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kalinara · 2 days ago

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So this post, by @rei-ismyname, got me thinking of how I see Logan with regard to the Logan/Scott relationship specifically. This was intended to be a reply, but it got away from me, so I thought I'd turn it into its own post.

This is going to get long and very incoherent. And possibly not all that flattering to Logan in parts. Sorry.

I don't know if I see Logan as quite so Freudian myself, though I think it's a fascinating analysis.

I think for me, there's an element of the Scott-Logan and Jean-Logan dynamics that start off interestingly separate. Maybe it's because, initially, Jean never really seemed to return Logan's feelings. But there wasn't as much of a sense of "triangle" back in the early Claremont issues for me.

Logan was attracted to Jean, went after her, was rebuffed, and kept going. He had moments with Scott, like when he was judging Scott for not grieving her enough in the Savage Lands, when she and Hank were presumed dead. But generally that seemed to be a separate thing.

Whereas with Scott, we had the sort of maverick vs. leader dynamic. Scott is younger, more uptight, less experienced (in a military capacity, anyway), less traditionally macho, and Logan clashed with the idea of taking his orders. But pretty quickly, they did fit into a sort of bickering respect - Logan threatening Hawkeye when the latter insulted Cyclops, going to Scott during the whole demerit thing in general.

They do fall pretty quick into that "I'll follow you to hell, bitching all the way" sort of dynamic. And most of that seems to develop without Jean present (she wasn't, after all, officially part of the team at first, then she was presumed dead, then she was actually dead.)

In the 90s, things get a bit murkier, because the love triangle heats up and becomes a little more reciprocal on Jean's part. But Jean and Scott had gone through all of their real emotional turmoil in X-Factor, when Logan wasn't around, so by the 90s, they were pretty solid. Then you get things mashed together a bit.

And also during the time apart, Logan's had his own shift from stab-happy wild man to that more noble drifter cowboy meets Kurosawa type. So we get a shifted dynamic, where Logan's attraction to Jean becomes a lot more overtly romantic, in a certain courtly way. We get a lot more emphasis on the "she makes me want to be a better person" element of their dynamic here too.

Meanwhile, the 90s also give us Scott at what's probably his most emotionally and morally stable place. He's past his trainwreck stage (and Logan didn't get to see most of that), and has settled into a confident upright leader.

So we essentially end up with a kind of Lancelot, Guinevere, Arthur thing. (Honestly, I've always thought Jean made the better King Arthur, but we're talking Logan's perspective. And honestly, I've always thought that Logan has a bit of an issue with toxic masculinity and overly-rigid gender roles.)

So while there's still the sparky bickering between Logan and Scott, for the most part, it's comfortable. Any attraction Logan feels gets sublimated into respect (kind of like his dynamic with Captain America. I tend to assume most people are at least a little in love with Steve Rogers, and Logan's no exception.).

But it all sort of melds together into Logan being romantically in love with Jean, sublimated attraction-into-respect for Scott, and then ultimately idolizing their relationship on a whole. Which has the awkward effect of putting Scott on a pedestal, because he's the man Jean chose over Logan. So of course, he must be a paragon of virtue.

(The fact that Scott's trainwreck tendencies are still there pops up occasionally, but generally goes unnoticed.)

But then we get Apocalypse - and a Scott stripped bare of his illusions. But still possessed of his moral code. Mostly. He's wounded, but still pretty forthright. Then we have the situation with Emma. And Jean's death. And that's when things get a lot...sparkier. The bickering starts getting a bit more heated again.

Honestly, they're probably the slashiest they've ever been during that period between Jean's death and the Schism. And Logan seems to have a weird sense of judgmental entitlement over Scott during this time. He still respects him though, but things are starting to fray with Utopia and X-Force, and everything crashes down in the Schism, when the last of Logan's illusions about Scott shatter.

I've said before, I think that their whole dynamic would have been a lot healthier if Logan had realized that Scott, beneath the facade, is a lot more like Laura Kinney than he'd ever been like Steve Rogers.

But he didn't figure that out and now he's heartbroken, angry, and can't sublimate the fact that he kind of wants to fuck him into that whole Captain America/Paragon of Virtue veneration anymore. Nope, dude, that stirring in your loins doesn't come from the fact that you're in the presence of one of the Truly Good Men. You just want to fuck that trainwreck.

And honestly, I think Hank has a bit of the same thing. But Hank/Scott is a whole separate essay topic. I think Hank and Logan kind of fed off each other at this time. So we get things like the Cyclops-dartboard. When we both know that's not the penetration they really want to do.

What? I was talking about claws? What did you think I was talking about?

(Okay, that too.)

I think the post Schism/pre AvX dynamic is fascinating adolescent on the part of Logan (and Hank). I can't help but maybe conflate this a bit with the fact that Logan only relatively recently regained the full memories of his life, while Hank has that whole arrested development child soldier thing that most of the O5 have deep down. And they both start acting a bit like the bitter dorks in high school, watching the Homecoming King and Queen.

Which is a little bizarre considering that Scott and Emma are holding Utopia together by the skin of their teeth and intentionally trying to present it as a lightning rod for anti-mutant sentiment in order to keep the school safe. But things aren't necessarily rational there.

But then we have AvX. And everything goes from hilariously adolescent to absolutely tragic.

Because no one makes it out of that mess okay or whole. And Logan, in particular, has to go full on aggressor, because if he stops and thinks about it, he might well realize that if any one person could be the cause of this mess: it could be him. HE's the one who went to the Avengers, after all. Scott's plan with the Phoenix was batshit, but it might have been resolved differently if the Avengers hadn't gone in there all OOC heavy handed, guns blazing.

Scott, meanwhile, has lost some of his Utopia edge, and found a new easily romanticized role as suffering martyr. We start to see events that might lead to a resolution: Kitty and the O5 switching sides, a lot of realizations from a lot of people that Scott isn't the villain he's playing on television, and so on. (There's also the O5 putting a human face on the man that Logan's convinced himself he hates. And a version of Jean that's completely horrified and disgusted by him...)

And then Logan dies, and his role's taken by a dude from a side comic with no connection to any of these characters of events. And no, I'm not bitter about Old Man Logan at all.

(Sure, he was fun in his OWN comic. But there's shit going on here and he's not a part of it!!!)

Then there's the fucked up weirdness of Scott's death, his unspoken terrible acts (that eventually amounted to destroying a cloud), and so on.

Once both characters have resurrected, we get an interesting return, almost, to that post Jean's death dynamic. They're again in a foxhole, desperate. Scott's relying pretty heavily on Logan at this time, even as they rebuild the dregs of the team for their last stand.

Then Rahne leaves, dies. Logan skips the funeral to go after her murderers. And then when he returns, covered in her murderers' blood, he and an angry Scott have it out and he storms off, with the unfair accusations all over again. (This time, it's more apparently that Wolverine's lashing out because of his own wounds, but it's not very pleasant to experience.) He does make up for it a bit by coming back for their last stand. Which is, maybe, a bit romantic in its own right.

And then...Jean and the original team reappear and Jean immediately shoves her tongue down Scott's throat while Logan and Emma both look a little bitter.

And then we have Krakoa, and I know I've bitched about not seeing the foundation of the Throuple. But in a weird way, it does kind of work for me. The euphoria of their new sanctuary, the realization that death is no longer a thing, the return of lost loved ones (like Alex, who'd died recently in Rosenberg's run), and so on - it made a place, and a moment, where the sublimation can just be the truth.

Scott and Jean are Scott and Jean. They have their family again. Logan is welcomed into the family as occasional partner. Nate's "Uncle Logan". He gets to come on family vacations.

Logan still gets to be Logan, though, and do his own thing. As much of a romantic as he is, I'm not sure I buy him ever actually settling down to domesticity. But this works out fairly well.

There are still some hints of tension though. I like bringing up the "Scott in a Speedo" scene, not just for the expression of attraction - I've seen it dismissed as a "joke", but I still don't see how that works as a joke either of them would tell - but also for the actual scene.

In it, we see Scott, conflicted over the Crucible and his mixed feelings about the more...religious elements of Krakoan society, looking for something from Logan - maybe reassurance, maybe just commiseration? That the latter isn't willing or able to give him. "Go find a priest." He says.

Everyone's going to have their own interpretation, but my read on it, in the context of their complicated relationship, is that Logan's happy to enjoy the idyllic interlude that Krakoa's given them, but he doesn't want to go deeper. He doesn't want to talk about their underlying issues or be the support that Scott needs at this time. It's an emotional commitment that he's not ready to make.

In his own comic (or possibly X-Force, they blur together for me), Logan expresses dislike regarding Krakoa, feeling like it's fostering a false sense of safety and security.

I feel like that might be why Logan is the way he is in this scene. They haven't resolved their issues, and where Scott's overture might indicate that he'd like to, Logan isn't open to that now.

And I think that's the Watsonian reason that we don't see very much with these two beyond a couple of Pride issue panels of the trio having a good time together.

I don't think the Throuple really lasts that much beyond this either. We have that funny bit where Teen Nate has called in a favor to have Logan comfort his parents after his departure. We have a few Jean/Logan moments in X-Force, but they're pretty shallow, all things considered. Some light making out. A single scene of sex in a hot tub.

Beyond that, we have that bit where she's trying to help him telepathically in X Lives of Wolverine, but she'd have done that for him even if they weren't banging.

And then, nothing. Scott and Jean are doing fine in the X-Men (eventual Brood argument notwithstanding), Logan is doing fine in his own book. But the Throuple seems...done.

Oh, maybe that bit in AXE where Jean is having issues for failing her test and Logan's all "anyone who'd fail you and pass me..." bit of reassurance. But again, that's the sort of thing he'd have said even if they weren't fucking. (I also wish he were able to comfort her without making it all about HIS issues, but that's a separate essay!)

There are a few parts that annoyed the shit out of me though. In both X Lives of Wolverine and later toward the end of his own comic, Logan lists Xavier and Jean as members of his found family. Saying shit like how their broken edges come together to make a more profound whole.

Scott, who is Xavier's son, Jean's husband, and the man whose house Logan STILL LIVES IN, doesn't get a mention.

(Doylistically, I theorize that maybe Marvel wanted to downplay the Throuple implications already. But I don't know.)

Nor does Storm, Kurt, Kitty, Jubilee, or a lot of other people who'd fit into that category too, including his actual children, mind you. But this isn't an essay about them.

And then there's Fall of X/Fall of the House of X. We do know at one point, Logan was involved in a rescue mission for Scott which fell through because Xavier called Rasputin away to go help him kill a thirteen year old.

Then there's nothing but a mostly civil exchange in X-Men #1, where Logan decides to go off on his own to run with wolves after he's rescued, and then that snide comment in Uncanny.

Scott's not really mentioned Logan either, except maybe that bitter little "everyone likes HIM" as a response to Magneto's amazing accusation of "logan behavior".

So...I don't really know how I see their relationship dynamic now. I was hoping for some interaction in Raid on Graymalkin, but the closest we got was Logan saying to attack if Scott touched his temple.

(Doylistically, that may be all we get. If Marvel thinks interaction might fuel the Throuple implications, we may not get anything else for a long time, which sucks.)

Watsonianly, I think maybe it's as simple as the idyllic Krakoan interlude being over. Jean's in space and unable to smooth things over. (Also, I'm not actually sure how I think Logan will take the whole Phoenix side of Jean's personality. They'd been considered two separate entities by the time the triangle really started up...). And whatever attraction that Scott and Logan have for each other is back to being sublimated in unnecessary antagonism and bitterness.

It's a shame, really.

(I do think if the Throuple does end up rekindling, Logan shouldn't get to join back up until he actually apologizes though. Hmph.)

#scott summers #cyclops #logan behavior #I'm not sure if this counts as a logan critical post or not but we'll play it safe

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nopaintjustpain · 3 days ago

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Oculus: *doing a threat display @ Elias*

Elias speaking in Baby voice: aww are you gonna pluck my eyes out?? Who’s the big scary predator? You are!! Why yes you are!! Look at you so poofy! What’s got you all worked up, huh sweetheart?

(It’s fine, he knows Oculus is just playing.)

(Lore under the cut)

Elias has a huge soft spot for this Creature after enjoying its companionship for 200 years. It’s traditionally the companion of the Archivist and has been since the time of Alexandria, but the thing is fond of him too. It gets lonely, losing its Archivist every couple decades, and Elias is its longest lived friend. Also, Gertrude spent the last 50 years rejecting it :( She kicked it out of the Archives and refused to have anything to do with it, so it sulked in Elias’s office for a couple decades.

Elias got used to having it around. Then Jon came along and suddenly Elias is yesterday’s news. Elias can understand the appeal for Oculus — finally, an Archivist that loves it back after being chased away from its Archives for 50 years, and Jon is so primed and ready and perfect to be Beholding’s next avatar, so of course this Creature which is a pure manifestation of Beholding would be interested in Jon — but he MISSES HIS CAT GODDAMNIT. They’re about to get into an UGLY custody battle.

(Elias refuses to even call the cat Oculus because he thinks the name Jon gave it is very silly. It’s a timeless ageless aspect of fear?? It doesn’t need a name?? It pisses him off SO bad that “”Oculus””answers to the name. Him hissing under his breath at it like ‘this is beneath you!!’ while Oculus gets belly rubs and treats because Yes I Am A Normal Cat Thank You Please Love On Me

You know who else is loves that thing? Michael 👀

Oculus’s preferred method of feeding, besides fetching the Archivist fresh Statements of course, is to stalk and Watch someone until they start to question their own sanity. Surely that can’t be the same stray cat watching you at both home and work. You’re on vacation in Mexico, that is NOT the same cat. It’s totally normal that that cat is watching you, right? Like, completely unblinkingly. You never see it move but one minute it’s watching you from somebody’s garden wall and then when you pass out of sight and round the corner now it’s watching you from someone’s porch and when did it get past you?? Also the owl perched on the tree outside your window at night can’t be the same as that cat but maybe they’re in cahoots (pun intended) because you SWEAR it has the same eyes and the damn thing won’t just LOOK AWAY FOR TWO SECONDS. You’re changing clothes in your room with the curtains drawn and you swear you can feel its eyes on you. Then you turn around and there’s a cat on your bed and you DON’T HAVE A CAT. But it’s watching you, purring lazily, and there’s a door in your room that you don’t remember being there, which the cat entered through. Surely you just forgot that you got a cat. Yes, that must be it. You lay down for bed and the cat — a sweet, cuddly thing — drapes itself on your chest, purring the entire time, and GOD it’s heavy, so heavy you can barely expand your chest to breathe under its weight, and it won’t stop staring at you. You’ve never seen it blink. Surely you’re losing your mind.

(Michael and Oculus take turns with the victims depending on what the person ends up most afraid of: the so-called “”cat”” itself, or the certainty that they’re losing their mind. Sometimes Oculus plucks their eyes out and eats them, then sucks the dreams from their head like marrow from a bone. Other times Oculus tempts them into Michael’s door with the most adorable little meows. Michael is always polite and drops his little friend back off in the Magnus Institute with a careful scratch behind the ears.)

Michael Shelley remembers that cat. He never pet it when he was Gertrude’s assistant, Gertrude barred everyone from interacting with it and some quiet primal instinct told him to listen to her. But he left out tuna for it and he never chased it away. And now that he’s the Distortion he gives the GOOD scritches. Plus, the little guy has quite the impish sense of humor! Whenever it wants to go somewhere it can’t easily fly to, it’ll meow plaintively at a blank stretch of wall until a door appears to take it to an ideal ambush site from which to prank its next victim (or Elias or the archival staff). It’s a symbiotic Eye & Spiral relationship!

Meanwhile the Archival staff do Not understand why Jon is so unconcerned by the “”cat””. They’ve seen the shapes its body makes when it’s half in shadow, out the corner of their eye. Felt the Weight of its gaze. They don’t like its strange eyes. Don’t like the way it follows Jon around. But he’s so smitten with the thing, and it acts so Normal around him like it’s trying not to scare him away.

Occulus, the weird cat that belongs to the Archives acting as it's ever watchful guardian. It's a very normal cat, we swear. (With @nopaintjustpain~~)

#tma #magpod #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #jon sims #the archivist #the watcher #friend art #my writing #collab

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blorbologist · 2 days ago

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I wish you would write a fic where Percy and Vex need to get warm.

Do with that what you will. (It is effing cold here so it’s on my mind) lol

This welcome has been, so nice and warm

900+ words | Gen | Perc'ahlia | TLOVM s3 and C1 compliant, set in the 1-year timeskip.

I wish you would write a fic where... prompt game

EDIT: Now cleaned up and on AO3!

Vex loves Percy. I mean, it’s a simple, straightforward fact. So much of him is reflected in Whitestone that it’s impossible not to love the city too.

She might just love it a bit less right now, though. Apparently something about turning Whitestone into a necromancer's paradise impacted weather patterns (guess it’s hard to raise undead in frozen ground?) - because Percy remarked, during Winter’s Crest last year, that it was an unusually balmy winter.

This one is not unusually balmy. It’s cold. It’s skin-prickling, hair-frosting, finger-tingling fucking oppressively cold.

Vex never knew it was even possible to be too cold for snow. But she’s definitely fucking familiar with the concept now!

It sure doesn’t feel like the Dawnfather smiles on her when the dawn was several hours late, and she woke up to several feet of snow, and to have any hope of catching anything she had to leave her very cozy bed and even cozier Percy.

Another thing to hate about this weather? Dressing up. Gone are the days of throwing on boots and bounding off for a hunt. She needs not one but two hosen on her legs, and a sweater and a jacket and a cloak on top, and gloves, and big huge boots that make her feel like the clumsiest thing in the whole fucking Alabaster Sierras if the rest of the outfit didn’t already accomplish that.

And a hat. A knit, tight hat that she has to drag over her ears or the points will freeze. It feels like she’s going deaf when she wears the thing.

After several hours of vigil in a tree - a third of them taken before sunrise when even that couldn’t warm her - Vex finally just gave up and trekked home. Because even for the Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt there was only so long she could fight off shivers to stay still. And feel every breath sharply. And watch her scarf and fur collar and stray strands of her own fucking hair slowly prickle with frost.

She must have frostbite. Even if her magic doesn’t seem to catch on any damage. She’ll get inside, take off her gloves, and see that her fingers are black and falling off and Pike will have to leave the bakery to put them back on.

Not like she has any use for those stupid fingers; they’re stiff with cold, and she doesn’t have any game to haul back.

Everything sucks even more knowing she - don’t forget, the Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt - didn’t even hunt anything. Not even a rabbit, or a turkey, or a glimpse of that Grey Render. Funny thing: the wildlife has the sense not to be out in this weather, even if she doesn’t.

(The worst part is that Trinket, for the first time in his whole life, has decided to hibernate. Because the Parchwood is the sort of place bears want nothing to do with when the days start to shorten. And it means that Vax is in Zephrah, where it never snows, and Trinket is soundly sleeping in the warmest part of her mansion, and Vex is out here alone.)

(It means there’s less body heat to keep her warm out here. Of course.)

Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt who sucks at hunting in the Parchwood for a third of the year. It’s times like these where she’s really giddy the mansion was completed not long after the first frost; she can avoid the (surely super judgemental) stares of the townsfolk.

She just… has to fight through knee-high snow to get back. Or awkwardly step through the tracks she left in the morning. Or test the thin sheet of ice on the top of the snow, make it a few strides before crashing through. And no matter what she does her socks end up cold and wet!

By the time the lights are in sight she’s exhausted, and sweaty, and pissed, and really itching to kill something. And above all else, freezing. It’s almost enough to dull the ire - almost.

A petty part of her heart hisses that she never, ever should have fallen in love with a clever, thoughtful, nerdy, proud, cynical, and extremely sexy man who happens to live where it gets fuckoff cold for a solid third of the year.

Except as she trudges closer, she can see his silhouette in the window. And the moment that interruption in the light jerk upright because he’s seen her, too.

Except he leaves that warm, cozy home they’ve made to meet her outside with his coat and slippers. And he kisses her burning cheek and steals her hunting gear and rambles about some idle nothing - and notes he’s got hot chocolate on the stove.

Except once they’re in the mudroom, and her cold skin prickles at how balmy it is in here, he’s taking her hands and warming them in his. And he’s taking off her boots and grimacing in sympathy at the packed snow and agreeing it’s awful out there, she’s entirely correct, and he’ll be sure to have those poor cold feet in his lap as soon as possible. Yes, by the fire, of course, he’s not a madman.

Except he’s so delighted to have her back, so happy to have an excuse to pamper her. And Percy, with an impish delight, cocoons her in thick blankets and tugs her along to the little nest he’s made by the hearth. And Vex, impossibly, falls a little more in love with him every time he leads her through this dance.

Because Percy, as a man of fuckoff-cold Whitestone, has getting warm down to a science, and Vex can almost forget she was ever cold in the first place.

(She has her own thoughts on how two lovers could warm eachother up, of course - but she did fall in love with a clever man.)

#CAN YOU TELL IM A VERY UN-CANADIAN CANADIAN. also extending sympathy to y'all in the USA experiencing *colder temperatures than me*#especially Katie. holy shit bud pls stay warm <3 and enjoy Vex being pissed as fuck at the cold. Southern-coded Byroden girl and all #critical role #tlovm #cr fanfic #tlovm fanfic #perc'ahlia #percahlia #percy de rolo #vex'ahlia #my writing #prompt game

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themultifandomgal · 3 days ago

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Jay Halstead- Your Job Will Be The Death Of You

The city of Chicago seemed to never sleep. Its streets brimming with the sounds of honking horns, the chatter of pedestrians, and the distant wail of sirens. It was alive. Jay Halstead had dedicated his life to serving and protecting its the people of Chicago. His fiancé YN worked a 9-5 job, meaning she spent a lot of time alone at home worrying about Jay when he was at work. She knew what she was getting herself into when she started to date Jay. She knew the risks. However Jay seemed to recently become increasingly more reckless.

Jay stood in the small cluttered break room, his fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee. His body ached. A few hours prior Jay had been involved in a high stakes chase after a suspect who had fled from a robbery. The adrenaline had surged through his veins as he sprinted after the man, his partner, Detective Hailey Upton, hot on his heels. But in the chaos, Jay had taken a hard fall, twisting his ankle painfully as he collided with a moving car. The injury had forced him to sit out the rest of the pursuit, watching helplessly as Hailey and the others apprehended the suspect without him. It was a bitter pill to swallow, one that gnawed at his pride. As he sipped his coffee Jay's thoughts drifted to YN, his fiancé. As much as Jay has been trying to hide his work he could sense that YN's concern for his safety was growing. The door to the break room swung open and Hailey stepped inside, her expression of concern

“You okay Halstead?” she asked leaning against the counter “that fall looked rough”

“Just a twisted ankle” Jay replied. Hailey raised an eyebrow, unconvinced

“You know you don't have to push yourself. We can handle things without you for a bit” Hailey had started to notice how Jay seemed to have this need to protect everyone. Jay shook his head, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface

“It's not that simple. I can't just sit back and let you all do the work. It's my job to be there, to protect our community”

“I get it” Hailey sighed, her gaze softening “but you also have to think about your health. You know YN will worry if she finds out you're pushing too hard”

At the mention of YN, Jay's heart sank

“I think she already knows” Jay sighs Before taking another sip of his coffee, letting the bitter taste wash over him

“It must be hard for her. Just don’t give her any more reasons to worry”

YN had been home fore a few hours before Jay got home that evening. As he entered the apartment, the familiar scent of vanilla enveloped him. YN was in the kitchen, her back turned to him as she stirred a pot on the stove. The sound of boiling water and the soft clinking of utensils filled the air. He leaned against the doorframe watching her for a moment feeling a rush of affection. Moving off the doorframe Jay hobbled over to her wrapping his arms around her

"Hey, babe” smiled as she continues to stir the contents in the pot “wash up for supper” Jay hobbles over to the sink, YN turns to face him, her smile falters “what happened?”

“It's nothing” Jay replied forcing a casual tone “just a little mishap at work”

“Jay you know I can't stand it when you brush things off like that. What really happened?”

“I dint drink enough and felt dizzy during a chase today. I twisted my ankle. Nothing serious, but it kept me from doing my job” Jay sighs giving in

“Jay” YN groans “ you know I will never tell you to leave your job or anything, I know you love it, but you need to take care of yourself. The moment you’re not feeling good you have to stop”

I know, but”

“No 'buts, Jay” she interrupted, her tone firm “you're not invincible”

He felt the tension building between them, the familiar push and pull of their differing perspectives

“I get that, but I can't just sit back and let others handle it. This is my career, YN. It's what I do”

"And I understand that, but the way you’re going your job will be the death of you. I have always known there’s a chance you may not come home, but when you’re the one being careless… do you think I don't worry about you every time you walk out that door? every time you're in a dangerous situation? you're not just a cop; you're my fiancé. I need you to come home safe and at the moment it it’s like you have a death wish”

“It was just a sprained ankle” yes and last week it was a bruised rib. What’s next week? I can’t sit back and watch you end up in hospital because you’ve been shot because of your own stupidity”

“I'm doing my job, YN! I can't just stop because you're scared”

“I'm scared because I love you!” she exclaimed, tears brimming in her eyes “I’m not asking you to give up your job for me, all I’m asking is your more carful. I don’t want you to end up in a body bag” hearing this come from his fiancés mouth jay sits at the kitchen table with a sigh “I can’t loose you Jay, I love you”

“I know I’ve not been careful recently and I’m sorry. I can’t promise you that I won’t come home hurt, this is my job YN and I can’t give it up, but I promise that I will always fight to come home to you. I love you so much YN” YN takes a seat opposite Jay taking his hand in hers giving it a little squeeze

“Just stop running into danger like your Ironman and start looking after yourself. I have to you that your on top form when going to work”

“I promise. I’m sorry for worrying you” jay stands up and walks run to YN placing many kisses on her head. YN places her hand on jays cheek and rubs her thumb. For YN and Jay this conversation was the start of Jay taking his time and not running into the cross fire.

#jay halstead x y/n #jay halstead x you #jay halstead x oc #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead x yn #jay halstead #jay halstead x reader #one chicago imagine #chicago pd imagine

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cha-melodius · 3 days ago

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30 for zahra/shaan for the hug prompts if it sparks joy <3

(Thank you for sending this one, I've never really written Zahra/Shaan from either of their POVs and it was a lot of fun. Not to mention this hug prompt was perfect for them. read all the hug ficlets)

30: The reluctant hug from someone who isn’t exactly a fan of physical affection.

The first time they see each other in person after the email leaks is when Henry goes to DC for Alex’s speech.

Usually, in a situation like this where they’re only interacting for work, neither of them would even think about letting any part of their relationship slip through. All the looks, all the touches, even a hint of personal conversation—that stuff is only let out when they’re off the clock. They’ve crammed a lot into two-day holidays over the last half a year, and even with what little pieces they get of each other, it’s worth it.

Today is different, though. He can see the toll that the leaks and their aftermath have taken on Zahra. Not just because of the political impact, though of course that is her job to deal with, but the personal one too. Zahra cares deeply about Alex, more than she’d ever admit to anyone. Shaan can tell, though. Could tell when he first heard the minute hitch in her breath over the telephone line. She feels responsible, just as he does. They couldn’t protect their charges, no matter how hard they tried.

Now, she’s running around as usual, barely sparing him a glance as she barks out schedules and timing. They’ve landed no more than a half an hour before Alex is due to speak, and it’s a mad rush, even when Alex and Henry disappear for ten minutes, no doubt to do things Shaan would rather not think about. It’s not until later that evening—they’re staying overnight, something he’d quietly insisted upon when they’d made these plans—that Shaan manages to actually catch her.

“Did you need something?” she asks brusquely. He knows better than to take it personally.

“Yes,” he tells her, equally business-like. “Can I speak with you privately for a moment?”

Her eyes flash like she knows what he’s up to. She probably does. Normally, he’d never attempt to request a private moment, even now when most of the White House has retired for the night, but there’s nothing about this situation that’s normal. For a moment he thinks she’s going to refuse, but then she gives a short nod and leads him through a random doorway.

“Ok, Srivastava, what is it? I don’t really have time—” she starts immediately, which is a lie because he personally heard Ellen Claremont say she didn’t need anything else from Zahra tonight.

“Zahra,” he interrupts softly, putting hand over one of hers.

She doesn’t pull away, which is a good sign. Or maybe a bad one. When she looks up at him, the conflict is plain on her face. “We can’t—” she starts. Stops and licks her lips, her lipstick still flawless this late at night. “Not here.”

“I know,” he reassures her. “I’m not asking for much. Just a hug.” She narrows her eyes at him, and Shaan lets his expression soften. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

Even in the moments when they can truly be alone together, Zahra isn’t much of a hugger. She won’t even initiate one on those rare occasions where she wants to be held, so Shaan has learned to detect such circumstances and then ask for one for himself. She always gives a little huff, like it’s a chore, though if she didn’t want to she’d just tell him no and walk away. Then she will reluctantly let herself be drawn into his arms, and only when her face is hidden against his neck will she allow her shoulders to relax. She’ll take a deep breath, her arms tightening around his waist, and he’ll hold her for however long she allows.

Today, Zahra needs a hug, and Shaan will do whatever he must to give it to her. It helps that it’s not a lie—Shaan really could use a hug himself, after everything.

He has to keep himself from smiling when she rolls her eyes and lets out her usual huff. The rest follows as he’s become accustomed to, though she holds him tighter and longer than he was expecting. Then she shocks him by murmuring, “I love you,” into the collar of his shirt. “Thank fuck you’re here.”

“I’m here, my love,” he breathes as he smooths a hand over her hair. “I’m here.”

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #zahra/shaan #shaan/zahra #rwrb fic #hug ficlets #my fic #ngl i made my own heart ache writing this one

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bronx-bomber87 · 5 hours ago

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Hello amazing fandom and happy Wednesday :) Episode 3 off we go! So grateful to have my happy place back. To be able to do these first impressions. I love not knowing a single thing about this season really. Rachel being in the recap blew my mind. Like what?! Love the shock. Had zero clue she would be here this season. Let us get started.

7x03 Out of Pocket

We hit the ground running in this ep. Grey yelling at them to come to his office in front of the entire bullpen.... Lucy calling him the troublemaker we all know he is this year. heh Also he is one perpetually now thanks to you my dear. Brought out his playful side long ago. It’s been here to stay ever since. Love Tim replying it’s a fair assumption. Not fighting her on this even a little bit. It's fantastic.

Will say I love how Tim naturally jumps on the grenade for her. Old habits die hard. Or never die at all…Lucy isn’t here for it though. Still a little bristly (rightfully so.) Also I'm sure she thinks it isn't a good look that he does. Commenting she doesn’t need him to protect her. Grey is bemused by them and their flirty fight, but does have to rein them in because of course he does. LOL You can tell he’s happy they’re acting this way even if it's driving him nuts.

Tim jumps into apology mode. Not wanting to ruffle her feathers. It truly is a hair trigger response from him to shield her. He can't help it. Like breathing for him. Grey basically calling them out for their work flirt. ‘A weird itch they need to scratch’ heh I mean it is. Their version of foreplay let's be honest. Lucy seems quite embarrassed he has pointed this out.

Tim on the other hand....He is cheeky af in this dressing down of their's. ‘We didn’t put any money on it.’ With a big ole smirk on his face haha Oh my lord. No shame in the game for him. Who are you and what have you done with Tim Bradford?

Lucy is taking it seriously af. Where this goob to her left is cracking jokes and what not. Her face kills me. Like what are you doing? Do love seeing him be lighter and not so serious about everything. It’s delightful. Therapy is doing him wonders truly. Now Lucy isn’t as airy as he is but that’s ok ha

Tim you so cute apologizing and saying why he tried to protect her. Needing to defend why he did as such. That, if they were going to go down, should be him, since it was his idea after all. Lucy is much kinder outside of Grey’s office though. Saying she said yes to the whole thing. So it's just as much on her as it is him.

Do adore her jumping right back into it with wanting to finish this out. That they still have time. This way they can check each others methods. Lucy continuing the work flirt of their's. I am down. The smiles on these goobers I cannot. Lucy’s face when he walks away. My goodness you still love that man. *happy sigh * I love these idiots.

Rachel out of nowhere. Oh my lord. Do love these recalls to previous season's we're getting this year I have to say. Characters and all. Seems like they’ve kept in touch. First thing I thought was wondering about that. I had questions running through my head at her return. Like she must know Lucy dated Tim? Does she know how madly in love she was with him? (and still is...)

Sucks N.Y. chewed her up and spit her back out. Man it’s a trip to see her. From another life. Truly. S2 feels like it was eons ago. They were much different people back then. When Rachel said she hadn't contacted Lucy in 6 months....Knew that meant she didn't know of the emotional horror our girl went through.

Thus begins the digging up of wounds that have yet to heal. Detective exam and Tim..... Oooh boy. The two pillars that nearly broke her. Kinda glad for her asking about it in a way. I wanna see where Lucy truly is emotionally right now. Been having a feeling it's not great under the surface.

The fact Lucy is now trauma dumping shows she isn’t ok. Which of course she isn’t. She had a trio of trauma last season. Between detective, Tim and Tamara. The way Lucy says Tim broke up with her…. Ugh my heart. A wound that hasn’t healed for this fandom either. It's not going till until this is hashed out and reconciled.

‘Screw him. He’s an idiot right?’ *sigh* I mean a good response for Rachel though. It's what you say to a friend going through that. ‘It’s all for the best…’ Is it though? Oh my girl still wanna hug you and make you better. That has not gone away since 6x07.

Tim comes up not expecting his past to be standing there. He pulls out the Sanford Smile we haven't seen in awhile lol The one where he's clearly uncomfortable and his smile isn't reaching his eyes. You can tell he is confused and slightly unsettled. I mean they didn't end on the best terms after she started her life in N.Y. Now here she is in the station next to his girl. What a trip for him.

‘She ghosted me.' 'Yeah that’s her thing…’ We never did see what happened there. She was all in for long distance then she was gone just like that. Tim did a good job pretending he was happy to see her. The Oscar goes to you my love.

Poor Ridley is shaking in his boots. On edge waiting for a 'Tim test.' But he was prepped by Lucy in a way Tim wasn't expecting. Seth has his 'I’ve been shot answer.' right away. Too quickly really. Tim is sus af. Grilling him if Lucy warned him? It does explain why he was looking out the windshield as they were driving LOL Tim asking what else she told him?

Oh my word she recited chunks of her trauma training to Seth. Majority of her s1 ones at that. Except for the flour bomb. I’m dying. These call backs to s1-s2 are making me giddy to no end I have to say. She really dug in their archive to tell him about Wrigley. I'm laughing so hard. Tim is shaking his head so hard and I’m cackling. Playing dirty Lucy….’Ok I just have to get more inventive.’ He is not pleased LMAO Legit undermined him.

Texas instantly putting his foot in his mouth with Lucy. I was wondering if he thought be easier with Lucy. Or he thought he could charm his way into her being lenient. But he has never met Lucy Chen....Learns quickly how much that was not going to fly with her. I love Lucy putting him in his place immediately about 'darlin.’ That isn't going to stand for even a second with her. She makes sure he knows that.

The banter is PRIMO when Tim arrives. We get to see protective Tim arrive on scene again with Miles. I love it. Lucy doesn’t stop him this time. Knowing Texas needs it from both barrels if it's going to stick with him. But mainly I just love Tim immediately not having it with that shit for her. Any bravado remaining is squashed by Tim calling Penn 'Darlin' hehe

This is a mini moment that made very happy. You defend her Tim! Immediately protected his girl from Grey’s clutches about the rookies not listening. Gimme. I'll take this all damn day. That innate reaction to protect her is deeply ingrained in this man. I love it so much I could cry. Lucy once again not stopping him. Appreciative he has her back in this moment. The little things is how we inch our way back.

Poor Lucy so worried this will be another black mark against her career. Regardless of who won this is a loss for them. Adore Tim being positive with her. Saying as long as they don’t fire them, they have a chance to turn them around. Make them into good cops if given that chance. Love this. Look at Tim being the positive one. Only for his girl. Lucy looking to him for answers makes me happy. Asking what their chances really are? ‘Slim to none….’ Heh helpful babe real helpful.

It is nice to see Lucy catch up with Rachel. This is an ally we forgot she had. One that was far away in N.Y. So it's nice they get to reconnect. Not only that but be very mature about it. Especially about Tim. Celina getting a history lesson on the side is a hilarious bonus. lmao Frigging adored Rachel's 'Well yeah.' Like of course we would be friends still. Emotional maturity. Love to see it.

I love love love Rachel seeing Tim and Lucy were the better match. Rather than her and Tim. Doesn't even hesitate to bring that up in their convo. I said it many times in my s2 reviews. Forever grateful for the path she set Tim on. She was his first post divorce relationship. A Lucy 2.0 to get him ready for his soulmate.

Rachel is the fandom when she makes her comment about their break up. Trust me Rachel none of us expected the emotional devastation that was last year….it’s been 9 months and I’m still not over it tbh. Idk I'll be over it until they have reconciled. It's the gut punch none of us have really recovered from.

Lucy just breaking my heart all over again. Saying she made all these moves for them to be together. Only for it to blow up in her face. *sad sigh* You sure did.... Our boy has A LOT to make up for. That it taught her to just focus on her career. I mean I truly hoping that is the case this season for her. That we can some true clarity for her career. Nothing I want more (other than a reunion.) ‘No more messy station romances.' Sure sure mmhmm....

Those boys are LUCKY. They are trending online in a positive way or their asses would be grass. The defiance cannot be overlooked. I love Tim/Lucy standing next to each other as they back Grey. The little things I love so much. Forever in awe of insane amount of physical chemistry they have just standing next to one another.

The lack of personal space never a thing with them. It makes me happy to see it. Post 6x06 the physical distance could be FELT between them in every scene till 6x09. Felt like the Grand Canyon for awhile. So this is so nice to behold. Once again the little things that make me so happy. We're on the slow road to healing.

I wanna get into this scene and what it represents to me. I did always wonder what happened between them. After 2x20 she just fell off never to be heard from again. So this was nice to get. Tim can claim he didn't need closure but he did. This scene is an olive branch from Rachel to Tim. Just like when Isabel came back in 5x20. The return meant to be a healing one. Nothing more. Took guts for her to do this. If she wants back in Lucy's life Tim comes with that. Breakup or not. She knows this. Best to smooth this over before she can rebuild her life.

Do I find Rachel a threat? No. No I don't. Why you ask? Because this isn't 13th grade. These are grown ass adults. This isn't a H.S. or Teen drama. Just because she came back doesn't mean trouble for Chenford. Hell the woman even said Lucy was the better fit for him. One of the biggest complaints I saw last season was Lucy's support system. Someone who was in it has returned. This is a wonderful thing for Lucy. A win she so deserves. I just wanted to be the voice of reason in case anyone the fandom was worried with this scene.

That man could not be more in love with Lucy Chen if he tried. And vice versa. He is kind and courteous with Rachel. To me, mainly because post-therapy, Tim can see when someone is trying to make amends. Hell it's what he's trying to achieve everyday with Lucy. Also like to note it's not his mega watt Lucy smile. That is reserved only for his girl. But it is a 'second chance' smile. Like Lucy stated earlier in the ep. A second chance is a clean slate. This is just that if she is going to be in Lucy's life again. I'll be intrigued if she makes another appearance or not. We shall see. Every ep we are one step closer to them healing some more. I cannot wait to see what 7x04 brings.

As always. Thank you to the amazing readers I have. Your likes, comments and reblogs mean everything to me. Truly comment away I love it. As long as its respectful I adore chatting about this season as we go along. Shall see you all next week :)

~~~~

Side notes

Tim being the cold open. And breaking through Nolan's security system. I cackled so hard. Then is a sexy beast leaning against his bookcase. Pops a soda. Never wanted to be a can so much before.... ‘That’ll owe you two more Lakers tickets.’ LOL I love this man.

Poor Wes is gonna implode. Every time he hears that detectives name he shudders. Losing it a little more each time.

With the ladies saying let nature take its course with Jason. HA I'm with them. But of course Nolan being a boring boy scout won’t do it that way.

Anyone else think it’s weird Nolan doesn’t wear his wedding ring? I would hate if Tim didn’t wear his after their wedding.

Also going without backup after this guy. Like this man hasn’t learned at all from his mistakes. Do you not remember s2 you dope? Balian's reunion was as lackluster as they are. Welcome back Bailey. I did not miss you madam sorry ha

#Caitlin's First Impressions #chenford #The rookie 7x03 #7x03 Out Of Pocket #the rookie #tim bradford #lucy chen #tim x lucy #lucy x tim #s7 #tim bradford x lucy chen

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transfemme-shelterdog · 8 hours ago

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One of Many Experiences with Transandrophobia (TW: Medical Trauma):

Went to a Planned Parenthood clinic because I was told it was a 'safe' place for trans people to access care. At the time it was the ONLY place in my town and within 75 miles that trans people could access care.

Had an appointment for a pap smear, which PP said I HAD to have done before I could get an HRT appointment. Had been assured that the clinic was very up to date on working with trans clients. Had been very clear about my gender identity and my overall discomfort with having a pap smear done due to previous sexual trauma.

Appointment started off normal, until it suddenly wasn't. The OBGYN decided it was the perfect time while she was poking around and up in my body to start talking about how "beautiful the female reproductive system is", and starts talking, in vivid detail, about how my genitalia looked, and how healthy it was, and how it would be such a shame for me to ruin it with transition, and how atrophy would make sex painful for me, and how I wouldn't be able to have children if I did the unthinkable and got a hysterotomy.

It was so incredibly triggering, and I was frozen for the rest of the appointment because I felt incapable to doing anything since I was up in the stirrups and in a vulnerable position. This woman knew I had trauma she still fucking pulled that shit on me. To this day, I still feel like she did what she did to me because of my trauma - like she thought doing this would be a sure fire way to get me to not want to transition.

I tried lodging complains about the experience about a week after that happened, but the complaints went nowhere. I was told I must have "misunderstood" what I'd been told, and MAYBE it was because of my previous sexual trauma, or MORE LIKELY I'd been dysphoric during the appointment so I clearly must be remembering in wrong! And after getting gaslit about it so hard, I've never had an exam since. I'd honestly rather get surprise cancer and have that take me than ever experience something so gross and demeaning again.

To add insult to injury: When I tried talking about the experience at the local trans support group (where it was totally normal to talk about discrimination members experienced) I got shut down because the group was 6 trans women to 2 trans men on that particular day and they had a vote on if I could talk about it, and the vote ended up 6 against 2. I was told that as a man, it wasn't okay to talk about that particular type of medical trauma, because only the women in the room were allowed to talk about medical trauma around their genitalia.

I ended up dropping out of that 'support' group because it was clear there was no actual support available for trans men in attendance - we were expected to be good listeners and to support the trans women in attendance unconditionally, but not to talk about our personal lived experiences if they were negative - we could only talk about the happy, twee things! So validating! /s

I also came to find out later that the PP location I went to predominately worked with trans women - MTF HRT was made available about 5 years before they started selectively doing FTM HRT (that's a whole other story) - and after comparing notes with a few other guys, came to realize the handful of us trans men that went there were treated like freaks.

I would like to think that time passing would have made it possible to talk about this, as it happened to me in 2017, but over the years when I've attempted to discuss issues trans men have accessing medical care and the trauma we can experience trying to do so, and use this example as shit I've experienced that should never happen, I STILL get shut down.

I've been made fun of, told "that didn't actually happen", or my transness and/or my identity as man gets questioned/belittled/turned into a joke by both trans and cis women. I had one lesbian (a former friend now for fucking good reason) joke that "maybe she (the OGBYN) thought you were a lesbian and was trying to hit on you!"

Same thing has happened when attempting to talk about sexual assault and intimate partner violence - talking about/admitting to having that experience has gotten pointed to as me being a "man trying to talk over women's experiences", or as a "sign" I'm not ACTUALLY a man, because those things don't happen to men.

So when people say that trans men don't need a term to talk about the kinds of shit we deal with that is unique to our identities and experiences, and they mock us for using the term "transandrophobia"?

I want to spit bullets.

(Cue the haters saying I'm a monster and 'dangerous violent man' for saying so.)

#transandrophobia #ta testimony

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greenerteacups · 2 days ago

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Jkr as a writer anon, sorry for the follow up!

I so agree with you! One of the things that I found kind of… not smooth in this transition, is that she wanted the characters to behave in a certain way which would serve the plot and would be very “we knew all along that Harry is a messiah and was supposed to die” while never giving them space for reaction.

Snape is shocked at the revelation that Harry was “brought up like a pig for slaughter”, and he does… nothing. Characters have no time to react to that, too, they have no time to get angry and upset. Hermione and Ron are not even allowed to contemplate that their best friend, a very precious and loved friend, was brought up so that he could sacrifice himself, and that in aligning themselves with him they also became in the eyes of Dumbledore fair targets. An orphan, a sixth Weasley boy and a muggleborn walk into a bar, and no one cares.

I always felt like Sirius was not supposed to die this early. There are empty spaces where his character should have been in later books (regulus mystery feels like something very glaring, no one reacts to that, there is no emotional pay off - that’s what I mean).

And at the end she just slaps Harry calling his kid after Snape and Dumbledore, to shut the plot hole completely. Idk. Feels very… authoritarian to me

So it's really interesting you say that!! Because — and you may know this, so sorry if I'm rehashing — Sirius was only one of several names on the shortlist for the Big Death at the end of Book 5. Miscellaneously it's been said in fandom spaces that Arthur was the "original sacrifice" for OOTP, but to be honest, I can't find any primary sources for that, and I think it's one of these fandom urban legends that people have been shopping around without sources for so long they're accepted. The best I can do is this Leaky Cauldron interview from 2007, where the interviewer asks her "what would have changed if you killed Arthur in Book 5?" Which is not the same thing as her saying that she was going to! But then again, since it's an excerpt, it might have been in response to a remark she made earlier about him being the original. Here's the quote:

I think they would have been very different and it’s part of the reason why I chose my mind (sic) … By turning Ron into half of Harry, in other words by turning Ron into someone who had suffered the loss of a parent, I was going to remove the Weasleys as a refuge for Harry and I was going to necessarily remove a lot of Ron’s humor. That’s part of the reason why I didn’t kill Arthru (sic). I wanted to keep Ron in tact …

Take that as you will. I (a sicko freak) personally love the idea of turning Ron into "half of Harry," conceptually — not necessarily by killing Arthur or Molly but like, the idea of Ron/Harry as foils to each other that are so deeply entwined with each other's lives that they become shadows of each other thematically and plot-wise. Ron yearns to be like Harry and Harry yearns to be like Ron, right? So they both get what they want, and Ron suffers a tragedy, and Harry realizes the terror of having a family to protect. And they trauma-bond over it as they increasingly become the only people who understand each other. Etc. They're destiny, they're chosen soulmates, they're fated to find each other, that's not always a good thing, etc. You know what I'm like.

Incidentally, this is the same interview where we get the infamous "full circle" quote explaining why she killed Lupin and Tonks:

The only other reason I didn’t kill Arthur was that I wanted to come full circle. We started with an orphan, someone who lost their parents because of the war. ANd so I wanted to show it again … Even though you don’t see Teddy, I wanted to express in the epilogue, that he gets an even better godfather than Harry had, because Sirius had ihs (sic) faults, I think we must admit. He was a risky guy to have a s a godfather. Because Teddy gets someone who really has been there, and Harry becomes a really great father figure for Teddy as well as his own children.

So both times, it seems like Arthur's death is contemplated, but he's spared because of what the Weasleys mean to Harry, and the effect it would have on Ron. Which. I've already talked about my thoughts on the Epilogue and Teddy Lupin, so I won't go off about it here. Worth noting, however, that Sirius dies because Book 5 (and this I agree with) wants an "anchoring death," or something to shift the books another step into the dark tone of a war. Book 4 ends with the death of a child; Book 5 ends with death of a parent, an adult. Book 5 is also substantially about disillusionment with the adults around you, and learning to navigate a world of complex, flawed grown-ups who all have substantially more power than you do. So there's a reading where Sirius — someone who's never really "grown up" — dying drives home the lesson of putting childish things aside and seeing people for what they are, etc. Thematically, I'm not mad at it. I am mad at the fact that plot-wise, it bricks up our easiest window into the world of the Blacks, so any first-hand account we could get of Regulus or Narcissa or Bellatrix's upbringing vanishes with him. Tonks and Andromeda theoretically could fill that void, but we never meet Andromeda, and Tonks dies after spending the whole of Book 7 off-page, so we never get that chance to learn what their lives were like. But hey! Can't do everything, I guess.

#greenteacup asks

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unproduciblesmackdown · 2 months ago

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really also wendy's "good ending" centering around a beautiful (presumably terrible as usual) Family(tm) Meal is sure like, an expression of that idea that it's beautiful & not terrible of Superiors to just pay any kind of attention to their Inferiors....wendy gets to have family dinner As Deserved because these are Her Kids who have gotta show up when she feels like it's family dinner time, not even a question that they wouldn't. and despite that, even as the "good" parent of the two, wendy's attention to her children is of the "minimal maintenance / occasional Exceptional demand" kind, it sure Is that "good" that wendy chooses to do any of that ever, or to be like okay we're having this family meal now with me because i want that. like it was Good that chuck sr. wants to do whatever he does to his son because, right there, that's His Kid, so. family as a hierarchy is definitely beautiful, why not psuedo marriages like when some epic guy with true claims to being a Real Man is like yeah sure i guess i want to have this woman, therein lies perhaps some beautiful redemption for that man if this woman is magnanimous & not like too inadequate or selfish as to not motivate him to Better himself, or not Try to do so. wendy sure won't break with axe fully ever no matter what, which would've been selfish of her (had to be a reason she didn't go to superhell with him that Didn't damage his ego, as is apparently always the case in turning down any winner around here. Taken For Granted you will of course grant them access to whatever they want, like dragging you along on their banishment when like, has this guy talked to his ex wife about his kids before doing this? who knows. or that one kid he projected on? well that doesn't count, nice of you to do the Performance of being unconditional support man, but no problem if you forget he exists. that's not Your Kid in any way that's supposed to play into your power like Your Family (ft. kids you own))

#only kind of breaking with this in axe Actually materially & in spirit supporting taylor going off & doing their own thing. last second.#wendy supports this insofar as she has forgotten taylor exists / is not interested like whatcha doing lately. great. don't tell her #wags just also Definitely stays after s5 because uhhh. scooter never breaks with prince until he's taken down anyway; great #& can walk away himself b/c Family protected him after him just no problem like yeah i believe in this guy So Much i'll consider murders #in between explaining he's not racist while he's right there to explain that for himself i'm sure. while redditors go why was this gay #just little Nonstop Backup Sidekick Eternal Enabling ''partner'' things there for sure. what; like how women are supposed to do?#obviously we just Assume rian has no issue w/taylor forgetting she exists. & that's correct. taylor who also Must see her off though #just Good Dynamics on billions.series #winston billions #meanwhile if you're as inferior as winston you can get another Gracious Gift of Contempt on your way out #and then taylor will lead the way hurting you (only to then take a back seat b/c wags is Superior) & rian need only be asked to twice #while there's about half a dozen reasons she should be upset at wags &/or taylor over that but no. & she's now forgotten winston exists #which; yes; is fine as usual. if you're barely less inferior? you're so Peersy as usual that maybe you live together now. nobody cares #as per ben & tuk like eugh the kind of Cringe Gay dynamic men who aren't Tough Enough deserve. wendy's ''care'' for everyone is #beautiful; in that she forgets they exist but wants to be god of their life whenever she feels like it. ben & tuk caring about each other #when they don't Have to as part of some Status Difference & when they care about Others & want to hug them? Bitches in a Bad way #wendy's a girlboss who wouldn't care about Feelings the way that the Ungirlbosses do. she cares abt superior mens' & then telling others #what their feelings should be & what to do with them. & she cares about Feeling like she should get to have dinner with her kids today

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bi-writes · 2 months ago

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an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…” You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…” You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived?

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays.

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!ghost #dark!simon

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aliceinborderlandsquidgame · 24 days ago

Text

One hell of a team | In-ho x Wife!Reader |

Summary: You will follow your husband anywhere.

Warnings: S2 Spoilers - Violence - Different back story for In-ho - Blood - Death - Use of (Y/N) - Reader gets called "love" -

The Frontman, the man with the most power within the island, to who the guards obey without question.

Was currently trembling under his wife poited look.

"You want to enter the games?" You asked him, your tone cold and almost jugdmental.

In-ho calmed himself down. It was an idea that stayed with him after the death of the Chairman and even mor with how player 456 had insisted the last two years in finding them. He had played before and won, he knew how terrible others could be, he had walked out like a new man, used the money for himself and you. Never really gave much thoguht on how life were lost.

But, for some reason he wanted to go again.

"Im going with you"

His glass of wishky fell onto the floor, the loud crash did nothing to bother you while you ate.

"No, thats not happening. I need you here to control the games and guards" In-ho started trying to get a valid reason to why you defenetly should not come.

"Oh, you need me to? Well I need you here. With me. With our family. How do you think I would do seeing you there ? I still remember how you got when you came back from these the first time"

"That was different" The Frontman said taking a deep breath "I wont be just one more player, it will be like when the Chairman went in"

"That still does not ease my mind" (Y/N) responded "Till death do us a part and follow you anywhere" you recited showing him your weeding ring. "Remember?"

In-ho felt his chest got thight at the sight and the memory of the small yet full of love weeding you two had back when life was more simple.

"Alright, you can come with me. Its not like you would wait for my approval" he responded smiling at the end "But no one must know that we are married, you understand that ?" He added now serious

"Of course, its what makes more sense, we will just casually meet there and see how it plays" You nodded to him "And please, better clean up that glass before someone steps on it"

"On it, love"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

For the most part pretending not to know each other was easier than expected. While you knew the guards knew who you two were you were still a bit scared. Specially during the green and red light, since both of you had got separated and now you were froze in your spot.

"You need to move" In-ho said from behind his arm playing along "Follow me in the next sing, alright? Just take my hand"

"Im scared, im sorry" You said feeling guilty over wanting to be there with him and starting to fail on the first game no less.

"I know, I was too. But im here, just follow me"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

You had to hide your smirk when he pressed the circle to go on with the games, you knew he would do it just to piss off Player 456 and make things more cahotic.

He went with the rest and stood besides you trying himself not to smile at you.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The first approach to Gi-huns team was tense to say the least. You two had voted circle and even worse In-ho had been the vote that ended the tie.

But with his own charisma and yours you two got to be on his good side.

Till In-ho decided to talk, really you sometimes forgot who sassy he could be.

"And some picked umbrella?" He asked faking suprise when he had seen it on first hand. "Most of them died I assume"

You could see the look on player 456 and decided to be more sensitive

"Hey, dont be like that. Im sure they went in blind and did not know what it was about" You said keeping a safe distance so no one would think you two were together or knew each other before the games.

In-ho was having too much fun.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

That first night they both were in their respective beds. Still keeping their false relationship. However once (Y/N) was sure all were asleep she went towards In-ho who was awake like he knew she would be coming to him.

"Are you alright?" He asked in a whisper, worried that for her this would be too much.

"Im fine, I wanted to see if you were fine"

He nodded not saying a thing but taking her hand.

"Also, I saw you break that fight, really ? When did you even learn to do that ?" This made him smile and hold her hand thighter "Really! I only see you in your office all the time"

"You think I would come in here without knowing how to defend myself or you?"

She smiled at him, blushing in the dark. "No....I just thoguht all you did was be in your office and give orders"

In-ho rolled his eyes "Just wait till we are out of here, i will show you just how fit im"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The six legs game was both a chaos and funny. Honeslty you could not help yourself on hugging him and player 456 (who was slowly getting on your soft side) as you saw a team win.

However the shoots that came for these who did not survive were too much. You would swear In-ho gave the guards a cold stare because you would flinch sometimes.

"Hey, dont worry they wont shoot the ones who havent played" Player 456 reassured you with a calm tone

You nodded, knowing that even if you lost they wont shoot you or In-ho. It was still sweet to see him trying to calm you down.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"Not a word" He said during the night when you two were able to talk again.

"I was not going to say a thing, but you did in on purpose or were you really missing ?"

In-ho closed his eyes knowing you would later get the recording of him missing during the game and use it against him.

"It was all planned" he said trying to sound as convincing as he could.

"Whatever you say Honey"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The game of making pairs gave you nausea because of the carousel kept spinning around. And the rounds were stress again. The worse part was getting separated from In-ho who find you seeing how two players were dragging you so they could have the number they needed.

You havent see him get that angry in years, his protective self being on as he pulled one from the neck and punched the other one.

He kept punching almost forgetting there was a game you two were supposed to play.

"Leave him we still need two more" You urged only for a guard to shove two confused and scared players besides you and In-ho.

"We got them" He assured getting your hand and going to one room.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"In-ho!! (Y/N)!!" The worried screams of Gi-hun filled the place as he looked for both of you.

Even if he had promised to try and dont get attached to new players and survive he could not help but feel a connection with both of you.

"Gi-hun!" In-ho's voice called making him look over and see him coming towards the rest with you by hand something that made him curious but decided not to ask.

"Im glad to see you two alright" Gi-hun said seeing just a few bruises on you, and noticing blood on In-ho knuckles.

You catched his eyes and went to explain "He saved me" you told the rest looking at them then at In-ho who was looking back at you "I would have not made it otherwise"

The look of love you two shared was so genuine, some wonder if you two were together but trying to be discrete to protect yourselfs.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"They will most likely attack us tonight" Gi-hun explained as he showed the fork the guards had left when the food was given.

The idea only assented itself when the men returned from the bathroom, with blood on them.

"And what do you propuse us to do?" In-ho asked all of the Xs were in a circle trying to listen to what Gi-hun had to say.

Gi-hun told the others his plan, honestly you thoguht it was nusts, it wont work. They were far suprassed on numbers but you had to shut yourself up.

You could tell your husband was both amazed by it and even kind of respecting it. Or at least that what he showed to him. He needed Gi-hun's trust after all.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"Hide well" In-ho said besides you in a low tone "We can trust the guards but till they get here we cant trust the others"

You nodded knowing that very well since this was a typical phase of the game for years.

"We will be safe" You said holding his shoulder. "Do what you have to do, dont worry about me" You tried to make him feel at ease but he could not. The only thing that scared him more than anything were the other players trying to get to you.

"Just hang in there" He responded his forehead against yours.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The fight was on its hot spot. The players were killing each other without a second thought.

Nothing like living it, even if you have seen this type of thing multiple times. Its was unnerving to see them just going at each others troath. The screams and cries were too much for a moment, the dark did nothing to help.

Thats when you felt it. Someone had dragged you out from under the bed and was now on top of you. You saw the player move their left hand ready to Strike at you. You tried to punch and defend yourself but the person on top was too strong.

A cold scream left your mouth as the fork pierced your shoulder.

You could not help it, the adrenaline and anxiety was getting on you.

"In-ho! In-ho help me please" You screamed for him, your husband the love of your life.

"Shut up, the next one will be your neck" The person said and for a moment you saw it. Dying in here and leaving In-ho.

Till you felt the person being pushed and the screams of them. You blinked trying to make sense.

It was In-ho, he had taken the fork from the player and was now piercing the neck of the player, not even leaving a chance for them to survive.

"GO HIDE NOW!!" In-ho ordered, he being scared himself and angry. He saw red when you were dragged and it was for the brutal grip Gi-hun had on his arm that he did not move faster.

You did as told getting under another bed and making sure no one could reach you.

"You fucking scum! How dare you lay hands on my wife" In-ho almost screamed too angry to see that the player was now dead. All his face and hands where covered in blood.

"Stop it!! They are dead, we need to continue the plan, the lights will be back soon" Gi-hun said taking him and pulling him away from the dead player.

"Get (Y/N), and be ready" Gi-hun told him trying to keep himself calm even when he was close to jump over and save you and In-ho. He wondered if he had hear it right, you were his wife?

In-ho did not waste time, searching for you in the dark till he noticed you. He went quick, pulling yourself out from the bed telling you its was him.

"Shh shh its me, its over dont cry Love" He said trying to make you feel better.

"In-ho?" He nodded and you cried harder "In-ho I was so scared"

"I know love I know, just a bit more alright? It will be over soon. Listen once the guards come in and we follow Gi-huns plan do not come. Someone will come and get you"

"Im going with you, im not leaving you in a bullet fight!"

"You know nothings gonna happen to me, I want you here, safe, alright?"

Finally you accepted.

"I love you In-ho"

"I love you too Love"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

As In-ho had said when the guards got back after the fight one took you, Player 120 tried to protest but was put back in her place by other guard.

"You are under suspect of have been part of the riot. You are now eliminated from the games"

The guard said playing his role, starting to get you out of the room while you screamed following the act.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

"Apologies Madam, orders from the Front Man" The guard said bowing once you two were outside and out of reach from the others players.

Even if you were still breathing hard you nodded. "Dont worry, just take me to him". The guard nodded.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

He knew he was needed in the control room but refused to let you alone like that. He went to your share room, his heart broke at your image, bruises and blood over you. A guard was checking your shoulder but left after he order them to.

Silence fell over both of you as he went to you and hugged you careful not to hurt your shoulder.

He removed his mask to look at you properly.

"Im sorry, I should have never let you come, I should have stopped this sooner" He said with pain in his voice

"Dont blame yourself, I told you I was going in with you. This was not your fault In-ho" You reassured him feeling sad and worried over him.

"I cant not blame myself" He gently passed his hand over your cheeck "You are the best thing in my life and I almost lost you because of my own desires, never again"

You two kissed softly grounding yourselfs. You two were safe and together nothing else matters from now. Only the love and devotion you two had for each other.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

#squid game imagine #squid game x y/n #squid game x reader #front man x reader #the front man x reader #in-ho x reader

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not-neverland06 · 5 months ago

Text

n a s t y d o g I logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader

One-shot A/N: I've never felt this way about a fictional character before. Every gif I see of him has me gnawing and biting at the bars of my enclosure. I want to bite him. If Hugh Jackman ever discovered what thoughts lurk inside my rotted brain about him he'd get a restraining order. This isn't OKAY Anyways... Summary: You'd thought you'd had a good thing going with Logan. You weren't officially anything to each other, but you were getting close. You truly saw a future with him, but he made it incredibly clear he did not feel the same 18+ HATE FUCKING (MDNI)

(one chance please, just one chance with him)

“Are you sure this isn’t totally clingy girlfriend of me?”

Ororo gives you an irritated look and Jean laughs. “Not at all, Scott loves it when I surprise him like this.” You’re all huddled in your room, each of you in varying stages of getting ready. Jean is finishing off her eyeliner at your vanity, Ororo is putting on her boots, and you’re trying to decide between a skirt and a dress.

You’re not entirely sure how, or why, Logan and Scott decided to go to the bar together tonight. You suspect it has something to do with Jean. She wants them to start getting along so there’s less friction when you’re all around each other.

At Jean’s idea, Logan had muttered, “When hell freezes over,” in your ear before he had left for the night. You’d gotten a little antsy without him to entertain you and had mistakenly blurted out the idea of going to visit them. Ororo had been dying to get out of the house and Jean was a little worried about her boyfriend as well. They’d agreed to go along with you and you’ve felt a weight in your stomach ever since.

Your relationship with Logan was relatively new. Hell, a month ago you’d thought he’d hated you the same he did Scott. You’d, of course, been proven wrong when you’d had a few drinks with him and things had taken a very physical turn.

You weren’t sure if he’d just wanted a one-night stand or something serious. But when you’d tried to sneak out the next morning and he’d muttered a grumpy, “Where’re you going?” You’d gotten your answer.

You hadn’t been on any real dates, there didn’t ever seem to be time for them. But you spent most of your days together. Sometimes just silently enjoying each other’s company, other times you would be holed up in one of your rooms cuddling. The thought always brings a stupid lovesick grin to your face.

It’s one of your first real relationships and you’re worried that things are moving a little too fast. At least on your end. You can already tell that you’re falling for him. Headfirst into the deep end of love. And it’s terrifying because you truly cannot tell what he thinks about you. Clearly, he likes you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t let you follow him around like a lost puppy.

But he’s never truly said anything to you. There’s no official label as to what you two are. You say girlfriend off-handly and you usually don’t mean it when you reference yourself. You’ve never outright said he’s your boyfriend and he’s never really claimed you. He’s made it explicitly clear he doesn’t want you sleeping with other men, and you’ve said the same to him about women. You both agreed on that, but…

You kind of drive yourself crazy trying to figure this out. He’s not vocal about his feelings and everything’s still new so you don’t like pressuring him. You also worry that if you push him too far he’ll just get tired of you and move on. It’s not fair to assume that of him, and you know everything would be better if you just talked to him. But you’re scared. You’re scared the conversation will take the wrong direction and everything will blow up in your face.

Jean calls your name and your head shoots up to see both Ororo and Jean looking at you expectantly. You flush when you realize they must have been talking to you and you’d just completely zoned out thinking about Logan.

“Huh?” You blurt out, cringing at how dumb you sound.

Jean gives you a concerned look, “I can practically taste your anxiety.” The telepath frowns and offers you a comforting smile. “Don’t worry about it, I promise, Logan won’t mind at all.”

“You’re fine,” Ororo adds, because clearly the look on your face screams, I need constant validation. They’re not wrong, but still, you hate feeling like an exposed bundle of nerves. “Think of it as girl’s night, the boys just happen to be there.”

You force a smile on your face and give your most enthusiastic nod. You change into the dress and finish up with your hair. You finally start chatting with them again, engaging so it might disguise just how nervous you feel.

There’s this clenching feeling, traveling from your stomach up to your chest. It makes you sick, makes you hurt. And it’s not because you think Logan will be upset with you for crashing. He’d be relieved, if anything. There’s something else. Premonition isn’t one of your abilities, but you’re seriously starting to doubt that now.

The bar is loud when you walk in. The soles of your shoes immediately start to stick to the floor and your nose screws up in disgust at the loud laughter coming from around the pool tables. You glance around, trying to see if you can spot Logan.

You’d say you could spot him in any crowd. But has a propensity to hunker down and try to attract as little attention as possible so people don’t bother him. “There he is,” Jean taps your shoulders and points to the two men at the end of the bar.

Like you’d thought, Logan is hunched over his whiskey, glowering down at the wood under him like it had insulted him. You almost want to laugh at the sight. Some of the earlier anxiety eases its grip on you and you feel your shoulders begin to untense.

Before you can walk over Ororo grabs Jean’s wrist. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” she tugs Jean behind her.

Jean looks over her shoulder at you and smiles encouragingly, “Go to them, we’ll catch up in a second.” You give her a tentative nod and slip through the crowd. There are more people here than you thought there would be.

You’re happy not to spot any kids in the crowd. You’ve had a few too many nights out crashed by kids who thought they were good at sneaking out.

It’s easy enough not to spot you or the other women in the crowd. Mutants have gotten good at blending in with the people around them. Makes it easier to get around. It’s probably why neither Logan nor Scott stop their conversation as you approach. “So,” Scott draws the word out, fingers tapping against the glass of his beer.

“Don’t,” Logan warns. You want to laugh at his grumpy demeanor, but someone’s accidentally elbowed you and you find yourself stumbling a few steps back. It’s taking entirely too long to get to them, the bar isn’t even that big. There’s just that many people here.

Scott ignores him and rolls his eyes. “Look, we’re stuck here for a while. Try and pull that stick out of your ass.”

“How about I put one in yours?” Logan’s claws come out slightly. But then they both share an odd look and Scott smirks. “Shut the fuck up,” Logan grouses, “not like that.”

“Right,” Scott huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He picks up his bottle and takes a long drink. You’ve nearly reached them now. You stop, though, when you hear Scott say your name. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. Eavesdropping now is just asking to get hurt.

You drop back into the crowd, hoping the smells of others will stop Logan from discovering you lurking behind them both. Scott continues, “How’s that going?”

You crane your neck forward, trying to hear them better over the karaoke happening behind you. Someone is butchering Britney Spears but you couldn’t care less right now. Logan shouldn’t answer. Since when has he ever shared anything with Scott?

So, imagine your surprise when his answer isn’t immediately telling him to fuck off. “Eh,” he shrugs, downing the rest of his whiskey. Your face drops in irritation. Seriously, all this skulking around for an Eh? That’s bullshit.

You keep yourself from stepping forward, forcing your feet still, and ignoring the little voice in the back of your head telling you this is a bad idea. You’ve committed this much, you’re seeing it through. Scott whistles lowly, “That bad, huh?” Oh, fuck off, Summers.

Logan shakes his head and for a moment you have a brief feeling of hope lifting you up. “Nah, not bad. It’s just, I don’t know.” Logan sits up and signals the bartender for a refill. Your snooping senses go off and you briefly see Ororo and Jean exiting the bathroom. Desperate for something to keep them at bay, you flick your wrist. The man in front of them tips his drink down Jean’s shirt, slurring out apologies. Jean huffs and Ororo brings her back into the bathroom.

Scott and Logan somehow missed the whole interaction and you promise yourself that you’ll pay for Jean’s dry cleaning. You’re definitely not going to. “Think she wants something I don’t,” Logan tells Scott, and your heart plummets to your feet. You can practically see it deflate, all the lovesickness draining out of it and onto the floor of this grimy bar.

“Like, she just wants to fuck around?”

Logan shakes his head and downs another glass of whiskey. He’s just swallowing it down like it’s water. At a certain point, the bartender gets sick of it and just leaves him with the bottle. “No, she wants something real. Like a real relationship.” Scott’s brows furrow and Logan shrugs. “Not interested.”

It’s the way he says it that really bothers you. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something different in a relationship. It happens all the time. But he says it so dismissively. He knows that you want something real with him, something secure and loving. He knows that, continues to fuck you and lead you on, and then speaks as though you’re an idiot for ever being interested in that.

Hurt hasn’t set in yet. You’re staring wide-eyed, jaw agape with shock as you stare at Logan’s back. You’d thought a conversation needed to be had. But you didn’t think that he thought of you like this. You’d thought you meant something to him.

Scott seems to share the sentiment, his lips tugged down into a frown. He leans against the bar, surveying Logan with a disbelieving look. “What?” Logan snaps.

Scott raises his hands in surrender, shaking his head and backing off. “Nothing, man, I just thought you two were serious about each other.” You miss whatever Logan says as an arm slings itself around your shoulder.

“What’re you doing?” A husky, seductive voice whispers against the shell of your ear. You jump in shock, glaring at Ororo as she grins at you. She lets her arm slide off your shoulders and glances over at Jean. “I think she was spying.”

Jean nods, nudging you forward. “Definitely spying. Hear anything good?”

You fortify your mind against her probing fingers before she can find out. “Nope,” you blurt out. You hope the racing of your heart is dismissed by your constantly frazzled nature. You hope the look on your face is explained by your earlier boredom and anxiety. You pray that none of them notice the way you lean away from Logan when the men finally turn around and notice you all.

Scott breathes out a dramatic sigh of relief and slumps onto Jean. “Thank god, I thought I was going to die trying to talk to this brick wall.” his eyes flick towards you in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. There’s a brief pitying look before he grins. “Come to get your boyfriend?” There’s a heavy emphasis on the word that you never would have noticed had you not heard their conversations.

It’s clearly a petty dig at Logan. And you would appreciate it if you didn’t feel the sudden urge to vomit up your dinner. “Thought you might need saving from Logan.” You tell him, a chuckle hiding the slight tremor in your voice.

You’re not sure if he does, but you hope Logan notices how you avoided the word boyfriend. You hope that he hurts the same way you do. But you know, deep down, that he doesn’t care. He’s probably relieved that you didn’t use the title.

Logan gets off his stool, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, and pulls you into a brief hug. His lips press against your temple before he dips down to whisper, “Thank you,” in your ear.

Asshole, he’s not allowed to smile at you the way he is. If you weren’t in such a crowded place and already overstimulated, you’d shove him away. If your friends weren’t watching you’d take his arm and slam it down onto the bar until you hear his fucking adamantium bones break.

That might have been too far. Maybe you’re not that angry, but you’re hurt.

You place your hands against his chest, a thin smile on your lips while you hum a simple, “Mhm.” He doesn’t seem to notice the way you push away from him. It’s easily dismissed by you cheekily stealing his seat at the bar.

He comes up behind you, hands bracketing you and keeping you stuck against the bar while you order your drink. One of his hands drifts down, laying against your thigh. You know this isn’t sexual, this is him comforting you.

He shouldn’t know how horrible you feel in such busy places. He shouldn’t know that and know that his touch is grounding and then help you. Not if he doesn’t want something serious. If he didn’t want to be your boyfriend, didn’t want to be anything but a fuck, then why do this to you? Did he not think this was leading you on? Is this just him caring for you?

You’ll drown in a sea of unanswered questions before the night is over if you linger too long. You tip your head back, let your shot burn its way down your throat, and turn towards the others with a smile. You feel your worries fade and your focus loosen as you simply drift further into your mind.

You must have disassociated or something. By the time you realize you’re no longer hearing bad karaoke and your elbows aren’t sticking to the bar, you’re already home. You stare in the mirror, hand pausing as you brush your teeth before you quickly finish.

You didn’t drink much, you never do. It fucks with your abilities and causes migraines. You rinse your mouth out and glance into your bedroom. Logan groans and stretches. His back bows, muscles flexing and you rip your eyes away. You can’t let yourself be distracted by the chest you want to drape yourself across.

You need to talk to him. It’s never been more clear. You wipe your mouth and toss the towel onto the rim of the sink. You take in a deep breath, trying to get rid of the nerves plaguing you. It’s never worked before, it’s not going to suddenly cure you now.

You give up on the thought and instead, shove down the anxiety until you have enough confidence to speak. It takes a little while, Logan peaks an eye open, eyebrows quirked when he sees you just staring at him. “Something up, bub?” he flexes, on purpose, and you roll your eyes. You grab his shirt out of your hamper and toss it at him.

“Put this on. Can’t think when you look like that.”

He chuckles, “That’s the point.” at your pointed glare his smile drops and he tugs the beater on. It barely does anything to deter you. If anything you’re having more trouble paying attention. Especially now that his full attention is on you. The humor is gone from the room, a thick tension replaces it. Logan seems to feel it, sitting up straighter and glaring at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “What’s wrong?” It’s a demand more than a question.

It’s hard to look at him. But you refuse to let yourself cower now. You take in a fortifying breath and let your gaze bore into his. You put all the hurt and anger you feel into it, willing yourself to be firm. “We need to talk.”

“‘Bout what?” He’s brusque, but there’s a slight concern to his tone.

There’s no point hiding this. And maybe you had misheard, maybe there was a conversation prefacing the one you’d heard. And you’ll talk it out and everything will be okay. “I heard you and Scott talking at the bar.”

The hope you had, as minimal as it was, is dashed at your feet. He sucks in a deep breath and the look on his face has you crestfallen. You can feel your chest cave in. You feel so stupid all of a sudden. Constantly following after him, even before you started dating him. Looking at him with stars in your eyes and latching onto his every move and word.

You’d worshiped him, put him up on a pedestal he didn’t deserve. Superhuman or not, at the end of the day he was still a man. And they’ve done nothing but disappoint you. You suck your teeth, gaze dropping to your feet as you fight back the tears in your eyes. “Right,” you whisper, stepping back from him.

“Look,” he starts. You force your eyes up and watch as he rubs uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He takes a step towards you and you shake your head, stepping away from him. His arms fall to his sides and he sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“That’s it?” You demand, tone incredulous. You weren’t some great love or anything. But that’s seriously all he has to say.

He opens his mouth, eyes softening as he stares at you. Then he snaps it shut, something covers his face and his expression is borderline cruel as he sneers at you. “Not my fault you got in over your head, kid. Never said I wanted anything more with you.” He points at you, and you suddenly feel like a little girl getting scolded. You’ve never had a partner make you feel this small, especially not Logan. “You were just convenient.”

You rear back like he slapped you. You think it might have hurt less than that. To know you wasted so much time on such a fucking dick makes you want to throw up. Or scream, or cry. You can’t decide on one. But your powers can, the walls are shaking, knick-knacks falling off your shelves as energy pulses from you.

You’ll face the hurt, the sadness, the horrible ache of rejection later. Right now, you need him out of your face before you bring the whole mansion crumbling down around you. “Out.” You grind the word out, turning away from him and clutching your hands to your chest. You take in quick, rapid breaths, trying to think of anything other than how horrible you feel.

You haven’t lost control like this in a long time. You’re not going to give him the satisfaction of being the reason you get put on probation again. He whispers your name, coming up behind you like he’s going to touch you.

You want to lash out, want to hurt him like he’s hurt you. But you’ll only cause more damage than necessary. He’s not worth hurting the kids in the rooms around you. You shove past him, ignoring the way he shouts your name.

You dart out into the hall, grateful there are so few people milling around. Nearly everyone’s asleep, just a few stragglers finishing up their homework for tomorrow. A few of them give you odd looks that turn concerned when they see Logan chasing after you. Your bones are practically vibrating by the time you make it outside.

You rush towards the grove of trees at the back of the mansion. Your knees give out under you before you can make it very far. Energy pulses out of you in an explosive circle. You hear bark crack and turn into nothing but dust as the air around you trembles.

It’s a relief, like going to the bathroom after holding it all day. You feel it drain away from you, a plug pulled out as the energy rushes from you. It slows after a minute, feeling more like a leak than a steady stream.

Your hands shake by your sides as you lay trembling on the grass. Your eyelids flutter shut and you try and keep them open but it’s hard. All of your energy had been spent keeping yourself in check until you made it out of the mansion.

“I’ve got you,” a voice mutters near your ear. Familiar strong arms dip under your knees, lifting you up and pulling you into a sturdy chest. You recognize the body, recognize the uncomfortable warmth coming from him. But your tongue won’t work and you're passing out before you can try and push him away.

You’re in your own bed when you wake up again. You’re briefly comforted by the warm feeling of the sheets around you before you realize how cold the other side of the bed is. You’re so used to the feeling of someone being beside you that it’s jarring for no one to be there. You sit up, a spark of anxiety lighting up inside you before it’s being quelled by an outside force.

“I think it’s best if we keep that under control.” You’re not surprised to hear Charles’s voice. You can’t be, not when he’s actively keeping you calm and placid. You lean back against your headboard. You tilt your head lazily, looking at him while he looks out the window.

“That tree was a hundred years old.”

You wince, face screwing up when you remember the large oak tree you obliterated last night. “I can remake it,” you promise.

“You could,” he corrects, “but whatever happened last night between you and Logan is causing your powers to be volatile.” He finally turns towards you, the motor of his wheelchair a dull buzz as he smiles at you. There’s no resentment in his gaze at least. You’d known he wouldn’t be mad at you. He was used to accidents like this. Had you hurt another person, however, this would be an entirely different conversation.

There’s a dull ache in your chest at the mention of Logan, but it’s quickly covered by another wave of calm from Charles. He smiles and holds out two metal bracelets. They’re thick, something red inlaid into the black metal. They look like handcuffs more than anything. His lips quirk up at your thought and you frown.

“That’s what they are, right? Cuffs.”

“You’re not a criminal,” he assuages, his tone gentle as you take them from him. There’s a small silver button inside that you click and the metal springs open. You place your left wrist inside and it snaps shut, it’s a snug fit. It won’t be moving around anytime soon. You put the right one on and feel Charles’ hold on your mind ease the second it's closed. Every horrible feeling from last night crashes down on you and you nearly choke on it.

You wonder how Charles managed to keep you asleep for so long without the roof crumbling. He chuckles, the noise tired. “Jean helped me. It took a while for the cuffs to be ready.”

The way he says that causes alarms to go off in your head. “How long?” He takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head, attempting to dismiss the question. “Charles,” you snap, voice bordering on a shout.

“Two days,” he says. You gasp and slump back against your sheets. He says your name but you get to your feet and pace. You don't know what to do with yourself. There’s energy buzzing under your skin, but the cuffs are keeping it at bay. It feels wrong like your pores are being clogged with acid.

“Two days.” You look over at him, horror painting your face and you can see why he was so apprehensive to tell you. “It’s never been that bad before.”

“No,” he starts cautiously, “It hasn’t. Which makes me wonder, what transpired between you and Logan that destroyed my grandfather’s tree?”

You cringe at the mention of the tree. He’s never going to let go of that. Even when you recreate it, he’s still going to hold it over your head. His teasing eases you out of the spiral you were heading down and you glance over at him. “You’ve been in my head for two days. I’m sure both you and Jean already know.”

He smacks his lips together and shrugs, clasping his hands in front of himself. “Simply seeing if you wanted to discuss it, my dear.”

You vehemently shake your head and sit back down on your bed. “No, I don’t want to talk about him. I don't want to see him.” Charles gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you and you hate it. You truly don’t want to see Logan again. Just thinking about him makes you want to explode. He was a pig and you regret ever wasting your time on him.

There’s a shriveled part of your heart weeping somewhere, but you crush in your fist until it shuts the fuck up. “Right,” Charles nods. “I do believe it’s best for your recovery that we keep you two separated for a while.” He rolls past you and places a comforting hand on yours. “Rest, you’ll feel more like yourself soon.”

You nod and watch him leave. Exhaustion suddenly seems to drop its heavy weight on your shoulders. Two days being restrained by telepaths probably wasn’t very restful. You lay across your comforter, rolling over and hoping when you wake up your heart will be healed.

Two weeks. Two pathetic, snot-filled, and disgusting weeks of sobbing over Logan. You felt like a sixteen-year-old again, crying over the boy that didn’t like you back. It was awful, especially knowing that the entirety of the mansion knew what was wrong with you.

Your students would leave your class and you would lock your doors, hiding under your desk as you wept. Those with superhearing or telepathy would bake you cookies and leave gifts at your door. It was sweet, but honestly made you feel ten times worse. You felt like your sadness was a burden you were forcing everyone to carry.

Your mother would be so disappointed in you. She’d always told you that you mourn a relationship half the amount of time you were in it. Of course, hers never lasted more than a few weeks. And she’d had more boyfriends than you could count on three hands.

Besides, you were allowed to wallow for a while. This was someone you were starting to fall for. To be so blind going into and leaving the relationship was awful. Having the rug ripped out from under you had been cruel and needless. You’re resentful and grateful he’d been so horrifically honest with you. On one hand, if the relationship had just ended, you’d be pining after him. Wondering what you’d done to lose such an amazing guy.

But being faced with the brutal truth, knowing he was a piece of shit, it makes you hate yourself. You should have seen it. Should have known that he didn’t want you like you wanted him. But there were never any signs. You’d run it through your head a million times. Every interaction you’ve ever had with him. None of it shows you where he’d been lying to you or using you. You can’t even trust yourself anymore.

There’s a loud knock on your door and you sniffle, tossing another tissue in the trash as you go to answer it. “Hello?” You croak. You can barely see, eyes puffy and so swollen your vision is blurry.

“Holy hell,” Ororo scoffs and shakes her head. She pushes into your room and slams the door shut before anyone can see how awful you look. To be fair, you keep yourself relatively put together during the day. But it’s after hours now, you’re allowed to be a mess.

“You look like shit.”

Neither of you are prepared as you begin to blubber. Your lips tremble and your voice shakes as you begin to sob. “I know,” you wail. “I hate it.” Ororo’s eyes widen in horror and she quickly pushes you into your desk chair, grabbing a box of tissues and shoving it in your hands.

“I feel,” you stutter, having to take in a few shuddering breaths before you can get the words out. “He tore out my heart and ripped it up with his stupid fucking claws.”

“Okay, okay,” Ororo runs her hands over your arms, trying to soothe you. “I know, sh, it’s okay.” She groans, “Stop crying,” she pleads under her breath.

“I’m trying!” You snap at her, running hands over your wet cheeks and trying to swallow down the rest of your tears.

“Look,” she steps back and shakes her head. She glances down at you, disgust poorly hidden on her face. She’s really fucking bad at comforting someone. “This is awful, I can’t take it anymore. You two keep dancing around each other and you’re putting everyone on edge. You won’t stop crying and he keeps going off,” she holds her hands up and shakes her head. “I just can’t do it anymore.”

You frown, brows turning down in confusion. “What?” You didn’t think Logan would be mad. You pictured him skipping through a field of daisies, happy to finally be rid of you. It only made you hate yourself more that you were still crying over it all.

“He’s kind of losing it,” she seems reluctant to relent the information. “Look,” she kneels in front of you and snatches the tissue box from your hand. She tosses it to the side and forces you to meet her eyes. “He’s in love with you. We all know it, Jean’s confirmed it. He loves you, he needs you, he’s just terrified to admit it. He’s afraid of what's going to happen if you two become real.”

Your eyes widen with the realization. She nods enthusiastically as you connect the pieces. You can’t deny what’s so plainly laid in front of you when she assures you that even Jean knows. Jean knowing means she just did a nosy dive into his head.

You can picture what could happen. With rom-com levels of nauseating romance, you run to find him. You tell him you don’t care that he’s afraid. You don’t care he pushed you away and you do love him. He’s not going to lose you. Nothing can rip you apart. You ride off into the sunset on Scott’s bike blah blah blah.

This isn’t a fucking romance. And you’re not going to cry over a man who's too much of a pussy to admit he has feelings. You like men who have emotional depth deeper than a teaspoon. “Are you fucking kidding me?"

Ororo’s face blanches and she slowly backs away from you as you stand. “No,” she answers slowly, like she’s not sure of herself now.

“That’s what I’ve been crying over?” You feel upset for an entirely different reason. You never misread the signs. You never missed a hint that he didn’t feel what you did. He did! He was just happier letting you doubt yourself and the love you held for him than admitting he felt something. You tear off the depression hoodie you’ve been living in for the past two weeks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

You don’t know where you’re going. Normally, you’d run into a forest to let out a blast of energy. It drained you enough that you wouldn’t have to feel anything. But with these cuffs on, you can’t do anything.

You storm out of your room and stomp down the stairs, uncaring who you wake up. You’ve wasted so much time on Logan, you refuse to stay in your room and cry for another fucking night.

“I want to see her,” Logan growls. He tries to move around Charles, but he stops him with his mind, holding him in place while Jean disappears inside your room. Logan watches her go and glares at her retreating back as the door closes behind her.

It’s been a day already, you’ve never needed to be out for more than a few hours. He doesn’t want to think that there’s anything wrong with you, that he might have permanently broken something inside you.

That talk at the bar with Scott had been stupid. He would have said anything to get him to shut the fuck up and leave him alone. He didn’t really mean what he said, he just wanted him to back off. And saying that your relationship wasn’t anything was quicker than pouring out every thought he’s had of you.

It was easier lying than it was to admit just how much he wanted you. Just how far he would go for you. But then you’d overheard, and you brought it up. And there’d been faith on your face. Like even you couldn’t believe what he had said because you could see through the bullshit.

But all Logan had seen was a way out. This was an opportunity to finally get out of the suffocating clutches of something he didn’t want to admit was love. He took the chance before he could think. It’s what he was used to. Taking the easy way out, especially when it came to shit like emotions.

He hadn’t thought you were going to explode, though. Because that’s exactly what you’d done. By the time he’d caught up to you, you’d burned a crater into the ground and had destroyed Charles’ stupid fucking tree.

Seeing you like that, laying there lifeless, it terrified him. He didn’t want to live in a world that you weren’t in. There was no fucking point. It was sobering, realizing that, and then realizing that he was the reason you were like that in the first place.

He didn’t want to live without you and he certainly would never be able to come to terms with being the reason you were dead. But it didn’t matter, whatever realizations he was coming to. Charles and Jean were completely blocking him from your room. They weren’t even giving him a chance to look at you. And he was about five seconds away from ripping the old bastard’s head off and just barrelling inside.

He didn’t care what they said, he needed to see that you were okay. “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to see her for a very long time.”

“Stay out of my head,” Logan growls, glaring down at the man. “What are you talking about?” He presses, finally processing the rest of his sentence.

Charles sighs and rolls away from him. Logan glares at his back but ultimately follows. “You were the cause of this, yes?” Reluctantly, Logan nods, there’s no point in hiding it. He’s sure Charles already knows. “For her own safety, the two of you will need to remain separated.”

That had been it. There was no arguing about it. No fighting Charles. It was for your safety that he stayed away from you. No matter how much he wanted to explain himself, he wouldn’t risk another meltdown like that.

You didn’t deserve to get hurt because of someone like him. He wouldn’t be able to stand hurting you again.

But two weeks seemed like a lot. At a certain point, he’s sure you’re just avoiding him. He knows he can’t blame you. He’d been a fucking idiot. But that didn’t make him any happier. If anything, he was getting more and more pissed off every day.

He had less patience for mistakes. Was lashing out at the kids more often and don’t even get started on the petty fucking fights he was picking with Scott. How long did you fucking need before you talked to him again?

He knows you’re upset, your crying keeps everyone up at night. Something he’s sure you’d be mortified to learn about. Why won’t you let him comfort you? Why do you have to be so petulant, running around the corner every time you see him? Pointedly ignoring him when you’re in the same room together.

He could fix this, make this all better. But you’re just not letting him. He knows this is why he loves you. It’s why he was so drawn to you. You seem like a bundle of nerves, constantly flitting around and keeping yourself small. It had been off-putting at first. And then he’d seen you training with Scott, kicking his ass more like. A switch had been flicked in his head.

He could finally see you for what you were. He finally realized that it was your abilities you were keeping small. You were a fucking spitfire and you didn’t hesitate to tell him off, he loved it. Loved arguing with you just so he could see you get all pissed off.

But that stubborn attitude he loved was really biting him in the ass right now.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door and he doesn’t even get to pretend it’s going to be you. He smells Jean’s perfume and rolls his eyes. He puffs on his cigar and contemplates ignoring her.

“Don’t be a jackass, open the damn door.”

Fuckin’ telepaths. “What?” He snaps at her the second the door is open. Her face screws up when she smells the smoke from his cigar. He knows she wants to put it out, and can see it in the twitch of her fingers. He raises a brow, a silent challenge to try him. He’s itching for another fight and she can feel it.

She lets out a sharp breath, choosing her battles wisely and backing off. He’s almost disappointed. “We need to talk. This whole thing between the two of you is ridiculous. You’re a mess, she’s a mess…”

Her voice trails off into nothing more than the annoying pitch of a fly. Logan can’t be bothered to listen to her scold him. He’s not a fucking kid, and maybe if you were acting like an adult, they wouldn’t be having this problem.

A few doors down he can hear you shouting, then the door to your room slams open. He darts off his bed, opening his own door to see what you’re doing. He only sees the back of your head as you angrily stomp down the stairs.

Enough is fucking enough, he was finishing this now. He was sick of your side of the bed being empty and the stupid fucking glare on your face every time you saw him. He doesn’t even bother saying anything to Jean as he leaves, just chases after you.

Jean watches him go with a perturbed look. She steps out of the room and glances down the hall. Ororo steps out of your room and walks towards her. “Well?” Jean probes.

Ororor shrugs, “She’s over it.” Jean smiles but it’s quickly wiped off her face by Ororo’s expression. “Not in the way we wanted.

Jean clenches her eyes shut and takes in a deep breath. She needs you two to figure your shit out or she’s never going to be able to get a good night’s sleep again.

You find yourself in the gym. It’s not your favorite place in the world, you don’t usually get to train with the others. You’re stuck with telepaths, mainly the ones who can shut your powers down if you get too out of control. That hasn’t been a problem since you got the cuffs, but you’ve been too sad to test them out.

Now you find yourself obliterating a punching bag. You wrap the energy around your fists and let it protect the thin skin as you pummel into the bag. You don’t know what else to do. You can’t have energy meltdowns anymore. You have to try and funnel it all out physically, but it’s not working. Nothing is.

“Imagining it’s me?” You pause midswing. You glance over to the door just in time to see Logan stalking towards you. He unzips his jacket slowly. So slowly it almost seems provocative. He tugs it off and tosses it onto a nearby bench.

You scoff as you watch him. “Do you ever have a shirt on?”

He shrugs and moves towards the ring in the middle of the gym. His movements are lithe and fluid as he hops onto the ring, every bit a wild animal. You watch as the muscles in his torso ripple and force your eyes off of him. You try and focus your attention back on the bag, but all your earlier energy is gone. Your mind is completely wrapped around Logan.

Which you’re sure is exactly what he wants, or he wouldn’t be staring at you so smugly as he leans against the ropes and waits for you to acknowledge him. You suck on your teeth, irritation blooming in sporadic bursts throughout your body that has you nearly shaking. Finally, you give in.

He smirks the second your eyes meet, “I can take it, sweetheart. A lot better than that little toy of yours can.” He nods towards the punching bag but the insinuation isn’t lost on you. You and Logan had been very active in your relationship. You could barely go a day without tasting each other.

You’ve been pent up since the breakup. You’d given in a few days ago, pulled out your old vibrator, and tried to bring even a semblance of joy back into your life. But nothing could compare to Logan.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he waits for you to react. He’s standing there, staring down at you with all the surety in the world that you’re going to fuck him. It makes you want to dig your nails in and rip him apart, bit by bit.

You can already picture it in your mind, using your abilities to pick him apart until he’s nothing but molecules dispersed through the air. He’s lucky you have the cuffs on, without them you’re sure he’d already be dead.

You smirk and move towards the edge of the ring, your voice drops as you purr up at him, “You wanna play, Logan?”

He grins and moves off the ropes, starting towards you as you make your way onto the ring. You’re slightly less graceful than he was, but you’re too focused on wiping the smug look off his face to pay attention. “Come on kid,” he taunts, voice as low as it usually is when he’s fucking into you. “Let’s see what you got.”

You’re not stupid enough to just outright swing at him. You feint to the right and bring your knee up into his ribs. He only needs one hand to wrap around your thigh and drag you forward. His other hand goes to your hip, tugging you closer until you’re practically grinding against each other. You grit your teeth and glare up at him.

“Come on, sweetheart, that can’t be all you got for me.” Energy wraps around your head, blurring the air around you. You slam your temple against his, it provides enough of a distraction for you to yank your leg out of his grip. You throw your right fist into his ear, bouncing back with a grin as he shakes his head.

He practically growls as he reorients himself. You shrug and smirk, “What, don’t tell me that’s all you got, wolvie.”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” he grumbles. You open your mouth, prepared to taunt him again. But he’s lunging towards you and you just barely have enough time to dart out of his way. You know he’s going easy on you. He could have had you just then if he really wanted this.

But he’s dragging this out. Forcing you to spend as much time with him as you can. It only pisses you off further. You plant your foot on his back and kick him forward. He barely even stumbles and it only further confirms your suspicions. “Stop fucking holding back,” you yell at him.

He turns around slowly. You almost expect there to be a sneer on his face, something angry. Instead, he looks fucking thrilled, like this is all just foreplay for him. He laughs, so low you can barely hear it, and his chest flexes as his claws come out.

“You sure?” It’s a taunt, a dare, he knows you aren’t going to take the bait. You’d be stupid to, you don’t heal like he does. Once those things get in you, you’re screwed. But right now, you’re too pissed off to try and care.

You don’t say anything, you just duck under his fist as he swings at you. You know he made it easy for you, giving you an opening to fall into. He’s treating you like you’re something fragile. And maybe you are. One wrong move in this fight and you might not make it through the night. But anger is making you blind to logic.

Him playing fair just makes you want to play dirty. You use the opening he gives you, letting energy form around your fist and pulling back just enough to slam into his ribs. He coughs, doubling over as you hear bones crack under your hit. He’ll heal in seconds, you can’t bring yourself to feel too bad for him.

Maybe if he ever took you seriously you might not be such a bitch. But he didn’t think you were good enough to be honest with and he still was treating you like a plaything. In your opinion, he deserves whatever you give him and more. He doubles over and you swing your leg around, bringing it down across his face.

You hear a crack as your socked foot connects with his face, something crunches underneath you. And when your sole hits the mat again you see the blood leaking from his nose. You almost apologize. Almost, then you see the look on his face. His pupils are swallowing the hazel of his eyes, lips parted as he pants through his teeth. He looks fucking animalistic.

You have no warning as he pounces on you. His lips smother your own, moving over you with little to no grace. There’s nothing romantic or gentle about this. His fingers are digging so hard into your shirt, you’re sure you hear the seams rip. But you can’t bring yourself to care.

One of your hands goes to his hair, tugging at the roots until he’s groaning into your mouth. You rake your nails up his back roughly. He cusses against your lips, hand traveling up to your chin so he can roughly jerk you back.

He stares down at you, a silent question on his face. You’ve barely nodded before he’s descending upon you again. Lips and teeth clash borderline painfully as he lowers you onto the mat. You’re missing all the usual love and tenderness he treats you with, but you don’t care.

You want to be rough. You want to hurt him like he hurt you, make him ache for you the way you do him. You wrap your legs around his, lifting your pelvis until you have enough leverage to flip him. Your thighs straddle his waist and you grind down against the prominent bulge in his sweatpants.

He groans into your open mouth, large palms grabbing at your ass and spreading you so he can thrust between your clothed thighs. You can’t help but moan at the friction. It’s just enough to keep you on edge, he pulls back every time you think you might be close to something real building.

You rip your mouth off his. He glares up at you as you grab his hair and yank his head back. You slam his head hard enough into the mat for it to echo through the room and he growls against your grip. You grin down at him as you slowly get off him. You make a show of stripping, enjoying the way his eyes track your movements. He looks like a dog, panting and waiting for his treat.

You’re tempted to get yourself off, making him watch, and then leave him straining against his sweatpants. But you need this bad, need him to scratch the itch you can’t reach so you can finally get him out of your head. Neither of you are patient as he jerks his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to pop out.

It’s already leaking from the tip like a faucet. You kneel, straddling his waist again. You don’t have to do much to slick him up. You pump him a few times before he’s gripping your wrist and jerking your hand away. “Get up here,” he commands, voice rough as he grips your hips. You don’t even get a chance to protest before he’s flipping you over.

He grabs your thighs and wraps them around his waist. Your ass is off the ground, hovering above his lap as he lines up with your slit. You moan when the tip rubs against your clit. “Whose teasing now?” You grit out, glaring at him.

His lips curl up, that insufferable smirk on his face before he slams into you. The attitude is practically fucked out of you as he starts pumping in and out. You groan, raking your hands down his chest. He fucking moans at the pain, blood blooming under your nails and immediately closing the further down you go.

Neither of you are giving up this fight, you don’t want to lose, not even while you’re fucking. He pulls out of you and flips you over so fast you don’t even have time to whine. He’s back in you before you can blink, hips slapping into you in a way that you know is going to leave bruises tomorrow. You’re not going to be able to sit for a week and he knows it. His hands are groping at the skin of your ass, pulling you apart and watching the skin ripple as he fucks into you.

You’re not going to last long. You’ve been too desperate, too pent up while you’ve been pissed off at him. He leans over you, draping himself across you lazily. You groan at the added weight, it only adds to the sensation, only makes you want him deeper inside you. “Thought you didn’t want me anymore, sweetheart.” He whispers in your ear and you flutter around him as his hand snakes around your waist, rubbing tight circles on your clit.

You open your mouth but all that comes out is disjointed moans. You know there’s something sarcastic in there, and he must know too because he laughs at your pathetic mumbled sentence. “I don’t know,” he leans back and watches as he makes room for himself inside you. “Seem to need me real bad now.”

Your nails dig into the mat, energy leaking through your fingertips and warming up the canvas beneath you. You can feel it fluctuating, fighting against the cuffs the closer he brings you to the edge. “Fuck you,” the words escape you at a particularly deep thrust and you struggle to keep your eyes open.

He pauses and you nearly cry at the loss of movement. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you. What’d you say? Stop?”

You glare over your shoulder at him “Don’t you fucking dare, Logan.” You let your power push up against his back, forcing his hips to move again. He chuckles at the move, fingers creating figure eights on your nub.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he protests, voice innocent. “Ah, fuck,” his voice is nothing more than low grunts and groans in your ear the closer the both of you get to your release. You can’t speak anymore, can’t think. You can feel it cresting higher and higher inside you.

Your abilities are rising with your release. They’re pushing against the cuffs, fighting desperately against the control the foreign metal has on your powers. You can feel it, heat building up under your skin, like a tingling on the tip of your tongue that you just can’t reach. It’s Logan’s release that finally tips you over the edge.

The way his breath catches and his hips stutter in their perfect rhythm as warmth floods you from the inside out. You can feel it, him, dribbling down your thighs and staining the mat beneath you. It has you clenching around him, pushing your hips back weakly while you let the feeling overwhelm you. You nearly black out. Two weeks without him hadn’t felt long until you remembered what you were missing.

You lose your sense of time, dropping to the mat like your bones have gone liquid, dripping out of you. You can feel Logan draped over you still, his weight a comforting blanket that nearly has you drifting to sleep. Naked, in the middle of the boxing ring. He pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss.

He shushes you, rubbing a hand up your spine and pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your temple. He wraps his arms around you, laying down and pulling you back into his chest. It takes a few minutes of quiet cuddling for you to remember what exactly led you down to the gym in the first place.

You feel disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. It’s clear what his plan had been. And you’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. You’d barely even fought against him. Of course, you could reason that you needed to get the tension out. This was the perfect way to funnel out your built-up energy.

But you’re disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. You just disregarded dignity and self-respect for a chance to get him between your legs. You were such a fucking idiot. No wonder this is all he wanted you for.

“Shit,” you mutter, trying to pull yourself out of his grip. Your eyes widen as his arms tighten around your waist. He tugs you back down until he’s got you in what essentially feels like a headlock. He could easily pass it off as spooning, but it feels a little more demanding than that. “Logan,” you warn, the silent peace of the moment officially shattered.

“Don’t,” he gripes. You can fight against him for as long as you want, but you’ll only tire yourself out. His arms are literally metal bands around you. “Let me talk and then you can run off.” You huff and wait, but he never speaks. Finally, you look over your shoulder and glare at him. “Well?”

You roll your eyes, “Fuck’s sake,” you mutter. “Alright, speak.”

You can feel his grin against the back of your head. If he didn’t have you in such a tight grip, you’d elbow him in the gut just to be petty. “I made a mistake,” you scoff and he keeps going. Stopping you from interrupting him with something bitchy. “You weren’t just something convenient to me, sweetheart.” he pauses and chuckles, “You’re a huge fucking pain in my ass.”

“Is this your idea of an apology?” You snap, “Because this is pathetic.”

He doesn’t say anything and you’re tempted to snark at him again. But then the world is flipped on its side as he jerks you around and forces you to face him. Your chests rub together, the sweaty skin sticking together and bordering on uncomfortable. “You ever shut up?” He asks, but there’s no heat to the words. If anything he looks fond of you, and it makes you shift around, trying not to look him in the eye. But there’s nowhere for you to hide, you’re both naked and bare before each other.

You’re as physically vulnerable as he must feel emotionally. And as much as this is a horrible way to display how he’s feeling, you’re starting to understand him a little better. You know why this conversation is so hard for him, why he can’t accept that someone truly loves him and he loves her back.

But that’s not going to get him out of it. He’s still yet to say the words. Maybe if he manned up and said something real you’d consider forgiving him. You give him an expectant look and he sighs, forehead pressed against yours as he slumps over you. You want to pretend you’re annoyed at the contact, but you’ve been craving it since you ran away two weeks ago.

You’ve been desperate for this warmth that only he can provide you. Without realizing it, you nuzzle further into his chest, hands drifting up to wrap around his bare waist. Logan feels the tightness in him ease slightly at the way you curl into him. He’s got a shot, even if you try and tell him he doesn’t.

It’s silent for a while, while you linger in the emotions of what just happened and he tries to find the right words. He leans down, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and smiling against the shell of your ear. “I love you,” he whispers.

You’d told yourself you’d only consider forgiving him if he said those words. But that’s only because you’d never thought he would actually say it. You didn’t think he was capable of admitting that to himself. It seems so out of character for him. But, maybe, you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.

He pulls back, hand landing on your jaw and gently guiding your head out of his neck. He gives you an expectant look but you’re finding it hard to meet his eyes. You’ve been waiting for him to say that, but now it feels like you can’t. You’re still struggling to forgive him. He put you through so much unnecessary hurt just because he couldn’t face his own feelings.

And now you’re struggling to do the same. “I want to say it back,” you tell him. “But how am I supposed to trust that the next time things get hard, you won’t lash out again?”

He frowns, an irritated huff of breath shooting out his nose. But you know it’s frustration towards himself. For letting you both get to this point because he couldn’t just say three words. “I’ll wait,” he promises. “For as long as it takes, I’ll wait.”

You smile and nod, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. You’re sure you’ll be saying it sooner rather than later. But what’s the harm in making him squirm a little? He deserves it.

A/N: I don’t write smut, it’s literally in my rules. I think I stared at a gif of him for too long and some horny ass demon possessed me and made me write this. Forgive me, universe, I’m no better than a man.

#Wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett x you #x men #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #smut #ohmygod #i can’t believe i wrote this #Someone sedate me #im just a girl #i cant be blamed LOOK AT HIM #he's actually older than every adult man in my life #can you tell i need therapy

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