab your phone.

Noah had put that plant there for you. There wasn't a doubt in your mind about it. It couldn't just be a coincidence that you brought up needing some “visual stimulation”, as he would say, and then a plant appears.

You immediately found his name in your contacts and tapped the option to call him. It only rang a couple of times before his voice sounded on the other end, the effect it had on you highly visible.

“Are you okay?”

Leave it to Noah to be worried just because you were calling him.

You ignored his question and went into a query of your own. “Have you named it yet?”

“Named…what?”

“The plant in your window.”

There was a brief pause followed by the breathy laugh he did that you liked so much.

“I guess my interior designer liked your suggestion. But no, I haven't named it. I'll allow you that honor.”

“I'll have to think on it.”

“Well,” Noah began again. “Let me give you something else to think on too. Maybe dinner? Tonight?”

You suddenly froze as you were mid-bite into what remained of your Nutrigrain bar. Holy shit. Was he asking you out? You pried your teeth out of the bar without yet taking a bite, your heart now pounding within your chest.

“Like…a date?”

“Unless you'd rather call it a business meeting, then yeah, a date.”

—

And that's how you ended up at Noah’s favorite Japanese restaurant that night. You sat across from each other in a little separate dining area that lined the back wall of the restaurant. Each room was open, but inside of it was a low table that allowed you to sit on soft cushions versus the usual chairs. You were mad at yourself for wearing a dress but Noah told you he would be your shield when you had to stand.

“I'm horrible at this!” You laughed as the piece of sushi fell from your chopsticks yet again.

Noah had been trying his best to teach you how to use them but you were a lost cause to the art.

“It is getting kind of sad watching you fail to eat,” he teased.

With a huff, you set the chopsticks aside and grabbed the piece with your fingers instead. You were done playing games with those complicated utensils, just as your growling stomach also was.

Noah could only shake his head at you in feigned disappointment while showing off his own impressive chopstick skills.

“I'm half Japanese,” he explained, as if that meant the ability to use chopsticks just ran through his veins. Maybe it did. What did you know? Your ancestry definitely wasn't as exciting as his.

“That's cool,” you shielded your mouth as you chewed your lump of fish and rice. “Have you ever been to Japan?”

Shaking his head, Noah mixed a bit of wasabi with his soy sauce before dunking another piece of sushi into it. “Too busy here with the club and everything else. It's hard to even get a night off.”

“But you managed to tonight,” you pointed out with a sly smile.

Noah lifted his eyes to yours, a smile now on his face that mimicked your own. “Jolly owed me a favor.”

All you could do was stare at him, your pleased expression lingering. He looked so different when not in the Nocturnal atmosphere, like he could fully breathe and relax his shoulders for once. Sometimes you found it hard to believe that the man sitting in front of you was one in the same with his Nocturnal counterpart.

“I have a question.”

With his mouth filled with sushi, Noah nodded for you to continue.

You propped your elbows on the table and leaned forward a bit, your voice lowering so no one could overhear. “Why do you stop us from going further whenever you touch my underwear?”

Noah suddenly coughed, his fist lightly banging against his chest to help dislodge whatever had gotten stuck. He eyed you while reaching for his water and taking a generous swallow.

“Have you been sneaking shots of sake?” He questioned through his gulps of water.

Chuckling, you shook your head. “I'm just curious since it's happened twice now.”

Three times if you count the last dream you had of him but that was definitely not something you were going to bring up. Ever.

As he took in a deep breath after regaining his composure, Noah fumbled with his chopsticks. If you didn't know any better then you would say you had made him blush, but you would pass it off as being an effect from his coughing fit. For his sake, of course.

“It's not done on purpose,” he finally replied. “Neither time has been the right time and that just happens to be whenever my head decides to work again. The head on my shoulders, that is.”

You couldn’t help but to faintly smirk at his admission, though you covered it by taking a bite of the ginger on your plate.

“The one below my shoulders…mind of its own.” He murmured under his breath like you wouldn't be able to hear him. You opted not to taunt him for it.

A few topics later and Noah finally pushed his plate away to indicate that he was full. You had already done the same, the sushi weighing heavy on your stomach. You didn't regret a single piece of it, though.

“So, the guy last night, Ruffilo…”

“Nicholas?” You cut him off, brows raised. Noah cleared his throat a bit and nodded.

“Do you know him?”

You shrugged as you sipped from your water. “That was only the second time I've met him. He's the grandson of Red, my other boss. One of many, apparently.”

You could tell that Noah had something he wanted to say but he was contemplating heavily about it. His jaw was clenched, his fingers still fumbling with his chopsticks that were now placed down on the table. You wanted to reach over and grab his hand so he would stop and calm down, but you resisted.

“Whatever it is you want to say, go on and say it.”

“I just really need you to be careful, okay?”

You looked at him with a confused stare, your head tilting to the side slightly.

“Why does it always feel like you're keeping something from me?”

Noah opened his mouth to speak but then paused as the waitress approached. He passed off his debit card when she asked if they were ready for the check, his body language showing how eager he was for them to leave. Why? She couldn't say.

“Noah,” you pressed.

“Because I am,” he finally admitted. “But only to keep you safe. The less you know, the better.”

“Jesus,” you rolled your eyes. “I'm so tired of everyone thinking they know what's best for me.”

“Hey, no, that's not what –”

You cut him off by dropping your napkin into your plate and making a move to stand. You didn't even care if you flashed him in the process because at least the glimpse of your bright red underwear would let him know what he was missing out on that night.

Standing and smoothing out your dress with as much grace as you could muster, you didn't even spare Noah another glance before you were walking away. “I'll be outside.”

Yes, you were mad, but you weren't dumb enough to walk home alone when people were looking for you. The city was big but never quite big enough if you were trying to hide.

Noah found you barely a minute later leaning against the front of the restaurant. With your arms crossed over your chest and your heels digging into the pavement, you glanced his way when you felt his overwhelming presence. He may look like a completely different person when wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but he still had the same effect on you just from being close.

You fucking hated how drawn to him you were. Like you were an idiotic asteroid caught in his planetary orbit and you couldn't get away even if you wanted to. Which…fine, you didn't. Not really. That wasn't something his arrogant ass needed to know, though.

“I liked it,” you softly spoke. You glanced back towards the restaurant over your shoulder, motioning towards it. “The sushi.”

“I told you it was the best in the city,” Noah smiled.

Pushing off the wall, you responded with a sarcastic roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, so you did.”

You began walking towards the parking lot with Noah in tow, his steps quickly meeting up with yours. Damn those long legs of his. With only silence drifting between the two of you, you began to feel the awkwardness seeping in. Not from the silence itself but from your childish storming out. You weren't going to apologize for it because you weren't sorry, not in the least bit, but you knew you could've handled it better.

“It's really frustrating,” you began as your pace slowed and you nervously toyed with the ring on your index finger. “When everyone around you is keeping secrets and you constantly feel like you're on the outskirts of your own life.”

Noah exhaled slowly through his nose, his pace again matching your own until you both came to a halt at the passenger side of his car. He licked over his lips before dropping his gaze to yours, a look of concern present in those eyes of his that you already loved so much.

“I know,” he said as he brushed your hair from your shoulder before lightly grasping the back of your neck.

“I don't think you do,” you shook your head. “My dad, Vane -” you lowered your voice at his name as if just speaking it would summon him from the depths of Hell, “everyone kept me in the dark and expected me to just go along with whatever they had planned.”

You were trying to ignore the way his fingers were lightly stroking the nape of your neck because it would be all too easy to fall into the temptation of that sensation. Apparently your body had other plans, though. Chills formed along your arms and you were sure that if you glanced down then your nipples would be rather present against your dress, so you quickly remedied that by crossing your arms over your chest again. Goddamn him.

“It's not fair, Noah,” you continued. “I have every right to know everything. Well, at least everything that has to do with me. You know what I'm saying.”

Noah smiled as you stammered over your last few words, your aggravation at a boiling point. His hands shifted until he was cradling your face within his palms, the pads of his thumbs lightly stroking along your cheeks.

“You're really fucking cute when you get flustered.”

Your eyes narrowed up at him into a glare and you suddenly pushed against his chest. “You're an asshole,” you muttered.

Noah laughed but still placed a chaste kiss to your forehead before you could shove him away again. He then opened the passenger side door for you and made sure you were settled before venturing around to the driver’s side.

“I'm trying to identify the men who came looking for you from our security footage,” he explained once you had been driving down the road for a few minutes.

“It's proving to be harder than I thought because I doubt guys like that are just going to pop up in a system, so I'm having to dig deeper.”

You finally looked over at him, your face expressionless. You were thankful for his honesty on what was happening but you also wanted to smack him upside the back of the head.

“Why didn't you just ask me who they were? I've been around my dad and Vane’s men for years.”

Noah shook his head, his wrist flexing on the steering wheel where he was using it to drive. “I didn't want you involved anymore than you already are. I told you that I'm trying to keep you safe. If anyone were to catch wind of a girl snooping around with me, it would be very bad.”

He glanced to where you were seated just as his free hand extended out to rest on your thigh. He gave your heated skin a reassuring squeeze, but left his hand to linger. Your heart rate immediately picked up at the skin to skin contact, a shaky breath escaping.

“Play dirty all you want, but I still expect you to show me pictures of these guys.”

“So bossy,” he chuckled, but then gave your thigh another gentle squeeze as a silent acceptance of your demand.

There was a lot of back and forth once Noah pulled into the apartment building as to whether or not he was going to walk you up to your place. You told him again and again that you were fine, but he made the argument of being a gentleman and needing to end your first date right.

How could you deny him that?

Standing outside your door, he had one hand on your hip and the other on the back of your neck. Noah’s version of ‘goodbye’ meant having his tongue in your mouth again but you definitely weren't going to complain about it.

What a gentleman he was indeed.

You fumbled to try to grab your keys from your bag as his lips ignited that familiar fire within you again. He had been right - it was so much better when you were sober. There was no haze lingering that made you question whether or not this was a dream, no swirling thoughts. You could freely feel every hard line of his body against yours and the way his fingers grabbed you with a need that rivaled your own.

“I need to unlock the door,” you murmured into his mouth. Laughing like a love struck little school girl, you managed to turn away from him, but that wasn't stopping Noah from pressing into you from behind and kissing along your neck.

Your eyes fluttered closed and your hands trembled while you tried your best to slip the key in. All while his own large hands had disappeared beneath your dress to graze your bare hips and thighs, turning you into a puddle right then and there.

“Having a hard time?” Noah teased as one of his hands ran across your lower stomach, his fingers dipping just beneath the band of your panties.

You pressed your ass back into him to give him a taste of his own medicine, a deep groan then given to you in response. His grip on your hip tightened just as you managed to unlock the door and push it open. Barely a step in was taken before Noah had you turned around, the door shut, and your body sandwiched against it.

Fuck, you didn't know if you two were even going to make it back to your bedroom. He was on the verge of taking you right there against your front door.

Grabbing beneath your thighs and hoisting you up, your legs immediately secured around his waist and pulled him in close. You could feel how hard he was against your thigh and you were desperate to help him find some relief, but he had found solace at your chest first. Noah tugged the straps of your dress down, his lips trailing eager kisses along your chest and down the valley between your breasts. Each touch of his lips to your skin was like a spark of electricity and you wanted more. Needed more.

“Noah,” you gasped once he had pulled your dress down more and gained access to your bare chest. His tongue flicked across your nipple as your hands threaded through his hair, gripping tight into the locks to keep him in place.

“I can't get enough of the way your body responds to me,” he lowly spoke as he transitioned to your other nipple to give it the same attention.

You smirked, your eyes then slowly opening when your hands dropped to begin working open the button of his jeans. Suddenly, you paused, your body going completely still.

“Noah…” your voice was more serious this time, but it took you lightly tapping his shoulder for him to realize that you were trying to get his attention and not urging him forward.

It only took him a couple of seconds of reading the scared expression on your face and witnessing the trembling of your lower lip for him to follow your line of sight over his shoulder.

Your apartment was a disaster. The cushions of your couch had been ripped apart, side tables overturned, the television smashed. Things previously on your walls now laid destroyed on the floor, just as little knick knacks you had here and there also did.

Noah had you on your feet and your dress situated correctly in a blur. He was wearing the Nocturnal mask now, his face hard and unreadable.

“Stay here,” he demanded, his hand pressing into your stomach to keep you against the door.

Then he began to slowly move through your apartment, checking every corner and closet, glass cracking beneath his feet. All you could do was listen to his command, your arms now hugging yourself and tears threatening to spill over. You weren't going to let yourself cry. Not over materialistic items that didn't truly mean anything.

But what if you had been home when whoever stopped by to ransack your place? Had they come by in hopes of finding you or did they know you were out? Was it targeted or were you simply a random victim of a burglary?

“Everything is clear,” Noah exclaimed a short moment later when he came walking back up to you. You hadn't been able to pull your gaze from the empty picture frame that laid shattered on the floor, though. It used to house an image of you and Mel from your fifteenth birthday.

“Are you okay?” His voice was soothing but it was his hands lightly touching your face that brought you back to reality. Noah tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes meeting through the dim lighting after he had turned the kitchen overhead on.

“I need you to ignore the mess and pack a bag, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“What? Why? Where are we going?” You were slightly frantic as your eyes searched his, but it was expected when your entire life was being turned upside down - literally.

“You're going to stay with me until I can figure out what to do, alright? So, please, go pack a bag and be quick.”

Noah was eager to get going, you could tell from his voice that he was trying his best to remain calm and collected for you, though. He continued to lightly push your hair back, his fingertips grazing your jaw until you were finally able to nod.

As you began to slowly maneuver your way around the disaster that was your apartment, you paused in the hallway, your hands fisted at your sides.

“Noah,” you called out softly. “This is the last time I run from these assholes, got it?”

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#noah sebastian fanfiction

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