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dyingswanpavlova · 2 days ago

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"Your girl" - Part 21 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: During a weak moment, you think back to happier times.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening (knife), mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy issues like nausea and puking, kidney failure, cockwarming, rough sex, penetration, oral sex, blood play, degradation kink, not beta-read and not proofread yet! if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

Having a knife pressed against your throat wasn’t half as exciting, if it wasn’t the one person you trusted not to kill you with it – and even if he did…you’d forgive him.

But what if it was someone else? What if it wasn’t the man who made everything possible, the man you had come to trust and love?

It wasn’t enough to kill you. But it, sure as Hell, was enough to break your soul.

You couldn’t help but think back to your last birthday. It had been quite the celebration, hadn’t it?

You had never really celebrated your birthday before and why would you? There were not enough people to invite, at least none who wouldn’t secretly make fun of you behind your back. A few people pitied you for being shy and quiet, they would have come for sure. Others were not so gracious – they said they’d show up and then they didn’t. It wasn’t uncommon, right? Nothing but a pathetic pity party. And yet it was enough to keep you from ever celebrating your birthday again.

Back home you had most often spent the day watching tv shows, probably comfort shows to keep your mind occupied, but at the same time not all that much. Carrie and Douglas shopping groceries for Thanksgiving. Samantha and Charlotte splitting up over Charlotte’s hot brother. A few of your favorite episodes and yet nothing to trigger any emotions in you. Because you knew, if you did, you’d spend all day and all night feeling miserable because your life was so goddamn empty. It went like that every messed up birthday of yours. No one to congratulate you, except for the people who felt obligated to. Your mother’s untrustworthy good wishes. Nothing of meaning.

That was until you met him.

Your last birthday…It had been…

God, if you had died and went to Heaven, it couldn’t have been like that.

Your gaze involuntarily wandered back to the typewriter. A part of you almost wanted to smile at the memory, but it was hard under these circumstances.

And yet you knew, you knew, you had to dissociate somehow. Because if you didn’t, your soul would be gone for good. And what good was it to spend the last few minutes of your life broken and miserable? No, that was so silly. So silly. Why would you do that to yourself, when instead you could remember one of the most beautiful days of your life?

You remembered it like it had been yesterday, though it was a few months in the past by now. You hadn’t been pregnant yet or if you had been, at least you hadn’t known.

Now, lying on your bed under the sharp threat of the blade, you felt your first trimester nausea had passed. Almost on the dot, three months into the pregnancy and the vomiting had stopped. Pasta was still an unbearable thing to you, but at least Tteokbokki worked – though not half as spicy as he liked to eat them. You just weren’t sought out for that kind of tongue pain.

The first morning you woke up and didn’t immediately feel like throwing up the emptiness of your stomach, your desire for something else than food immediately returned – and tenfold.

You didn’t consider yourself an especially wicked or wanton person. But now, that the nausea had passed…

Fuck, you wanted him all the time.

And you got him all the time.

Having him inside you was as natural as breathing. It didn’t matter if you woke up with him stretching you out lazily against the sleepy morning blur or if you found yourself on your knees, keeping his hardness warm for him like a good girl.

“Good girl. Fuck. My good girl. Daddy’s good girl. Mh-mh. Don’t you dare move, you know the rules. I know that you want it. Fuck, I bet you’re dripping by now. Ah…Fuck. No, darling, no. Keep that pretty mouth in place for me, will you? Stay in place and I might just reward you.”

The thought sent a thrill up your spine. Even in that situation.

A part of you still felt incredibly ashamed for being what you were. Every time you came to the thought of something degrading, something cruel, something shameful, your first impulse was to feel bad afterwards. But it got less. And less. And less.

Sex got easier. And so did pleasure.

He made sure to keep your mind occupied. And he made sure to cuddle and caress you to oblivion, each time he had just finished fucking you like a rabid animal, while throwing the worst insults your way and doing the most heinous things to your body.

Of course he took a few measures now that you were pregnant.

When you knelt before him for half an hour while he read the newspaper, he made sure you had a pillow under your knees.

When he pounded into you so hard that you were sure you felt him rip you apart, he made sure to kiss every part of your body afterwards.

Every time.

But your birthday, your birthday…That was different. That was a day you couldn’t ever forget. If you were forced to find your end at only twenty-five, pinned to your bed and pregnant, at least you wanted to think of something beautiful. And that was what your birthday was.

Everything started when he woke you up with a soft breath of a Happy Birthday in your ear. You had been so sure that he either had no idea about it, or if he did, he wouldn’t mention it. But he did. He wished you a Happy Birthday, only a few seconds after he felt you stir in the morning. The thought of that alone was enough to make your heart race in your chest. But that was nothing compared to what else was to come, right?

You didn’t expect much. No, in fact you didn’t expect anything.

So it was all the more surprising and unnerving when he left the room and came back with a giant present. It was packed in dark green wrapping paper, with a big, white ribbon on top. He hadn’t even gotten dressed yet, which was rather uncommon. Sure, he wasn’t the most organized, not with you. He had his ways of dealing with things, but he allowed himself to let loose every now and then. Morning sex and messy kisses before he even got out of bed. But when he did, he normally headed towards the bathroom and came back dressed. Not in anything special, but enough to remind him – and you – that another day had started.

But that day he vanished in nothing but his boxers and he came back exactly like that. You sat on the bed and watched with wide eyes as he came back, wearing no more than that little clothing. His body drew your attention almost involuntarily. Whenever he was near and whenever he looked like that, just a little messy, but still so fucking perfect, you couldn’t help but stare at him.

He was yours. He belonged to you. Only you.

That thought was enough to nearly make your heart stop beating.

You hardly even focused on the present, until he placed it right before you and made you snap out of your thoughts.

“Open it."

Your gaze dropped down, before you met his again.

“You…you got me a present?”

He immediately frowned. “What kind of silly question is that? Why wouldn’t I? It’s your birthday.”

Your cheeks burned, but not in embarrassment or anything similar. You simply felt the hurt of your last nineteen birthdays well up in you.

His expression softened and he gently cupped your cheek in his hand, his calloused palm rough against your skin and yet you felt yourself lean into his touch. Every touch was a gift.

“Just open it.” He said in a softer tone.

For some reason he seemed far more excited than you were. It wasn’t that you were not – but he seemed all but nervous about your reaction.

With a soft sigh, you began to tug at the paper, your thoughts a whirlwind of emotions.

When was his birthday? Would you ever get to know it? Would you ever be able to go out and buy him a present?

What a funny thought. You didn’t care to flee his fangs any longer, no, all you wanted was to buy him a gift.

By the time the floor was covered in paper snippets and the packaging of the present revealed itself, all other thoughts left your system.

Fuck.

Your head shot up and you stared at him with the most incredulous and confused look you could come up with. He wasn’t smiling, nor was he smug, he seemed to be assessing you. Reading you.

“Is this…”

You looked back down at it and ran your fingertips over the flat surface.

Olympia Carrera de Luxe…Typewriter.

Your fingers stilled against the box and you felt your heart skip a few beats.

You told him about it, of course you did. Just like many other things, like almost every ghost of every thought you ever had. So how would he have missed this? He wouldn’t. He was too observant.

Your dream was to become an author one day, but that wasn’t a secret. But you never mentioned the typewriter, not as in wanting to own one. All that you told him was how your father had owned one, back in the day. You had faint memories of sitting in his study and running your fingertips over the keyboard. It was so different from a computer or a laptop. You couldn’t tell what it was. The feeling of seeing whatever you had written right there, as a physical thing you could touch, fold, take wherever you wanted? Or maybe the way it fit into your physical representation of life. Mobile phones were fine, because everyone had one. It was impossible to survive without them nowadays, if you weren’t living in the forest, in a small cottage, with your own farm and freshly made sourdough bread every night.

But you liked real things. Mostly because you never had them.

You had relied on imagining your life rather than living it for as long as you could remember. But what you really wanted was a man to build a fence for you. Someone to wear dresses for. Fresh food. Real laughter. Dancing. Moonlight. Forehead kisses. Vintage phones. Photo albums. Ink. Paint. Sizzling food. And love.

Love like you could only find it in old love stories.

The feeling of the typewriter keyboard under your fingertips always made you feel like these things were possible, like life was endless and love was real. But then your father died and your mother got rid of everything, including the typewriter.

You had spent three weeks crying over it, until you finally realized that tears indeed dry out at some point. And if only, because she didn’t allow you to drink any water, until you finally stopped that pathetic whining of yours.

You had told him that. And he had heard you.

So when you looked up at him again, your eyes wide and filled with a veil of tears, the corner of his mouth twitched in uncertainty.

“I can bring it back, if you don’t like it.” He said in a soft voice. “I just thought you might.”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as you looked back down at it.

“I can’t believe you did that.” You whispered.

When you looked back up again, you were smiling.

His eyes were still narrowed in uncertainty, as though he believed you were only saying this, because you felt obligated to. Your smile widened at that and you let out a quiet laugh. Without hesitation, you set the package down on the floor and straddled his lap, causing him to fall back against the mattress. His eyes widened for a brief moment, but he let you. His hands fell to your hips and he held you gently in place.

“You really like it?” He asked quietly.

“No one ever did something like that for me.” You whispered and rested your forehead against his. The way his breath seemed to catch in his throat, how your initiative still seemed to catch him off-guard, it was just a lovely bonus.

“Thank you.” You breathed out before you brushed your lips over his. “Thank you. I love it. And I love you.”

His eyes fell shut and he brushed his fingertips under your shirt, gently running his palms along your bare back. It made you shiver and he only ever pulled you closer.

“Happy Birthday.” He murmured against your lips.

Your smile widened impossibly, despite the tears that still stung your eyes.

“Just because of you.” You murmured right back.

Later that day, you found yourself sitting opposite him at the kitchen table. Things were…incredible.

They had often been these days, but that day was different in any sense. Not for a single second had you seen his hand twitch or his jaw clench. No, he was simply perfect.

Of course he had cooked the most heart-wrenching meal. You had no idea what it was or how you were supposed to spell it out, but it was delicious. More so than anything you had ever tasted before. Sitting in the kitchen and watching him cook had been the most relaxing thing you had done in a while, but it also made your mind wander all the same.

You loved cooking with him. It was always sweet, because he never lost his patience over spilled condiments or little mistakes you might have made. No, he stood behind you, his hands on your hips, his head resting on your shoulder. Or sometimes you stood curled into his side, simply observing. He liked cooking, you could tell and you tasted it with every spoonful. What you loved most though was simply co-existing with him, performing a basic, human task. Sometimes he’d hug you from behind and other times he’d shoot you that cocky smirk you loved so much. Whatever it was, it made you love him all the more.

But that night was different from any other time you had done it. You simply sat there, your knees pulled to your chest and your chin resting on your knees and you watched him cook. The precision in his movements, the focus in his expression, that little lip bite. It was all enough to make you swoon.

He was an attractive man, that much was clear. Aside from that, you weren’t sure if he really was your type – in case you ever had one. A part of you believed you didn’t have the right to have a type, since you never loved anyone and no one ever loved you before. It was all in your head, a wild mixture of all kinds of people in fiction and real life you had come to think attractive during some point in your life. Most of them actors, some your age, a few a little older, others quite a few decades above you. It wasn’t that you had daddy issues per say. You just found solace in the thought of a life that was already figured out.

Whatever it was, all of them normally had a little flaw. A little something, a little difference. You never fell for the quarterback, no, it was always some outcast who caught your attention.

Most people fell for Jon Snow for the time being, but your focus was always on Dolorous Edd. With his whole rough-around-the-edges-appearance and his dry sense of humor, he was your man. Jon was too perfect.

It had always been like that and you had never really thought about it. But that night, you suddenly realized, there was more to him that attracted you than his looks. If he was him, but with a kind, uncomplicated soul, with a smile that never left his lips, if all he ever did was assure and love and lull you…Would you still have fallen in love with him?

Probably not.

You realized that you weren’t exactly normal. But as you sat there, watching his quiet confidence and yet the ever-present sort of tension that always lingered somewhere inside of him, you realized you loved him.

For him.

You didn’t need him to change – not for you. The only reason you wanted it, was for him to be happy and carefree. Nothing more.

You didn’t mind his darkness, not even his cruelty, because he was yours and after every storm there followed the calm.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

You snapped out of your thoughts. “What?”

He took a sip of his drink and watched you over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been staring at me. Again.”

That made you smile. “Are you getting shy?”

The sound of his laughter filled the room, real and unbridled. Your heart swelled with happiness and peace as you watched him, a warm smile on your lips.

“Just admit that you don’t like it.”

At your confused frown, he nodded towards your plate. You blinked in confusion and glanced down, only to realize he was almost done and you had hardly even eaten anything.

“Oh!” Your face flushed at the sentiment. “How long did I stare at you?”

He flashed you a grin that bared his teeth. “Are you getting shy?”

Your smile widened and so did the flush on your skin. “Oh, shush.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he observed you pick up your cutlery and take a generous bite, just to prove him wrong.

A part of you had always assumed men preferred women who didn’t eat. Who never used the bathroom and God forbid, there was ever a hair on your body where it didn’t belong.

But he had quickly proven your thoughts wrong. In reality, except for the times he had starved you in order to…break your will? Whatever it was. Except for those times, he seemed very content watching you eat and rather concerned whenever you didn’t. You didn’t feel the need to be something you were not with him. It should have probably been the bare minimum, but to you it was more. To you, it was something to be grateful for.

You did prove him wrong and showed him that you indeed loved whatever he cooked, by finishing the plate. You raised a brow and shot him a challenging look, as you set the cutlery aside.

He grinned like a predator stalking its prey. “Aren’t we proud over some pasta and steak.”

Your lips curved up into a slow smile. “Just trying to prove a point.”

He hummed softly and leaned back in his chair. “You want your cake now or later?”

Your eyes widened. “Cake?”

He shrugged. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“But I’m full.”

“So, later.” He smirked. “Or do you give up already? Weakling.”

You laughed. “You’re in for a real tragedy. There’s always space for cake.”

His smile softened. “That’s my girl.”

His words sent a pleasant tingle down your spine and you had no way of hiding that from him. He watched you with a mixture of amusement and fondness.

“Come. Let’s dance.”

Your brows shot up. “But I don’t know how.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll show you. Just trust me.”

And you did. When he held out his hand to you, you took it and followed him to the living room. Except for the gramophone (how old was this man, truly? There it was again. Your dream life…The cottage.) in the corner of the room, he wasn’t entirely frozen in time and so he had a music box playing, connected to a phone. Before you knew it, you heard a familiar tune hum quietly in the background.

He placed on hand on your waist, while he used the other one to intertwine your fingers. Your free hand rested on his shoulder and you looked up at him with wide, unsure eyes.

“Don’t be nervous.” He murmured. “It’s just us. I’m leading you. Just relax.”

It was no more than gentle swaying through the air, but to your surprise it felt far easier than expected. You couldn’t tell if it was the wine in your system, cutting your usual inhibitions short, or if truly was him. Whatever it was, when he spun and twirled you around, you let him – and you found you enjoyed it more than you ever thought possible. You were wearing the green dress, one of the first ones he had ever gotten for you. Mostly because you knew what it did to him. He kept glancing down at you, assessing you, licking his lips. And it drove you wild.

Not only with desire. But also the desire to be looked at like that by him.

You continued dancing, your rhythm slow, your thoughts caught in-between right there and somewhere else entirely. After a little while you felt his fingers tangle in your hair, gently pulling you into his chest.

“You know I tried my best to turn your black eyes hazel…And kiss away your cruelty…I gladly got undressed, put all my cards on the table...And by cards, I mean me…Apple in mouth, then you left town…Ran after you until my legs gave out...”

You hummed and your brows furrowed. “Interesting…choice of song.”

You heard his smirk before you saw it. “I found it on your phone, so I assumed you might like it.”

That made you look up at him. “Before you drowned it in tea, you mean.”

He exhaled softly through his nose. “Do you miss it? Your phone?”

A thoughtful hum later, you shook your head. “Not really.”

“I could always get you a new one.”

That caused your brows to shoot up in surprise. “Oh? Aren’t you afraid that I might end up calling the police?”

He shrugged. “To tell them what?”

There it was. The crack in the fourth wall, the cut in the curtain. What was it that you were doing here with him? You were hardly his victim, right?

“I came crawlin' in on all fours…Knockin' at your door…Knockin' at your door…”

Instead of making things more complicated, you somehow made a smile happen. “That a crazy man drowned my phone.”

He smiled as well, but it didn’t seem as genuine as he might have hoped for. He pulled you back into his chest and you continued to swing and sway to the soft melody. It was a song you had heard quite some times before, but you hadn’t ever thought back to it since you were there. Music was the least of your concerns. But now that you thought about it, maybe it did apply to him in a way.

“I don't wanna bleed anymore…I just wanted love…But you wanted gore…You're my matador.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

You didn’t need to look up to see the genuine concern in his eyes. His tone of voice was gentle, almost nonchalant. But there was a depth behind his words, a quiet uncertainty.

When you pulled your head back, he was already staring at you.

“Do you want me to be afraid of you?” You asked in the same, gentle tone.

He regarded you with a soft look and quietly admitted: “I don’t know.”

You took a slow breath, but didn’t say anything more. There was not much to say anyway. His words weren’t hurtful or at least they weren’t meant to be. You could tell.

“I want you to feel safe with me. Because you are.” He breathed against your temple. “Sometimes I just…I don’t understand what I want.”

“I do.” You whispered back, before you could stop yourself.

He froze in his tracks and looked down at you.

You decided to continue on with your courageous mission, even it might cost you your head in the end. “You want to control me.”

“Why are you so calm about this?” He asked quietly and he seemed genuinely confused.

“Because…Well, I don’t know.”

The only sound in the room were the soft tunes of the music and the quiet rustling of your clothes when you went back to your slow dancing. He didn’t press any further and so didn’t you. It was a quiet understanding of some sort. You belonged to him and you didn’t fight it. You weren’t perfect and he didn’t fight it either.

Because he fucking loved you. What else could matter there?

After a long while, after you already thought he had slipped into the abyss of his dark thoughts, he suddenly made you snap out of your own thoughts.

“Do you miss home?”

The question hit you harder than expected.

“Home?” You croaked out.

He nodded. “Yorkshire.”

You had to think it through for a moment. Then, with certainty you could say: “No. Not the way you think.”

He cocked a brow and waited for you to explain.

You hummed and gently tightened your grip on his shoulder. “I don’t miss her godforsaken house or anything else there. I don’t miss the Yorkshire I left behind. If anything, I miss the Yorkshire that Emily Bronte created. And I don’t miss her. I miss what it could be.” Your brows furrowed. “With you.”

His lips twitched in half-amusement. “Oh, yeah? You want me chase you through the moors like Heathcliff?”

You smiled. “Isn’t that what you are to me?”

His expression softened somewhat, but you saw the quiet concern flashing behind his dark eyes. “You’re not just some possession to me.”

“I know.” You whispered.

He exhaled a slow breath and gently cupped your face in his palms. They felt warm against your skin and everything else faded away, leaving your soul stripped bare beside his. He saw no flaws in it. Your brokenness didn’t send him running. Instead he was here, wrapping his clipped wings around you to protect your own.

“I want a future with you.”

There was not a thing in the world he could have said that would have made you feel a similar way. Your palms felt sweaty and your breath stuttered in your throat. There it was. The wall. The curtain. It was crumbling – and it didn’t hurt at all. But hope was a dangerous thing to have.

When he saw the way you struggled to come up with a reply, he continued, while his thumbs drew gentle patterns on your cheeks.

“I may not be the right man for picket fences and barbecues, but for you, I’d like to try. I never saw myself in that. Marriage. Children. Life. I never thought I’d make it this far anyway. I was always sure I’d be dead and gone and long forgotten, before I even reached thirty. It was never meaningful to me, none of it. I might as well have died.” He sighed softly. “Maybe it’s still that way. But you make it much more bearable for me.”

You didn’t mean to feel as touched as you did. But you were a natural crybaby it seemed and also, you were sure you were about to get your period, so you found your eyes grow damp.

Marriage. Children. Life.

“I don’t want picket fences and barbecues.” You heard yourself whisper. “We…we could just be us.”

His lips curved into a soft smile and you were sure, you saw the way his black eyes turned hazel again.

“I’d love that.”

Later that same night, after you had learned that dancing wasn’t as bad as you thought and your life wasn’t equally as hopeless, you found yourself underneath him. It wasn’t new, it wasn’t special either. But to you, it felt like it was.

His lips moved against yours with the same urgency as always, but there was something softer behind his touch, something that was almost careful. Like he didn’t intend to break your already fragile soul any further.

The tip of his tongue brushed against your own and that alone was enough to draw a moan from your lips.

“My naughty girl.” He murmured and slowly ran his fingertips up your thigh, pushing the material of the dress up your body. A few seconds later, he froze.

“Where’s your underwear?”

You couldn’t help but grin and shrug.

He sucked in a sharp breath and you saw his eyes darken. “You had no underwear on this whole time?”

“Mhm.” You purred.

“You…little…”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that you didn’t realize-“

“Minx!”

His lips crashed against yours again and he wasted no more time. His warm hands wandered up your body and he quickly discarded your dress on the floor, followed by your bra. You felt exposed when the cold air hit your skin, especially since he was still fully dressed. Your hands instinctively reached up to undo his shirt, but he quickly pinned your wrists against the mattress above your head and he kissed you with the fervor of a dying man. He used one hand to undo the buttons, while at the same time one of his knees settled between your own, pushing your legs apart. You felt so vulnerable, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but part them even further for him, desperate to finally feel him. When he felt the way you parted your legs for him, a low growl rumbled in his throat.

“Fuck, my dirty girl.” He breathed out and tossed his shirt aside, soon followed by his slacks. You felt his hardness before you saw it. He took your hand and guided it down his body and before you knew it, you felt your fingers wrap around him, your thumb brushing the little, damp spot on the material of his underwear. He groaned against your lips and bucked his hips against your touch.

“Fuck, yes. Come on, baby, touch me.”

Your hand slid inside and wrapped around his skin, all the while your eyes stayed focused on his face. The look in his eyes, the darkness, it was enough to drive you mad.

You bit your lip as you began to gently stroke him, rubbing your thumb over his tip in the most gentle touch. He groaned again and his head dipped forward, his forehead pressed against your collarbone.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He kept bucking his hips, moving in rhythm with you. The way he bit his own lip to stifle any sounds and yet it didn’t help. The fact that you could do this to him…

A shuddering breath and...

“I want to have your baby.”

The words slipped past your lips way faster than you could stop them and you weren’t sure if you were ready to regret them. It was true. And at the same, you were scared shitless. It was stupid before it was anything else. But you wanted what he said. A future. A future with him.

He froze and his body went rigid above you. For a short moment, you were sure you had fucked up. But then he pulled his head back and you saw his eyes. Nearly black.

“Say that again.” He growled.

“I…”

“Say it.” He breathed out and tugged your head back by your hair. You moaned and arched your back, involuntarily pressing against him. He pulled your hand away and held your jaw firmly in place.

“Say it again.” He nearly hissed.

“I want to have you baby. I want you to…I want you…to…”

His lips found your neck and he left a trail of flaming-hot kisses against your skin. His kisses turned to bites, his bites to groans. His boxers shared the same fate your clothing did and before you knew it, he pushed your legs apart, as wide as possible.

“I don’t want you to say this, if you don’t really mean it.” His voice was a mixture of furious and pleading. He was taking control so effortlessly and at the same time, he was incredibly gentle.

You might have been confused, had you not been so desperate to finally feel him.

“I do mean it.” You whispered breathlessly. “I don’t need a fucking picket fence. Haunt me all you want. Kill me if you will. But let me be yours. Don’t look at anyone else. Love only me.”

You had no idea what you were talking. It was probably the wine speaking…or just the depths of your soul.

His expression shifted from quiet despair to something dark, something dangerous.

He leaned down and bit down on your earlobe, the sting of it enough to make you jerk, but not quite enough to really hurt you.

“Are you sure about this? Because, if you are, there is no way back. Because I want this. I fucking want this.”

You bit your lip and slowly wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him against you. His hardness pressed up against your slick core and you were sure you heard him let out a muffled moan against your neck.

“Fill me up. I don’t want a way out. I just want you.”

He didn’t ask again.

He pushed himself inside you, but he was gentle about it. It was as though he was trying to savor the feeling, to feel every little bit of you wrapped around him. You inhaled sharply and exhaled just as hard. Every time his breath hit your neck and he pushed a little further in, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to meet him in the middle.

“Fuck.” He breathed out. “Fuck. I love you. I love this. Fuck, I want to die this way.”

His words sent a shudder through you. “Shut up.” You breathed out. “If something happened to you…”

You didn’t want to think about it, but you did every day. If something ever happened to him…

You couldn’t finish the thought.

He intertwined your fingers with his and pressed your hands against the mattress, his lips just a breath away from yours.

“You’d just go on living.” He whispered.

He gave a slow, deliberate roll of his hips and so you couldn’t answer immediately. But when you did, it was no less desperate. You shook your head, almost frantically.

“What am I going to do if you die, huh? Just live in a world with no you in it? Pass. Fuck. You’d have to kill me first.”

His movements stuttered for a moment, his eyes fixed on you. There was a slowness between you, a feeling like the rest of the world wasn’t really there. Eventually, he continued moving and he wasn’t slow about that. Every thrust he gave was determined, determined to either prove a point or maybe get you pregnant.

He leaned down and his lips barely grazed your ear as he whispered: “You can’t say shit like that to me.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. You were too busy clawing at his back and trying to focus solely on the pressure he put on you. Before you knew what had hit you, you were already gasping and whining out your release.

When he felt your walls clench around him, he let out a low moan against your neck. “What do you want?” He breathed out, his movements never slowing.

“Fill me up.” You breathed out desperately. “Fuck, I want you. Forever.”

These words were enough. His movements stilled, but you felt the way he throbbed inside you, filling you with his seed and his love. His hope. Whatever this was, you wanted more of it. You wanted it all.

He was still gasping for air and so were you. His hands were gentle in your hair and his lips moved softly against your temple.

“I love you. Fuck, I love you. My birthday girl.”

You bit down on your lip and closed your eyes. “I love you more.”

He let out a low chuckle and was probably about to protest, when he felt you tense underneath him.

His eyes shot open and he regarded with a concerned look. “What is it? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, your expression tense. “I just…I think I got…I may have gotten my…” You swallowed, still feeling him pressed against you, but you suddenly felt way more uneasy.

His brows furrowed in confusion, until it suddenly hit him.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you and, indeed. A bloody mess.

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry…” You murmured, your face flushed in embarrassment and shame. “I’ll clean it up, I’ll-“

“Shh.”

He gently tipped your chin up, but your eyes stayed firmly shut.

“What?” He murmured. “You thought I’d be repulsed by this?”

You swallowed and nodded. For some reason, this felt far more humiliating than you ever imagined before.

He sighed softly and gently stroked your hair.

“I’m cleaning it up.” He murmured. “But I’m not repulsed, my silly girl.”

“You’re only saying this so I feel better.”

“No.” He murmured. “I’m saying it, because it’s fucking turning me on.”

Your eyes shot open the same instant.

“You…what?”

He nodded without hesitation. And truly. You felt him, just then. Hard again.

Your eyes widened impossibly, but the flush on your face only deepened. Your mother had somehow made you believe that your monthly blood was something terribly shameful. A curse, a punishment, because women were without shame and that was the only way to stop them.

You never knew what exactly she meant, but it was enough to make you hate yourself over it.

“That- I-“

“Why don’t you come to the shower with me…and I’ll show you exactly what I mean?”

You had no strength to protest. You had come quick to learn, his word meant more than your mother’s ever did. And you didn’t mind.

Even when he hated you, he still loved you. Unlike her.

So you found yourself in the shower only a minute later, pressed against the cold wall behind you. He turned on the water for the cold to fade, but he quickly had you pinned against the wall, while the hot water burned its way through your skin.

“What are you-“

He groaned against your lips and pressed himself against you. All normal. It was all fine. The blood would just wash away, right? Like all bad and shameful things did at some point.

But before you knew it, he was on his knees.

On his knees.

You nearly fainted.

“What are you-“

He hooked one of your legs around his shoulder and attached his lips to your core, before you could protest. Your eyes widened and your blush was near painful. But the thrill…the thrill it sent through your body…

You nearly came, right then and there.

What the hell was he doing? Did this really turn him on?

And why did it turn you on, the way it did him?

He lapped and sucked at you in the most intimate way, a low groan on his lips every now and then. His lips and tongue moved in a cruel speed and you quickly realized you couldn’t just pretend this wasn’t happening.

Because it was happening. And you were about to feel it unravel.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place, your hips moving on their own accord and a breathless moan was on your lips.

There it was. The feeling.

May the water never wash that feeling away.

Your body trembled and shuddered violently as you came and it never seemed to stop. A few seconds later it eventually did. The reality of the situation came crushing back on you, but before you could dwell on it, he was on his feet, towering above you.

“Are you still ashamed?” He whispered breathlessly, brushing his lips against your earlobe.

“Yes.” You whispered back.

He groaned and spun you around, so his chest was pressed against your back.

“Don’t be.” His tone was a quiet command, and yet you recognized the hint of pleading behind his words.

Don’t be ashamed of your pleasure. Don't be afraid of mine.

He didn’t give you time to be ashamed though. He was inside you before you could even think about being. And this time there was nothing gentle about it. Just your vampire lover, pounding away at you and taking what he wanted.

“Are you still ashamed?” He grunted while he mercilessly fucked you into the wall.

You opened your mouth, but all you could do was moan.

His smirk. His smirk was the most cruel sound in the world. But at the same time you were thankful. He didn’t let you be ashamed for something you both wanted.

“Thought so.”

A beat later, his smirk softened into something else and he slowed his movements just slightly to whisper against your earlobe.

"You'll get to know in time. Everything...Me. I promise you."

That was exactly what you thought about.

A day filled with as much sorrow as there was hope. And now there it was. A life growing inside of you, strong and resilient against everything that had hurt you in the past and would continue to hurt you. Until it was too late.

Fucking hell.

Was this your last day on earth?

__________________________________________

Tag list 1: @mitsuki-dreamfree@kpopsmutty69@heroine-chique@vkeyy@mizuwki@blu-brrys@z0mbi345@yourpointbreak@ayieayee@freddyzeppsworld@lola11111111@indifitel6661@salesmanlover08@laurenbenoit70@lalalaa2210@lila-marshal@auspicious-lilana@0-aubrie0@lovelyaegyo@theredvelvetbitch@violentbluess@muriels-lover@dorayakissu@eviebuggg@muchwita@ririgy@strxlemon@obsessedwthdilfs@kiwilov3@misty-q

Author's note: Hey, guys! This chapter cost me years of my life yet again......I started writing this last night and finished it just now, with a sleeping break of course, but I'm just about to head out and I'm still sick, so I'm in no real condition to proofread. I'll do that later, I think...I just hope I didn't talk gibberish here. If I did at some point, please forgive me!

However, thank you guys for your patience and your constant love and motivation! A few things in this chapter were inspired by (anonymous) requests and I'll answer the asks in time!

What I remember definitely is: the period issue, the slow dancing, her wanting for him to finish in her in order to get pregnant, teasing him with no underwear and "What am I going to do if you die, huh? Just live in a world with no you in it? Pass." - "You can't say shit like that to me."

I love you, guys!

Yours eternally,

Lana

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hazbinhotei · 3 days ago

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coming home to you.

warnings: none besides tooth-rotting fluff

word count: 804

summary: After a long, exhausting day of overlord duties, Alastor finds solace in the one place he truly feels at ease—home, in your arms.

alastor x gn!reader. just a short little scenario to help me bust out my very old, very outdated fic writing skills. lord has it been a while. enjoy!

You hum to yourself as you rinse off your plate, watching the last remnants of your dinner swirl down the sink. Your shared hotel suite with Alastor was silent, save for the pocket dimension of his hometown bayou leaking the sound of frogs croaking and crickets chirping into the room. It was a particularly peaceful night—as peaceful as it could be in Hell—and you relish the slowness of it all.

Normally, you would have waited for Alastor to return home from work before eating, but tonight was one of his late ones. Instead of his usual duties working around the hotel, Carmilla had rung up all the Overlords, calling an emergency meeting at her building to discuss the ‘future state of the Pride Ring.’ Whatever that meant.

His words echoed in your mind, spoken with that ever-charming lilt: "Don't wait for me to eat, cher." So, you had taken his advice, eating alone at the small table in your shared suite. It wasn’t the same without him, but you knew he’d appreciate coming home to a warm, welcoming space.

Just as you finish drying the last of your cutlery, the door to the hotel room creaks open, a sound normally followed by a charming comment or dramatic tease from its owner. But tonight, it drags like a body across the floor, heavy and slow. Alastor steps inside, his usual unshakable grin barely holding its form, his shoulders drawn with an unfamiliar weight. The Radio Demon, the grinning nightmare of the Pride Ring, looks… exhausted.

You’re at his side before he can blink, reaching for his striped red coat with practiced ease.

“Welcome home, darling.” Your voice is soft, soothing, the very opposite of the blaring white noise that so often accompanies him. You peel the crimson fabric from his sharp shoulders, the weight of it far heavier than it should be, steeped in the burdens of whatever dealings he’s handled today. He lets you, uncharacteristically still as you hang it up, your fingers brushing over the lapels just a moment longer.

“You know,” he drawls, his voice carrying that ever-present hum, though softer now, sleepier. “I do believe I’ve found my favorite part of the day.”

You hum in acknowledgement, trying to fight off the blush creeping up your neck at his affectionate words as you lead him to the couch with a gentle tug on his hand. He follows, pliant, sinking into the plush cushions with an exhale that nearly sounds human. Nearly.

Before he can so much as adjust his bowtie, you’re already working on it, nimble fingers loosening the fabric with a tenderness most would never dare to offer him. His eyes, normally glinting with endless mischief, watch you with something quieter, something raw.

“How bad was it?” you ask, brushing his hair back, reveling in the way he leans ever so slightly into your touch.

His chuckle is breathy, almost disbelieving. “Dreadful,” he admits, closing his eyes as your fingers trail down to massage the tense muscles at the base of his neck. “A bore, really. Politics, power plays—the same old predictable tricks.”

He sighs as you press a firm kiss to his temple. “The only true entertainment,” he continues, his voice tapering into something softer, “is right here.”

Your chest tightens at that, warmth spreading through you like honey in tea. You shift, guiding him down until his head is resting in your lap. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t quip or tease. He simply lets himself be held. “You’re such a terrible liar,” you muse, twirling a red face-framing lock of hair between your fingers. “You would go mad if you couldn’t wreak havoc on the citizens of Hell.”

He only hums in response, the sound deep from his chest as he gazes up at you with half-lidded eyes. For a while, there’s only silence. The gentle hum of the hotel, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the slow, steady glide of your fingers through his hair.

Then, in a voice so uncharacteristically quiet, he murmurs, “I do hope you know how much I appreciate you.”

You pause, fingers stilling for just a second before continuing, even gentler than before. Your smile is small but genuine as you lean down, pressing your forehead against his.

“I know,” you whisper. “But it’s nice to hear.”

Alastor chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, before pulling you down into his arms. You yelp as he shifts, dragging you onto the couch with him until you’re properly tangled together. His grin, tired as it may be, finds its strength again as he nuzzles into you, his arms looping around your waist with an ease that speaks of years spent loving you.

And for once, the ever-boisterous, ever-smiling, ever-exhausting Radio Demon allows himself the simple comfort of just being.

With you.

#alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x you #alastor x reader #fluff #oneshot

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threeacttragedy · 3 hours ago

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Entry 20: The One Where We Take a Course in Rear Window Ethics

Oh, hey, hey – you’re back!

Yes. I, uh – we need to – uh... What the hell are you doing with that Exakta VX camera fitted with a 400 mm Kilfitt lens?

Come here. See those open windows across the courtyard?

Uh, yeah…

Well, I’m trying to zoom into that apartment –

Wow. Because that’s not creepy as fuck.

Oh, don’t be so modern. This is New York City, 1954. It’s fine.

Yeah, okay. I need you to focus for a moment. Seriously – put down the zoom lens. Headquarters called and wanted to know why Dorothy was still in Oz. You know we were told to take her home.

No – actually we were told to throw stones at that wannabe Wizard. And we did. Kind of. Okay, whatever, but surely you can feel the shift. At the very least we’ve infiltrated the base camp with a bunch of flying monkeys. They’ll take care of the rest. God, there’s one in there –

And we were supposed to help Dorothy find her way back home.

Meh, don’t worry about Dorothy. I don’t think she’s ready to go home. Even after the ping-pong bullshit of the past few weeks, she’s still standing on her own two feet. Although Toto continues to be a mild pain…

But –

But nothing. Dorothy’s had the power to get her own ass home this entire time. When’s she’s ready, she’ll go.

Okay, well, obviously you’re not going to be of any help as you seem preoccupied with spying on your neighbors. So, I’m going to need to borrow the hot air balloon. Where’d you put it?

Oh, it’s on the—wait! If you take our balloon, how am I supposed to get around? I’m not staying here indefinitely. There’s no air conditioning in this damn apartment!

How about I promise to come back for you? Maybe.

Damn you. Fine, I’ll go with you. Let me get my shit together. Here, hold my camera – and don’t drop it!

Hmph, this is heavy. How does it work? I just look through this and… <points camera towards apartment across the way> Oh – this is interesting. What the hell did you say was going on over there? “…[S]tart from the beginning…Tell me everything you saw – and what you think it means.”

You know those days when you have no choice but to catch up on the work you’ve been blowing off for the past few days (maybe even weeks)? Well, last week, I was having one of those days. The work I’d been pushing down my list for weeks finally needed to be addressed. Regardless of how mind-numbing it was, it had to get done otherwise things were going to start going awry.

I’m one of those people who – when working on the mundane – has a mind that tends to wander every few minutes or so. I find myself Googling things like, “What is the fastest animal on the planet?” And, for your own Useless Knowledge, the cheetah’s land speed of 60+ mph doesn’t come close to the peregrine falcon’s dive bomb of 240+ mph.

Anyway, to keep my mind from wandering, I usually have something running in the background to force my brain into paying attention to two things at once – somehow that helps me maintain focus. The most popular “something” is almost always one of the many (quite possibly too many) British detective shows available for streaming. But, the other day, I simply wasn’t in the mood to rewatch Season 3 of “Dalgliesh” for the seventh time.

So, after a bit of scrolling, I put on an old movie I hadn’t seen in years: “Rear Window.”

The 1954 original, of course.

I’m rarely impressed by anything put out by Modern Hollywood, but the old shit – well, there are some legit classics out there, including this one.

One of the reasons I’ve always been fond of this movie is because you go into it knowing the “bad guy” right from the word “go.” I’m one of those extremely annoying people who can guess the villain within the first few chapters of a book, or within the first twenty or so minutes of a movie (like I said, I am rarely impressed by Hollywood). However, I will admit, one book did slip by me. Damn you, Agatha Christie. Honestly, though, the thrill I felt with being wrong was far more memorable than anything I’ve ever felt with being right. Good or bad, a surprise always leaves its imprint, doesn’t it? Plus, the hysterical elation my father must have felt – and later exhibited – knowing I was going into the final few chapters wrong – well, damn him, too. And, no, the book was not “Three Act Tragedy.” That one was quite easy.

Okay, enough about Ms. Christie. Back to Mr. Hitchcock.

As I sat busily typing away and listening to the dialogue of “Rear Window” playing in the far reaches of my office, it suddenly occurred to me that the parallels between “Rear Window” and the Lukola fandom were rather, well, thought-provoking. Here we have a man (and later his sidekicks) peering into the personal life of another human being. Our protagonist in “Rear Window” witnesses an event (a cover-up, actually) and sets out to prove it – all from the perspective of an onlooker looking in. Sound familiar? I thought it might.

So, welcome to your course on “Rear Window Ethics.”

Now, I cannot intertwine “Rear Window” with the Lukola fandom without dragging your ass into the story. Actually, I could – but it’s far more entertaining for me (and hopefully you) if I form a nexus between you and the movie.

Therefore, you, of course, get to align yourself with L.B. Jefferies (played in real life by Jimmy Stewart). If you’re still in this fandom, it’s because you’ve witnessed something you simply cannot ignore and you’re almost certainly hellbent on proving it at this point.

It’s very likely most of you entered the Lukola fandom alone. You watched some portion of the World Tour and became intrigued. Your mind began to wander, which sparked some urge in you to do some digging. Eventually your investigation led you to the Devil – sorry, I mean, social media. There you met like-minded junior investigators, and you’ve now found yourself chatting with these newfound friends and theorizing in the burrows of underground group chats.

So, about your sidekicks…

The part of “Stell-aaaaaa!!!!” (yes, that is my hat-tip to Jake) is given to your most “inventive” Lukola friend. You know, the one that has their own “theories” channel in your private chats; the one who scurries down the rabbit hole – not in search of the White Rabbit – but in search of the Cheshire Cat. Stella is the reason you think outside the box. In “Rear Window,” Stella (played by Thelma Ritter) is Jefferies’ nurse (Jefferies is injured and bound to his apartment; hence why he has so much free time to gaze out the rear window). This friend will throw anything and everything against the wall to see what sticks – even if it occasionally takes a deep-dive into how to cut up a body in a bathtub.

Next, we have Detective Doyle, Jefferies’ long-time friend (played by Wendell Corey). Doyle is quite possibly your spouse, haha, or anyone who side-eyes your involvement with this fandom. Doyle half listens to Jefferies’ theories and usually counters Jefferies with an alternative piece of evidence. But don’t fret, although Doyle teases Jefferies about his wild theories throughout the film, Doyle is, in fact, supportive of Jefferies and does comes around in the end.

I’m going to switch gears for a moment but not before acknowledging that, yes, I am aware I’m missing a player here. Don’t worry – she will arrive shortly.

Alright, on to our subject matter: Lars Thorwald.

Thorwald (played by Raymond Burr) is our straight-outta-Hitchcock-baddie who has been spotted by Jefferies trying to cover up the murder of his wife. The obvious parallels I’m going to draw between “Rear Window” and the Lukola fandom are (1) Thorwald’s crime being equivalent to the World Tour and everything that has happened thereafter, and (2) Jefferies’ obsession with proving Thorwald is guilty being comparable to the fandom’s obsession with proving Lukola is real.

Now, I’m going to get the ball rolling by fast-forwarding through the World Tour all the way up to where I last left you – the post-release of “Mis-Directed.” Recall that shortly before the book’s release, in a surprise turn of events, Luke appeared with Antonia at the Boss event held January 30. However, this was almost immediately negated by Luke snubbing Antonia post-event (and perhaps even more shockingly, Antonia’s mirrored lack of acknowledgement of Luke). And try as Nicola might, there’s no skirting around the innuendo made throughout that fan-fic of a book.

“Watson! Get up! There’s fuckery afoot!”

Who the hell are you?

I’m Dad. Who are you?

Ah, not that guy!

Yes, that guy. Of course, Dad has entered the room. After all I needed someone to fill the role of Lisa Fremont (also known as Grace Kelly). Lisa is your Lukola friend with the highest degree of common sense. She takes the “evidence” presented and looks at it with some realism. She is never going to take the Dwight Shrute Route and state something as “Fact,” but she is the one you rely on to delineate between what makes sense and what doesn’t. In short, this is your friend who understands human nature.

Alright, before I really get this ball rolling –

Since I’ve now added a third wheel (Dad) to the back-and-forth dialogue of my two wizard-chasing-balloon-riding-time-traveling-narrators, I suppose I should also give these two imbeciles names.

You first.

Uh, well, I’m Charley and that’s –

I’m Crowd.

Full credit for these two make-believe idiots is given to my dad. He created the personas of “Charley and the Crowd” for my two nieces a few years ago. They would show him their dolls and my dad would narrate what was going on in their stories. Of course, my nieces regularly corrected him with, “No, Papá, that is not what Barbie is doing!” Still, Charley and the Crowd stuck around, playing the role of two, usually counter-productive and sometimes ignored, news anchors at a Macy’s Day Parade-like event hosted by my nieces’ massive collection of L.O.L. Dolls.

And just for clarity’s sake, during the dialogue between Charley, Crowd, and Dad, actual statements made by Dad will be in quotations. Any statement not in quotations was added simply to move the story along.

Let’s begin (finally).

In “Rear Window,” every time Jefferies and his sidekicks present their findings to Detective Doyle attempting to prove Thorwald’s guilt, they are thwarted by evidence discovered by Doyle’s investigation. It’s a constant back-and-forth throughout the movie; however, regardless of how “solid” Doyle’s evidence is that Anna Thorwald is still alive, Jefferies remains sat on the hill that Thorwald killed his wife. It was this parallel – not the peeping Tom aspect of the movie – that piqued my interest last week. No matter what was thrown at him, Jefferies remained steadfast in his opinion Thorwald murdered his wife. Nothing budged him. I realized Jefferies’ level of resilience mirrored every diehard Lukola’s reaction to every piece of contradictory evidence thrown at them. Nothing budges them.

The tail-end of January and all of February was a bit wild in the Lukola fandom. I mean, there were a lot of narratives being thrown around only to be counteracted by another event. As I mentioned earlier, we ended January with the Boss event but that flame was quickly extinguished by Luke and Antonia’s complete lack of follow-up. Luke had the perfect opportunity to make it “official” with Antonia – to finally shut down the Lukola shippers – but he didn’t.

Crowd: Antonia not doing anything with it is the biggest tell, in my opinion.

I’m not going to spend much time rehashing the Boss event because I already discussed it in Entry 18 (link below), but I will touch on two things that I believe deserve an Honorable Mention.

The first being –

Charley: Why didn’t Antonia have her phone or even a handbag at the Boss event?

I mention this little detail because it was echoed at the BAFTA afterparty Luke attended with Antonia on February 16. In fact, I suspect this may be the modus operandi when Antonia attends an event with Luke – she is not given the opportunity to have a phone with her. One would think, at the very least, you would see Antonia entering and/or leaving an event with some kind of handbag or clutch. But we have pictures of Antonia entering both the Boss event and BAFTA afterparty without one. I will acknowledge we don’t see her leave these two events; however, if we rewind time, Antonia does not have a handbag with her during Papsmear.

Dad: “Well, that’s extremely odd.”

I don’t believe I’ve mentioned it before – at least not on this blog – that my dad has an eye for women’s fashion. My sisters and I grew up under his critical eye and, to this day, my father doesn’t know where he went wrong with my older sister. This is entirely why he was given the part of Lisa Fremont, the movie’s style icon in the form of Grace Kelly. The fact that Antonia is never seen with any type of handbag at these events sparked his interest.

Dad: “[It seems] they [at a minimum Luke] wanted complete control [of what Antonia could take away from the event]. No handbag. Nowhere to hide a phone. No rogue pictures floating about.”

Charley: Yes, it does seem that way.

The second event I wanted to mention was – although neither Luke nor Antonia liked the Boss grid post of the two of them entering that event together – Nicola did. Now, this wasn’t an immediate like. In fact, Nicola waited almost two weeks to like the post, on February 12.

Crowd: The day before Nicola went back and liked that post, that video was being dissected across social media.

Dad: Why?

Charley: Because it was suggested Luke said, “Let’s get this done,” as he walked inside the event with Antonia.

Dad: “I don’t hear shit.”

I will admit, when this video was initially sent to me, I didn’t hear anything except the background noise. However, when I was told what was allegedly being said, I was able to hear it. This very well could be the power of suggestion but the timing of Nicola’s like on this post is, at a minimum, noteworthy.

Once we leave the Boss event, we stumble right into “Mis-Directed.” I’ll post the links to my review of that book at the end. It is what it is – and it’s a whole lot of…umm, yeah…maybe Dad said it best.

Dad: “Either your Lukola thing is real, or Ireland is a psychopath.”

Crowd: Seriously, who let this guy in here?

I’m going to have to hard agree with my dad on this one. Not necessarily about Nicola being a “psychopath,” but the references made in the book are too on the nose for it not to be intentionally Lukola- and/or Polin-coded.

I’m also convinced this book was edited after the World Tour, with the most obvious example of this being demonstrated with the quote: “The dates here coincided with the time period of Leicester Square… Below the words was a symbol of a V-shaped flying dove. At first glimpse, it strongly resembled two raised fingers.” If our duo is to be believed, Luke and Nicola had no idea prior to the World Tour that the fandom would go wild over Colin’s fingers. But after the release of Part 1, any mention of “two raised fingers” would send the fandom into a feeding frenzy. And it’s such an extremely random bit of innuendo, I have trouble believing the author came up with it on her own.

Charley: When you think about it, if Antonia hadn’t shown up at the Boss event, the Lukola fandom would have taken the book as confirmation that Lukola was real.

Indeed, a hefty portion of the fandom would have done just that. The fandom was already convinced that Luke and Nicola spent the holidays together – even without direct evidence – because there was evidence that Luke and Nicola did not spend the holidays with Antonia and Jake, respectively.

Antonia appeared to be with family at Christmas and in the Maldives over New Year’s – without making even the slightest insinuation that Luke was with her.

Jake seemingly spent the holidays with Dylan B., as demonstrated by his pre-Christmas stories with Dylan in their (basically) adjacent hometowns – without Nicola, who, by her own account, was in Galway. Jake and Dylan’s Christmas stories were followed up with their jointly hosted New Year’s Eve party – at which Nicola was not present (as evidenced by Nicola’s comment to an attendee’s New Year’s Eve post: “Have the best night miss yous”).

Dad: “It is weird they [Nicola and Jake / Luke and Antonia] wouldn’t spend any of the holidays together. One? Sure, maybe. But all? No.”

But, even with that statement, my dad chose to play the role of Detective Doyle (a/k/a the Devil’s Advocate of “Rear Window”) regarding the holidays because –

Dad: “Misty [Antonia] was with her dance troupe. Jake was with his friends. Ireland was doing her thing. But no one knows where Thang [Luke] was. Everyone else has a trail except him, which is odd. He could have been with Ireland, but you can’t prove it, so what you have is not really evidence.”

Charley: Thanks, Dad.

But, let’s face it, my dad is right. There’s no solid evidence that Luke and Nicola spent their holidays with each other or anyone else. You can apply the same theory to the birthdays. The only “evidence” we have that two people did not spend a birthday together was Jake posting a belated birthday greeting to Nicola followed by Nicola posting what appeared to be an intimate birthday dinner for two, presumably from the night before. We can surmise Nicola’s birthday date was not Jake, otherwise he would not have posted the late greeting.

About Jake’s birthday –

Crowd: Oh, yeah, “hard launch No. 54” because Nicola used a red heart in her birthday story to him.

Charley: You mean the same one she used in a story for another friend just the other day?

Crowed: Yep.

Dad: “I don’t know what to say about those people [the Jakolas]. They need to resubmerge or something. There’s no relationship there [between Jake and Nicola].”

The Jakolas are banking this “hard launch” on the fact Nicola posted a birthday story for Jake, but not for Luke, and vice versa. These are the same people who will argue that Luke and Antonia not posting about each other’s birthdays is because they’re private – but, in the same breath, refuse to acknowledge Luke and Nicola may not post about each other’s birthdays because they’re private.

I believe it’s worth mentioning that no one from the Bridgerton cast except James Phoon posted about Nicola’s birthday on January 9. When Nicola acknowledged her birthday greetings the day after, she did not repost Phoon’s story nor did she repost fan-favorite JVN’s birthday story. And I should have placed bets on this next part – no one from the Bridgerton cast posted about Luke’s birthday on February 5. Surely, I’m not the only person who saw – and anticipated – the comraderie there.

What the Jakolas should have been focusing on with Jake’s birthday was the fact that it was Dylan and Becky’s boyfriend that were wearing matching “Jecky” shirts at their joint birthday party. No one else had that shirt except for the two people believed to be their significant others. Although I’m not fully convinced Jake is dating Dylan, I am one hundred percent convinced Jake would date Dylan over Nicola.

Charley: What’s next?

Crowd: God, there was so much shit going on in February! Uhh, let’s jump to Valentine’s Day. Nicola attended the IFTA’s with her mother and sister, and Luke attended a GQ dinner event alone.

This holiday follows in the same vein as the previously noted holidays, except it’s Nicola and (amazingly!) Luke that are both accounted for. Jake was presumed to be in Sheffield rehearsing for his play; and Antonia was nowhere to be found, not even at the GQ dinner.

However, Antonia does make a brief reappearance at a BAFTA afterparty alongside Luke on February 16.

Crowd: But it was a repeat of the Boss event. The next day, neither acknowledged the other.

Charley: And Luke was reported to have left the party after only an hour – without Antonia. He even posted a picture of himself getting into a car alone.

Dad: To me, “[i]t seems like Thang took his dog [Antonia] for a walk and left her at the dog park.”

Two days later, Luke – actually out for a walk – is papped getting coffee, alone. Is it horrible of me to say that the most exciting thing about these pictures was the untucked versus tucked shirt? I’m not even sure why I’m taking the time to mention this except I felt there would be some side-eye if I did not.

And to be honest, I’ve left out some details and minor events from the months of January and February because, if I were to add them, this post would be twice as long as it already is. For example, don’t get me started on sunburns, tan lines, and “sunny places.”

If we were in the movie, “Rear Window,” everything stated up until this point would run parallel to the back-and-forth between Detective Doyle and our Trio of Peeping Toms. Evidence is presented by the Trio, which is then countered by Doyle. Doyle’s evidence is dismissed by the Trio because, again, they’re hellbent on proving their case, so they continue theorizing and digging into Thorwald. All that leads up to the movie’s climax.

Charley: Have we finally made it to the SAG?

Crowd: Yes, yes, we have.

Charley: Dad – Dad – wake up!

Dad: Huh?

Alright, the fucking SAG awards. This would be about the point in “Rear Window” where Lisa gets caught by Thorwald rifling through his belongings in search of evidence. We’re in the audience biting our nails because Jefferies can’t do a damn thing to help Lisa except watch everything unfold. And that’s what we did with the SAG awards. The entire Lukola fandom was hyper-focused on Luke and Nicola – and they did not disappoint.

Forget all the drama we endured from the sideshow characters and the nonsense that came with them.

Forget Luke being AWOL for six months.

Forget everything except the “hug heard ‘round the world.”

The ice was broken; the champagne was flowing. Luke and Nicola’s joint SAG appearance was like the World Tour on steroids.

Dad: Can I say something?

Crowd: Fuck. What?

Dad: “It was their season, right? So, their joint appearance on the red carpet wasn’t earth shattering. Neither was them sitting together. It was their night to celebrate.”

Crowd: Who invited this wet blanket to the party?

Dad: I wasn’t done. “Their season has run its course, right? They’ve ‘graduated.’ So why are they the focus of mainstream media?”

Charley: <thinking> Because there’s something newsworthy there?

That is your climax. Not their SAG appearance – because everyone can have their own interpretation of Luke and Nicola’s behavior and those interviewers’ Q&A’s – it was the mainstream media going ga-ga over Luke and Nicola that sent the Lukola narrative tumbling out the window. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll understand that reference.

By the following day, Luke and Nicola were everywhere. I genuinely appreciate the “Librarians” of the private group chats – those people who track and record every single post, story, like, non-like, follow, unfollow, literally everything – their job was grueling last week. The Sincerely Ignorant Lukolas who jumped ship months ago were frantically trying to climb back on board, while the Jakolas were desperately trying to find their Dramamine. The Defectors went silent except to remind their hive of hornets not to worry; that they will get “a reminder soon…”

Charley: A reminder of what?

Crowd: Oh, that there are two side characters floating about.

Well, lo and behold �� right on schedule – a random picture of Luke and Antonia in an elevator surfaced the day after the SAG awards. The problem with the picture was that it was dismissed by Lukolas almost immediately. The account that dropped the picture on X was suspicious. Antonia’s hair and clothing seemed “so last year.” The Lukolas were far more focused on Luke and Nicola liking anything and everything to do with the SAG that day than to pay any attention to the “same old song and dance” about Antonia. Even Nicola liking Jake’s very bland “Nicola” comment on her grid post was dismissed with a “shooing” wave of the hand and an uninterested half laugh.

On February 25, the “insinuation” pictures were at it again. In fact, it was a rather busy day. An event host posted a picture of what appeared to be Antonia perfectly centered at an L.A. hotel pool. The story was reposted by the hotel itself. In fact, that’s the only reason the picture was found by the fandom. A new elevator picture of Luke and Antonia dropped; however, it, too, was dismissed fairly quickly, regardless of it being dropped by a different, less dubious X account. The Lukolas just didn’t give a fuck about Antonia. Luke was the subject of a blind that insinuated he had spent most of his time at the SAG looking in a mirror. And the evening was rounded out by something that would have rocked the boat in June 2024 but had little effect in February 2025 – Nicola followed Antonia on Instagram and vice versa!

Oh, shit – Jefferies just lost his grip and fell out the “Rear Window.” But he didn’t die! So, that’s a plus.

The following day, February 26, Antonia started to remove tags from her Instagram account including the “Soho” New Year's 2024 picture of Luke and his friend group, which included Antonia. And Nicola responded to the “mirror” blind about Luke with “I can confirm this is 100% not true [laughing/crying emoji].” So, interestingly, we had Antonia backing further away from Luke and Nicola stepping up to defend him.

Crowd: So, where do we go from here?

That’s a good question. The thing I’ve learned through this “course” is that the Lukolas are now unmoved by the shenanigans happening around them. You can serve Antonia to them on a silver platter, and they’ll flag down the waiter and ask them to return her to the kitchen. And you won’t find Jake anywhere on their menu (hence why I didn’t even bother to mention Jake’s play).

Dad: I think “the whole thing has run its course.”

It really has. The Lukolas are tired but unyielding. At this point, they just want their version of Thorwald to confess. The narratives running parallel to each other (i.e., Lukola vs. Jakola vs. Lutonia) can’t go on much longer. One of them is going to crack under the pressure.

Remember, “Three can keep a secret…”

P.S.

Dad: “Is Ireland still wearing that ring?”

Me: Yes.

Dad: “Then why did you call me?”

Me: <deep sigh>

#lukola #nicola coughlan #luke newton #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #my humor

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captain-huggy-bear · 2 days ago

Note

“I was really trying not to wake you” with kesselring if you feel like it!! 💛

He's just a big, giant clumsy giraffe. A handsome one though. Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

You're cosy, warm in the way you only get when you're wrapped up in blankets that have taken on your body heat overnight. Cheek pressed into your pillow, arms wrapped tight around it, in that stage of sleep where the smallest thing could wake you. On the edge between dreaming and awake.

It's the sound of crashing that first starts drawing you from your sleep, the sound of Michael tripping over a pair of shoes he'd left in the middle of the floor, body going flying and slamming into the corner of dresser. The pointed edge landing solidly in his thigh.

"Shit, fuck! Ow! Fuck," You become more lucid, eyes blinking open, bleary and tired, as you push yourself up on one arm. Michael's holding his leg where he ran into the corner of the dresser, tripping backwards over a pile of his clothes he'd dumped there last night saying he'd deal with it in the morning, arms pinwheeling before he manages to right himself. Heaving a big sigh and dragging a hand down his face. He has yet to notice that you are awake and staring at him in the dark, the alarm clock displays big red numbers declaring it to be 5am.

"Michael?" Your voice is sleepy, so tired and the guilt hits Michael instantly when he looks over to see you staring at him. You're holding yourself up by one arm, other hand rubbing at your eyes to wake yourself up further. He had planned to sneak out to morning skate without waking you, so you'd get to sleep a little longer, it being a Saturday.

"Shit."

"Mike, are you okay?" You're starting to get up, pushing yourself to a seated position and he knows that if he doesn't stop you you'll swing your legs around and get fully out of bed to check on him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good! Go back to sleep, honey" He's already advancing on you, nearly tripping over his shoes again. Hoping that by getting closer you'll stay in the bed, where you belong, because its 5am on a Saturday and you don't have work.

"Mikey?"

You watch him as he sits down on the edge of the bed next to you, large hands coming up to your shoulders to gently push you back down from your seated position.

"I..I was really trying not to wake you, sorry, baby, promise I'm good. Go back to sleep.” Michael pulls the covers back up over you, tucking you in as he tries to convince you to stay in bed, that it's not worth waking up with him before the sun has even risen.

"I can't if you're not here..." You hate falling asleep without Michael, roadies are particularly tough. You often struggle to fall asleep, tossing and turning and while you'll probably be fine right now, half-asleep as you are, you really don't want to go back to sleep without him.

"I've got morning skate, honey, I have to go...I'll be back in a few hours, promise." Michael's long fingers push your hair back behind your ear, stroking the hair by your temple slowly, gently. It's soothing enough that you can't help but close your eyes again, snuggling back into the pillows, the mattress, your bedding.

"You promise?" Your voice is already getting sleepy again and Michael can't help but smile at the way you snuggle back into your nest and he strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers, the motion repetitive and soothing.

"Promise, sweetheart. Go to sleep."

He stays there longer than he really should. Stroking your hair, your cheek, until he hears your breath even out, until he knows you're asleep again. Then he creeps away, this time avoiding each and every obstacle that had caused him to wake you in the first place until he reaches the door to your bedroom.

He can't help but stop in the doorway, chin turned over his shoulder to watch you one last time before he leaves even when he knows he'll see you in a few short hours.

Even that feels too long sometimes.

#huggy bear writes #michael kesselring x reader #michael kesselring/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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chelseacult · 20 hours ago

Text

False Hope

Niamh Charles x Reader

Summary: off at an away game, you and Niamh ditch the team dinner for a night in at your hotel.

Word Count: 1.8k

The thickening tension in your joint hotel room could be cut with a knife. The look of concentration on Niamh’s face as she eyes down the chessboard considering her next move intimidates you. You struggle to predict where she’s planning on placing the knight that her fingers rest on. She picks it up, and that’s when you see her game plan. She’s got you hook, line, and sinker with one move. You’re about to lose.

You let out a defeated sigh upon realizing that she’s going to beat you again. At the noise, she glances up at you. She hesitates for a second before reversing her path and placing the piece back where it was. Her hand leaves the knight, switching over to her last standing bishop, and she slides it down the board.

“Your turn,” she urges as she leans back in her chair, looking up at you with an encouraging smile.

You look down at the board, noticing that her move has left her king vulnerable. You look back at her, shooting her an unimpressed look. “Babe, come on.”

“What?” she asks with a slight tilt of her head.

“There’s literally no way you missed that,” you gesture to the chessboard.

“Missed what?” she pretends to be confused, leaning forward to inspect the board. You reach forward, moving one of your pieces and capturing her king, signaling your win.

“You won!” Niamh gasps, theatrical enough to let you know she’s not actually surprised. The way she’s smiling at you is usually enough to make you melt, but you’re more focused on the fact that she just let you win.

“I know you saw that! Stop letting me win,” you say exasperatedly, your voice laced with more annoyance than you’re really feeling.

“I’m not! You’re getting better! I’m so proud of you,” she says excitedly. She abruptly rises from her seat and rushes over to you, pulling you into a tight embrace. The angle’s a little awkward with you still sitting, but the warmth of her lips against your temple and the soft whisper of “good job, baby” against your skin distracts you from the straining of your neck.

The minuscule amount of annoyance you’re still feeling dissipates when you see the look on her face as she pulls back. She’s the most competitive person you know, but she looks over the moon at your win.

“Rematch?” she asks, sliding back into her seat. You nod.

The two of you get back into action, tension once again rising as you take turns stealing each other’s pieces and attempting to keep the other on their toes. As it always starts, Niamh is outplaying you, and you’d bet money that your loss is impending. As you’re waiting for the inevitable checkmate, she switches up her attack. Almost identical to her ploy earlier, Niamh moves her pawn forward, freeing up a direct path for you to capture her king for the second time tonight.

“Really?” you exasperrate, staring at the board in disbelief.

She brushes off your complaint with a smirk. “You should think about going pro. Beating the team’s resident chess champ isn’t a simple feat, you know.”

“I’ve never seen you make a move that stupid.” You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, eyebrows raised as you stare her down.

“Honest mistake, love. I’m off my game today,” she chuckles, giving a slight shrug.

“I see right through you.” Despite your words, you mirror the smile on her face.

“If you don’t want to admit you’ve beaten me fair and square, we can call it a draw.” Her gaze flickers to the board momentarily, then back to you, amusement present in her eyes. “I’d savor the moment if I were you, though. Probably won’t happen again,” she adds with a smirk.

You scoff. “You’re taking your supposed losses too well. If you really want to sell it, you need to act more upset.”

“I could start crying if you want,” she jokes, the knowing glint in her eyes still present.

“I mean, yeah, that’d be in character for you.”

She laughs. Your laughter follows.

“But, seriously. The pawn out of all pieces to-” you start, but she raises a hand, stopping you mid-sentence. “Don’t ruin this for yourself. Enjoy the win,” she urges.

“Round three, then? Maybe we can get you on a winning streak,” she asks, pointedly ignoring the glare you shoot in her direction. The underlying message in her words is clear: I’m going to keep letting you win.

“A pity win streak, thank you so much,” you deadpan, unable to stop the hint of a smile threatening to break through. She must notice your failed attempt to keep your smile at bay because her grin widens the longer she looks at you.

A rush of feelings hits you then, and you’re overcome with love for the woman seated across from you. She just let you win again, and she’s happy about it. It’s almost subconscious when you stand and walk over to where she’s sitting. Her smirk softens as you lean down, and she tilts her head to meet you. Your lips meet hers, pressing a brief kiss against them.

“I love you. Even when you lie to me,” you whisper, feeling her smiling against your lips.

“I love you too,” she whispers back.

You turn to walk back to your chair, but she grasps your wrist and tugs you back in. Her hands reach either side of your face, warm as she pulls you down to her level. She presses a series of sloppy kisses against your lips, and the laugh you muffle between the kisses causes her smile to widen.

She watches as you retake your seat, her face a bit redder than before. It’d be impossible to miss the adoration in her eyes. You’re positive that both her growing blush and look of adoration are reflected on your own face.

The two of you begin resetting the board, preparing it for another round. The silence is comfortable as you put the pieces back in their respective positions.

“I don’t let just anyone beat me, by the way,” Niamh eventually states.

Your attention shifts back to her, noting the small smile on her face. “Oh, you’re admitting it already?”

The smile on her face shifts to a look of feigned confusion as she glances up at you. “Admitting what?”

“I give up,” you huff.

“Good. Your start,” she smiles, nodding to the board and gently nudging your foot with hers.

As you go to move one of your pieces, there’s a loud series of knocks at the door, causing you both to flinch.

“Room service!” Niamh shouts.

You send a confused look her way. “You ordered room service?”

“Nah, joking. I don’t know who it is,” she laughs. You let out a sound that mixes a scoff and a laugh as you stand up and head to the door. You’ve barely undone the lock before Sam comes barreling into the room.

“What are you guys doing? Come on, team dinner! We’re all going,” she yells. You and Niamh let out matching groans at the reminder of the event you were both hoping to avoid.

“How’d you know our room number? Creep,” you ask with a teasing lilt.

“I have my ways.” Sam stops in her tracks as she notes the chessboard on the table. “You guys are seriously hiding away to play chess? Nerds.”

“Rude!” Niamh utters under her breath. Sam waves a dismissive hand in her direction. “Who won though?” she asks.

Niamh gestures in your direction, and her proud smile almost makes you believe her false narrative of your success.

“What? No way. She let you win?” Sam shifts her attention to you.

“Ye-” you start.

“No! She just has a good teacher. Best on the team, I reckon,” Niamh says smugly, subtly winking in your direction.

Shifting her attention back to Niamh, Sam gives her a skeptical look. You turn to Niamh and mirror the look on Sam’s face.

“Don’t gang up on me!” Niamh exclaims.

“Niamh, you hate losing,” Sam says pointedly.

“It’s not preferred, but I don’t hate it,” she argues.

Sam raises one eyebrow. “Yes, you do,” she counters.

Niamh sighs, then shrugs. “She just gets really happy when she wins,” Niamh admits almost sheepishly, making an effort to avoid eye contact with you.

Sam’s exaggerated fake gagging cuts off the teasing remark on the tip of your tongue.

“Stop, I’m disgusted. And we need to go! Niamh, get up,” Sam gestures for Niamh to get out of her chair, prompting another groan to leave her lips. You shuffle over to her, holding out a hand to help pull her from the chair.

“You’re also late, if you failed to notice,” Niamh remarks to Sam as she takes your hand, giving it a grateful squeeze as she stands.

Sam shrugs. “I have an excuse. You guys are here being losers.”

“You’d die if you saw the puzzles we brought,” you laugh, the laughter of the other two following shortly after.

“Gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. And don’t get me started on how you bribed Sonia to assign you guys the same room.”

“We’ll give you some tips!” Niamh playfully remarks as Sam walks back to the door.

“Lobby. Five minutes,” Sam says sternly, pointing back and forth between the two of you. “If you’re not there, I’ll come back up and drag you both out of the room.” She exits before either of you can respond.

You turn to Niamh with a smug grin on your face. If the bashful look on her face tells you anything, she knows exactly what you’re about to say.

“You admitted it.” You punctuate your statement with a gentle tug of her hand, urging her to meet your gaze. She obliges, her fingers momentarily tightening around yours as she sighs and turns toward you.

“Alright,” she drawls. “I let you win. I thought you’d let it go by now.”

“You know better than that.”

She huffs out a laugh. “I know. Ever the persistent one, aren’t you?” she teases, leaning forehead to kiss your forehead. The warmth of her lips on your skin spreads like wildfire through you.

“Come on,” she mumbles against you before pulling away. “Sam will kill us if we make her wait any longer.”

“Fine,” you relent, extending a hand towards her. “But we’re having a rematch when we get back. And you’re not going easy on me this time.”

“Deal,” she agrees, smiling as she firmly shakes your hand.

Her grip lingers a little longer than necessary. As she lets go, you catch a flash of something unreadable in her eyes. It’s enough to have you wondering if she intends to keep her word. When she leans in to kiss you one last time before you exit the room, you realize it doesn’t really matter.

a/n: this idea popped into my head while I was watching an old lionesses YT vid where chess was brought up. sorry if the chess lingo is confusing, hope you enjoyed!

#niamh charles #niamh charles x reader #niamh charles imagine #chelsea women #chelsea wfc #woso #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso blurbs #woso one shot #woso community

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k2padfoot · 5 hours ago

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Only for You

Rafe Cameron x Y/n

summary: Rafe giving Y/n aftercare and being all soft and sweet but she doesn’t understand why.

warnings: SMUT! soft Rafe, aftercare, fluff.

Your breathing syncs with Rafe’s, each shallow breath matching his as his body moves with yours, slow and intense. His forehead is pressed against yours, dampness of sweat clinging to the skin.

The normally sharp edge in his voice softens, “You’re such a good girl,” he whispers, his words making your pulse jump. His thumb brushes tenderly across your cheek, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing holding him together, sends a heat pooling in your lower abdomen.

He shifts just enough to kiss you, his hands gripping your hips tightly. “I need you to let go for me,” he murmurs, his words a mixture of a plea and command. “I’ve got you, cum for me.”

His rhythm falters and you clutch at him, your nails digging into his back, and with one last thrust you both fall apart. Your body trembled as he moaned your name, his warm cum painting your walls.

He doesn’t move right away, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, “Fuck, that was so good,” he whispered.

He shifted, gently pulling out before leaning over you. You blinked up at him, your chest still rising and falling heavily, the intensity of what just happened leaving a lingering haze in your body. But beneath that haze, you felt an undeniable vulnerability, a feeling you’d grown used to burying over the years.

Rafe had been silent for a moment, studying you with an unreadable expression. His rough fingers grazed against your cheek with surprising tenderness.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft but laced with a concern that made your stomach twist.

You nodded out of habit, brushing the question off. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice wavered slightly. You weren’t used to being asked, not used to anyone caring.

Rafe didn’t seem convinced. “Stay here,” he said firmly, slipping out of bed.

You watched him disappear into the bathroom, hearing the sound of running water. Your brow furrowed in confusion, but you stayed put, pulling the covers up to shield your body from the chill in the air. When he returned, he carried a damp washcloth in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

“What are you doing?” you asked, sitting up slightly.

“Taking care of you,” he replied simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rafe settled on the edge of the bed, gently tugging the covers down. You instinctively flinched at the exposure, but he hushed you with a quiet, “Relax, Y/n.” The washcloth was warm and soothing as he wiped away the remnants of the both of you from your skin. His movements were unhurried, almost reverent, as though he wanted to make sure you felt nothing but comfort.

You didn’t say anything, too stunned to process the intimacy of it all. No one had ever cared to do this for you before. You weren’t even sure you deserved it.

“Why are you doing this?” you finally whispered.

Rafe paused, glancing up at you. “Because I want to,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. “You deserve it.”

His words made your chest ache, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. You bit your lip to keep the sudden wave of emotion at bay.

Once he was satisfied, Rafe stood again, tossing the washcloth aside. “Come on,” he said, extending a hand to you.

“Where are we going?”

“Just come with me,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

He led you into the bathroom, where the tub was already filling with warm water. Steam moved through the air, and the scent of lavender lingered faintly. You blinked in surprise as Rafe turned off the faucet, testing the temperature with his hand.

“You did this for me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Now, get in.”

You hesitated for a moment before following his orders, stepping into the tub and sinking into the warmth. The water enveloped you, soothing your sore muscles and grounding you in the moment. Before you could say anything, Rafe climbed in behind you, pulling you gently against his chest.

“Rafe,” you started, but he shushed you, his arms wrapping securely around your waist.

“Just relax,” he murmured into your ear.

For once, you listened, leaning into him as the tension in your body slowly melted away. His hands moved to your hair, massaging your scalp as he worked the suds from the shampoo into a lather. His touch was patient, careful, as if he was afraid to hurt you.

It felt different. Too good, almost. Like you’d stepped into a dream.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you asked quietly, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Rafe stopped for a moment before resuming his gentle motions. “Because you’re worth it,” he said simply.

You turned slightly, trying to read his expression. “Do you do this for everyone?”

He let out a soft chuckle, his lips brushing against your temple. “No, Y/n. I don’t.”

Your chest tightened at his answer. It was clear in the way he looked at you, in the care he took with every movement, that this was something different. Something real.

“You don’t have to be shocked, you know,” he added, his voice low but steady. “I like you. A lot. Probably more than I should.”

You didn’t know what to say, your mind reeling from the weight of his words. But as you settled back against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, you realized you didn’t need to say anything.

For the first time in a long time, you felt safe. And it was because of him.

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damimami1994 · 3 days ago

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GIRRRLL this is going to be a long one so get ready ✍🏼

First of all I want to kiss your beautiful brain because the way you write for Old Man Logan is just AHHHH!! (meaning oh so great lol)

The tension between these two from the moment it started is so exciting and electric. I absolutely loved how the reader pushed his buttons and never let down from what she wanted and knew what he wanted too. It was driving him crazy and I was EATING IT UUUPP!!

“Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin.”

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

^COME ON!! This man needs this and craves it so bad, the way you describe his feelings is fabulous.

Lub the two quotes below make me absolutely feral!!!!

“ ”Last chance,” he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. “Last chance to stop before I ruin you.” ”

“A sinful smile spreads across your face. “Oh, Logan,” you coo, “who says I’m not going to ruin you?” “

When you teased this earlier I knew I was in for a ride and now that I know the whole thing I’m like YEESS because he was ruined the moment he stepped in to the house (well really when he decided to pull over)

The angst you created while they were apart but coming back together was divine because she always knew he would come back and as time passed it showed their love building even if they weren’t always together, they didn’t need to because they just knew. 🥹🥹

I loved too how he thought she was a mutant because of how intuitive she felt with him and I’m like hello Logan she loves you and accepts you!! I wanted to shake him so many times like man look with your eyes but he will always think he’s undeserving and she’s there to prove him wrong!! Speaking of undeserving when he tries to push her away again, I loved how fierce she was and didn’t let him get away with it

“You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “God, for someone with heightened senses, you’re blind to what’s right in front of you.” “

^OoOo!!! Yes reader tell him what he needs to hear since he wants to run away and push you out (even though afterwards I’d love him forever because come on lol) Sassy Charles too was the best 🤣 it just kept going with the trash talk Logan needed to hear lol

The porch light being the guiding light through the relationship was such a beautiful way to show their love. It was simple yet had so much meaning. She was never going to quit on him and he was always going to come back even if he didn’t feel deserving of it 😭❤️ Was this your run on thing you talked about having?

*one more note is this was one of my favorite things she said to him explaining how she just feels him and she says

“ "This undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, until...there you are." “

Ohhh to have that with someone especially Logan is a dream because no matter the angst, heart ache, they’d always end up together, in love 😭

Thank you for the happy ending too because I couldn’t not DEAL if they didn’t get it!! Amazing job Lub 👏🏼💐

Come A Long, Long Way

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

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 12.2k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pulling him to you.

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

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

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

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

“Need a lift?”

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

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

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

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

“North. About twenty miles or so.”

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

“Got a name?”

“Who’s asking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You a therapist or somethin’?”

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

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

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

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

“You believe in fate?”

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

“No,” he finally says, voice flat.

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

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

But it intrigues him, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Figured you’d try and sneak out.”

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

Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later.

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

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

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

And damned if he knows why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t human.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What am I to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remain silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns. And he walks.

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

But he doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re pushin’ it,” Logan warns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you even should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“You hurt me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants, he wants, he wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loves you.

Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

But then you answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe in fate?

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

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

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

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

To you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#logan howlett #hugh jackman #fic recs

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wendichester · 21 hours ago

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⋆. 𐙚 ˚ so highschool³,

summary. strangely enough, dean will be staying in the same place for more than a week. it seems like you caught his eye

pairing. teen!dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 706

⋆.˚ ★— read part 1, part 2.

The weekend feels like a blur—days that blend together into one long sigh, each one passing with the same dull rhythm. But Monday morning hits different. You're dragging your feet through the halls, blinking against the early light, wishing for just a few more hours of sleep. The buzz of chatter is all around you, and the fluorescent lights hum overhead as you head to your locker.

When you reach it, your heart does a funny little flip. There he is. Dean Winchester. Of course, it’s him. Leaning against the metal, arms folded, that smile you can’t quite decide is charming or irritating stretched across his face. He’s the last person you need to see first thing in the morning.

But then again...

“What’s wrong with the universe today? You’re early for school,” you call out, voice still thick with sleep, though you try to sound unaffected. You give him a teasing grin as you pull your locker open.

Dean looks unfazed, his grin only widening. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you, sweetheart.” His voice is casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes—something that shivers down your spine in a way you don't quite understand. “Besides, I thought I’d get a head start on making your day just a little less… boring.”

You roll your eyes, trying to focus on grabbing your books instead of letting your thoughts wander too far. “Yeah, right. I bet I’m the highlight of your day.”

“You are,” he says, deadpan, and when you look at him, he’s way too serious. He winks right after, the mood light again, making your stomach flip in that annoying way it always does when he’s around.

You shut your locker with more force than necessary. “Right.”

Dean steps a little closer, not invading your space, but close enough to make you aware of every inch of him. His eyes drop to your lips for a moment, lingering just a touch too long before he looks back up at you. “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m irresistible. But hey, hear me out—you, me, lunch today?”

You stare at him, your hand paused in midair as you try to process what he just said. “Wait. Are you seriously asking me to lunch again? You’ve gotta be joking.”

Dean shrugs like it’s nothing, his cocky smile never leaving his face. “Who says I’m joking? Look, I’m just here to keep things interesting. You and lunch? Sounds like a winning combo to me. Plus, today is pizza day.”

You can’t help but laugh, but you play it off like you’re not impressed. “So, now you’re stalking me during school hours? What’s next, Dean? Showing up at my house?”

His grin only sharpens. “I’d probably look good on your doorstep. Maybe you should consider it.”

You raise your brows, pretending to think about it for a second, but not enough to let him know you’re tempted. “You’re really persistent, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.” Dean winks, his tone light and playful. He’s standing just a little closer than you expect, his presence warm and, honestly, a little intoxicating. “So, what’s the verdict? Lunch with me?”

You give him a side glance, amused, trying not to let your heart race at how ridiculously confident he is. “Alright, alright, fine. But don’t think I’m impressed by your ‘charming’ ways, because I’m really not. Just don't want you to eat alone like a loser,” You tease.

“You're charmed, alright,” he replies, voice all smooth and cocky. He steps back, giving you a little more space, but not enough to really let you breathe. “So, I'll be waiting for you in the cafeteria. Or should I pick you up from your class?”

He's teasing. You know he is. But having him rush after his class so he can be there waiting for you when you get out of your class? Jesus, he's getting under your skin.

You roll your eyes, letting out a small huff. "Cafeteria is fine."

"It's date, then, sweetheart." He grins. "Best lunch hour of your life, I can promise you that."

You walk off, but Dean’s eyes follow you, and for some strange reason, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re already in way over your head.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #teen dean winchester #dean winchester fic #supernatural #.docx

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nyxs2 · 3 days ago

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Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 15/?)

For something new to be born, something in you must die. There is no rebirth without sacrifice, no transformation without loss. The only question is: which part of you will be buried this time?

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 10,1K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, cock warming, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, Silco being a manipulator, mentions of drowning and suicide, emotional manipulation, crisis of conscience, slight hints of reader's past, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 14

You ran until your lungs burned, until your legs trembled, until the world around you became a blurred mess of shadows and scattered lights. The air sliced down your throat like sharp blades, mixing with the metallic taste of blood you had swallowed during your escape.

You had crossed the bridge—that meant you were in Zaun, or at least close enough. You felt the impact before you could fully process what had happened. A solid, strong body blocked your path, making you stumble back.

The man in front of you was large, a true wall of muscle wrapped in simple clothing—worn blue trousers, well-fitted leather boots, a brown leather jacket thrown over a plain white shirt, and a leather pauldron on his upper right arm, marked by time and use. His hair was dark, his beard neatly trimmed, and his eyes... gray. Calculating. He carried a sack full of trinkets and old parts, something you barely registered because your mind was caught on a single detail:

He didn't speak like someone from Piltover. When he opened his mouth, his voice lacked that precise, arrogant diction of the City of Progress. His accent wasn't from there. That was enough for you to deduce that he was from Zaun.

"Hey, little one..." His voice came low, concerned. "You alright?"

Your eyes narrowed instinctively, scanning the situation. His tone seemed sincere, but you had learned the hard way that kindness could be a trap. People who looked like they wanted to help usually had hidden intentions.The man took a step forward, raising a hand in a peaceful gesture, as if dealing with a wild animal ready to bolt.

"You need help?"

When his fingers brushed your arm—a light, hesitant touch—you flinched away, tearing yourself from the contact and sprinting off without looking back.

Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he really did want to help. Maybe he was just an ordinary man who had seen someone bloodied in the middle of the street and felt a genuine urge to offer aid. But you couldn't afford to trust anyone. Not now.

Not with enforcers hunting you like an animal.

You pressed yourself against the wall of a building and let your body slide down until you hit the ground. The alley you had fled into was narrow, suffocating, the scent of dampness and rust filling your nose, but in that moment, it felt like a sanctuary. A false sense of safety.

Exhaustion weighed down on you, making each breath harder. The blood on your nose had already dried—it had been hours since you last used your Instinct, maybe more. Truthfully, you weren't sure how you were still conscious.

Your arm throbbed with a dull, burning pain, the bullet wound still fresh in your flesh. The damn enforcer had managed to graze you, and even though his shot had been sloppy, the projectile had still torn through your skin.

Above you, the sky stretched beyond what your eyes could reach. No longer a mere sliver of blue glimpsed through the tiny window of the containment room—now, it was an infinite sea of darkness speckled with stars, a spectacle that felt so distant from your reality.

You had never had the privilege of simply looking at the sky.

Before, there had only been dark, narrow alleyways, the metallic scent of rust and oil, the air thick with soot and broken promises of Zaun. Then came the sterile, scentless white of the Institute, a space without identity, where light was artificial and the passage of time was measured in counted heartbeats.

But here... now... the stars shone above you, indifferent, untouchable. And for a moment, the blood—on your clothes, on your hands, staining your skin and the ground around you—felt insignificant.

You still couldn't believe you had actually escaped.

Years of meticulous planning, sleepless nights spent mapping out every tiny detail, every escape route, every possibility. All those moments when you doubted this could ever happen, when you wondered if it was just the delusion of someone too broken to accept their own reality. But now... now you were free.

So why did it feel so hollow?

Freedom weighed on your shoulders like invisible chains. The air around you felt thin, like something was pressing down on your chest, making each breath shallow and painful. There was no relief, only a crushing emptiness and a quiet sorrow, sharp as a blade against your skin. You were so tired.

And the sound of the river called your name.

The dark waters moved lazily, reflecting the faint starlight—silent, inviting. They promised rest. They promised oblivion. You dragged yourself to the edge, every movement an immense effort. Your muscles screamed, your body protested, but you kept going. Just one step. One more. And then it would all be over.

But of course, it wouldn't be that easy.

You heard footsteps.

The rhythm was heavy, determined, muffled by the damp sand. Then came the sharp click of a gun being cocked—too loud in the stillness of the night, a warning that left no time to react. You turned. It was the same enforcer from before.

Persistent bastard.

The dim light revealed his grim expression, his gaze steady, resolute. He didn't hesitate, didn't issue a warning, didn't bark out orders. He simply aimed and fired. But you were already moving.

Your body crashed into his, and the sharp pain of the bullet piercing your chest was secondary—distant, unimportant compared to the brutal instinct that overtook you. Your eyes burned, and your nose bled harder, as if something inside you was breaking from the strain.

You both hit the sand together. Your fingers found his throat, and you squeezed. But humans fight to survive, and this one, in particular, didn't want to die easily.

He thrashed, tried to pry your hands off his neck, his fingers digging into your skin in a last, desperate attempt to free himself. His entire body twisted, his feet kicking up damp sand, leaving frantic, scattered marks in the ground—like a trapped animal struggling against the inevitable. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingers—fast, erratic, like a frantic drumroll before it began to slow.

He was dying.

But then something fell.

A photo slipped from his pocket, landing softly on the ground beside you. A simple image, almost mundane. The enforcer held a small baby in his arms. She had wide, bright eyes, chubby cheeks, innocent—completely unaware of how cruel the world could be. A name was scribbled in the corner.

Marcus and Ren.

Your grip loosened.

You let him go, stumbling back as if burned. Your body collapsed onto the sand, and the pain came in waves—your shoulder still bleeding, your chest burning where the bullet had torn through, your nose still dripping an endless stream of blood. You spat some onto the ground, the metallic taste coating your tongue.

Behind you, the enforcer gasped desperately, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface at the last second. He scrambled backward, away from you, his eyes blown wide with pure, undiluted terror. You would never forget that look.

"Go back to Piltover..." you growled, each word heavy with exhaustion and anger. Your vision wavered, darkness creeping at the edges.

The river still called for you.

The water still promised peace.

But before you could answer the call, you added, "Your daughter doesn't deserve to grow up without a father."

The man blinked, as if struggling to process what you had just said. And then, without question, without hesitation—he obeyed. You watched him rise, stumbling over his own feet. His body still trembled, like he was on the verge of collapse, but still, he ran. Ran like a man who had just escaped death's grasp. He looked back one last time.

The fear in his eyes now was the same as it had been all those years ago.

Marcus's body was coiled tight, a spring stretched to its absolute limit. You noticed the small details that time had left on him—wrinkles that hadn't been there before, a stiffer posture, as if the weight of the world had settled onto his shoulders and never left. He even had a mustache now, a sign of maturity that did nothing to hide the nervousness in his eyes.

He remembered you.

When you mentioned to Silco that you wanted to find an enforcer named Marcus, he had raised an eyebrow, surprised, before letting out a low chuckle. "What a coincidence..." You hadn't known what kind of coincidence he meant—until you found out that Marcus was no longer just another enforcer.

He was the Sheriff of Piltover now.

A man who was supposed to represent the city's order and justice... but who, ironically, knelt before Silco. The one who not only had absolute control over Zaun but now had his fingers wrapped around Piltover's own enforcers, pulling their strings like a puppet master. The man who ruled not only the underworld but also those sworn to fight against it.

Marcus wasn't just nervous because he recognized you. He was nervous because he knew Silco had given you free rein to deal with him however you wished. And maybe, deep down, he thought you were here to finish what you started that night by the river.

As much as this whole situation unsettled you, even knowing that Silco now had access to every detail in those documents about you, it didn't disturb you as much as it should have. It was strange—you should feel uneasy, a creeping fear at the thought of him having everything at his disposal, your entire history laid bare for him to devour.

But you didn't.

Maybe because Silco had been honest when he mentioned, months ago, during your first real confrontation, that he knew more than you thought. Now, you were certain of it. And, more importantly, he hadn't used that information against you. Not yet. At the very least, it spared you the need to tell him the whole tragic little story that was your past.

"It's been a while, Marcus."

Your tone was light, almost jovial, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere that filled Silco's office. The sound of your boots echoed against the floor as you approached slowly, unhurried. Marcus, on the other hand, moved along with you—an involuntary reflex, an instinct for self-preservation.

He tried to put distance between you, to keep as much space as possible, but there wasn't much room to maneuver. The office granted him no such luxury.

Poor man.

You could practically see the gears in his head turning, analyzing the situation, searching for an escape. Trapped between you and Silco... perhaps this was a nightmare for him. And judging by the silent terror in his eyes, you suspected it was the kind of nightmare he knew he wouldn't simply wake up from.

The silence between you wasn't comfortable. It was thick, stifling, as if the air itself grew heavier with every second that passed. Marcus seemed to be sinking further and further into his own ruin.

"How's Ren?"

Marcus's body went even more rigid. His daughter's name hung in the air, and you caught the exact moment his breathing grew heavier. The tension in his shoulders spiked, his fingers twitched subtly near his holster—an almost unconscious reflex. He was on edge. As expected.

"She's fine."

You tilted your head slightly, watching the sheriff. There was an extra layer of something in his voice—not just discomfort but also a flicker of poorly contained irritation. Maybe he was tired of being reminded of that day.

But you didn't care.

"That's good to hear."

Stepping forward, you shifted your weight onto one leg and crossed your arms, giving him an analytical look.

"Well, well, look at you, Marcus. From an Enforcer to a Sheriff." You whistled softly, a sound of mock astonishment. "I must say, congratulations on the promotion. Never thought that the same man would one day have a city of his own to command."

The provocation was clear, and Marcus knew it. His jaw clenched tighter, his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Then, you turned your attention to Silco.

"Or maybe..." Your tone took on a touch of theatricality, as if you were merely musing out loud. "Maybe you had a little help from a certain someone to get there."

Silco didn't react immediately. For a moment, he simply maintained his impassive expression, but you saw it. You saw the way his brow arched in feigned surprise, as if he were truly shocked by such an accusation. An impeccable performance, as always. But then, in the subtle details of his face, you caught it. The shadow of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He was amused.

Marcus, however, did not share the same humor. He remained still, his dark eyes darting between you and Silco, trying to gauge how far this conversation would go. Until finally, he broke the tension.

"What's the point of all this?" He gestured, exasperated. His voice came out deep, unsteady, carrying something between fury and desperation. "Is this just some sick psychological game to you?"

The dark wood of Silco's desk was cold beneath your fingers as you leaned against it, crossing your legs with an almost lazy motion. Your body projected relaxation, but your mind buzzed with the weight of the moment.

Your eyes settled on Marcus with meticulous calm, studying him as if you were seeing him for the first time. He was nothing more than a ghost of a past decision—a remnant of the hesitation that once saved him. You had thought about this encounter since the moment you asked to see him, though the exact reason eluded you. Maybe it had been impulsive. Maybe just a whim. Or maybe, deep down, you simply wanted to confront the future of that past choice.

You had rehearsed this moment countless times. The words, the gestures, the posture. Everything was meant to reflect what you had observed in Silco. The meticulous coldness, the sharp indifference—this was what you wanted to display. He was supposed to feel the shift, to realize that he was no longer facing the same girl who, in a fleeting moment of mercy, had allowed him to keep breathing.

The tables had turned. Now, he was the one standing before you, vulnerable, exposed to the weight of his own insignificance.

But the mask you had planned to wear began to crack before you could even truly put it on. The calculated coldness you had envisioned, the tone of indifference you had so carefully rehearsed—all of it felt artificial now. An illusion that worked perfectly for Silco, but one that did not belong to you. He wore that mask with ease, as if it were a second skin. Coldness fit into his voice, into his intentional pauses, into the way he manipulated and bent those around him.

But you... You were not Silco.

You let out a low, drawn-out sigh, a sound that lingered in the office, carrying the weight of that realization.

"Tell me, Marcus..." Your voice cut through the silence like a sharp whisper, too soft to be a true relief, but enough to make him tense even further. "Did you know what you were hunting that night?"

He blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly, a deep crease forming between his brows. "What do you mean by that?"

Your head tilted slightly to the side, your gaze scrutinizing him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He looked like a chess piece left alone on a board without a king. A soldier forgotten after a battle that had already been decided.

"You simply followed orders to eliminate a killer..." Your voice remained low, but there was weight in it, something that made Marcus avert his gaze for a moment, his throat bobbing in a dry swallow. "Or did you know what you were really hunting?"

Marcus hesitated. You saw the confusion flicker across his face like a shadow, his gaze clouding as he tried to piece together fragments of a past that, to him, was just another among the many dirty deeds he had been forced to cover up.

But for you, that moment was something far more significant—a wound still raw, a bitter taste that had never fully left your mouth.

"We were ordered to capture a student who had lost control. Dead or alive. That's it."

His tone was dry, almost defensive, as if he were trying to build a wall between himself and the weight of those words. You tilted your head slightly, studying him with sharp, watchful eyes. He wasn't lying, at least not entirely. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something unsaid, a missing piece.

"But you figured out the truth, didn't you?" Your voice was quiet, but each syllable carried an unrelenting weight. "Did you arrest any of them?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

No excuses, no attempt to soften the response—just the uncomfortable quiet of a man who knew that any words would only make things worse.

Disappointing. But not unexpected.

Of course, they hadn't done anything. You were dealing with a government just as rotten as Zaun's chem-barons. The only difference was their clothing—the same sins, the same arrogance, just wrapped in finer fabrics and more sophisticated words. You had learned long ago: the world was not fair. It didn't matter how hard you tried to hold onto the fragments of morality Vander had once tried to teach you. Deep down, justice was never what you wanted.

You didn't want to be better than them.

You just wanted to be above it all—above your own misery, even if only for a single moment.

"Kneel."

You could almost hear Silco's voice in your own as you gave the order to Marcus.

You were echoing Silco now.

Marcus blinked, as if he hadn't understood. The shock on his face, the wide eyes, the way he froze in place. He looked at you as if you had grown a second head, as if it made no sense to hear that order coming from you.

Indignation flared hot and corrosive inside you.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Marcus turned, like a drowning man searching for a lifeboat, his eyes darting toward Silco. Maybe he was hoping for intervention. Maybe, in some pathetic delusion, he believed Silco would see this as excessive, as a challenge to his authority, and step in.

Silco remained reclined in his chair.

Indifferent. And yet, satisfied.

He didn't move a muscle to stop the scene. He didn't show a trace of sympathy.

Why would he?

To him, this was a spectacle. A silent performance. And you were the star of the show.

You didn't need words to understand. The subtle glint in his heterochromatic eyes, the slight twitch of his lips—it all spoke of approval. He liked what he was seeing. Because, in the end, this was what Silco wanted from you. He wanted you to embrace this part of yourself—the ruthless, unflinching part. To leave hesitation behind.

Marcus, realizing no miracle would come to his rescue, gave in.

Reluctantly, of course. But he gave in.

You watched, taking in every detail—the faint creak of his leather uniform as he moved, the involuntary clench of his fists, the grit of his teeth as if swallowing down a growl of hatred.

He fell to his knees before you.

The sight was almost poetic.

The pathetic carcass of a symbol of justice, bent to your command—a ruined statue of an ideal that was never real to begin with. You tasted the subtle satisfaction trickling down your throat like aged wine. You had begun to enjoy looking down on people.

"Here's what's going to happen." your voice was low but carried an unquestionable firmness. "You're going to find out who was responsible for that damned place and where he is now."

The silence that followed was heavy. You watched as Marcus clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. Rage radiated off of him in waves, an anger he could barely contain. He hated taking orders, especially from you. But that didn't matter.

You tilted your head slightly, assessing the tension in his muscles, the flush in his skin as he swallowed hard. Then, with the meticulous coldness of someone who had learned to cut down to the soul with words, you added:

"And don't try to play the hero." you continued, leaning in slightly. Your tone remained low, controlled, but each word carried an undeniable weight. "Or I'll kill your daughter."

Silence.

Marcus froze, his eyes widening slightly before he managed to contain his reaction. You could almost hear his breath falter, the sudden shock written across his face. Maybe he had expected a threat against his own life. But you knew the truth—a man can endure anything, except losing what he holds most dear.

If, on that night, the existence of his daughter was what made you hesitate and let him live... now, you would use that same weakness to push him wherever you wanted.

For a few seconds, Marcus just stared at you. His gaze wavered between hatred and resignation, the muscles in his face pulled impossibly tight. Then, as if he had been crushed by an unbearable weight, he closed his eyes for a moment and nodded—subtle, but definitive. He had accepted the order.

"You're dismissed."

You didn't bother to look at him as he stood. The heavy footsteps retreating, the door clicking shut behind him... all of it passed over you like distant noise, muffled and unimportant. Your eyes remained fixed on some random point in the office, your mind suddenly empty. The weight of the moment crashed down onto your shoulders like a leaden cloak, crushing the impeccable composure you had maintained so carefully.

Your shoulders slackened, the tension draining from your body. A breath escaped your lips before you even realized you had been holding it. That was it. You had won.

So why did it feel like you had lost something? Or rather, some part of yourself.

You knew Silco was watching you. The weight of his gaze burned against your back, a presence so palpable it was suffocating. He said nothing. Not yet. At the very least, he had the decency to grant you a second of silence, a brief moment to deal with the emotions churning inside you on your own.

The air around you seemed to contract when you felt something unexpected—Silco's touch.

You hadn't even noticed him move, hadn't registered him leaving his seat to approach you. But there he was, his warm palm pressing against the curve of your spine. His fingers, long and firm, rested against you with a calculated weight—not to restrain, but to anchor. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of your dress, a meticulously measured gesture, almost indulgent.

It was a silent offering. A rare concession of comfort.

Not the common kind of comfort, the kind given out of pity or empathy. No. Silco was not the type to offer empty reassurances. This was something else. A recognition. A reminder that he was there, that he saw you.

And even as he soothed you, you knew. You knew he would have that subtle curve on his lips, the slight tension of a smile forming. When you finally gathered the courage to turn your face toward him, what you found was exactly what you suspected—a proud smile.

"Subtle threats have their advantages." Silco murmured, his voice low, almost contemplative, as if savoring each word before speaking it. "But there is a certain... appeal to direct ones."

His fingers pressed slightly against your back, just enough for you to feel the strength behind his touch. His heterochromatic gaze studied you with surgical precision, analyzing every detail, every fragment of hesitation or conviction he could find.

"I must admit." he tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with genuine interest. "I didn't expect you to make a threat quite so... bold."

The pride in his voice was unmistakable. He appreciated it. The evolution. The coldness you were learning to wield. The weight of power being tested in your hands. And perhaps, deep down, part of you appreciated it too—but the hollow feeling made it hard to savor any kind of victory.

"You must understand how others see you, why they see you that way. And then you twist that perception to suit your needs."

The words slipped from your lips with calculated precision, an echo of something he had once taught you.

Silco remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly in contemplation. He seemed to be trying to recall the context, the exact lesson he had given you, and how it now returned to him, reformed—reshaped by your own interpretation.

You saw the realization dawn on him slowly, like ink dissolving into water, spreading gradually until it colored everything.

"Marcus believes I'm a monster." you continued, keeping your voice firm, almost indifferent. "Then let him believe I'd be capable of such an atrocity. It'll make him think twice before doing anything stupid."

For a moment, Silco didn't respond. His gaze—always so sharp and controlled—widened ever so slightly.

It was a tiny detail, something anyone else might have missed. But not you. You knew him too well. Surprise was a rare thing for him—a man who had mastered the art of masking his emotions, of controlling every expression, every subtle inflection of his voice. But there it was, plain in his eyes, before he regained control almost instantly.

Then, Silco stepped around you, positioning himself in front of you. His hand lifted slowly, long, firm fingers closing gently around your chin. His thumb traced a quiet path along your skin before tilting your face up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

The expression on Silco's lips was unreadable—a mixture of pride and something else... something deeper, heavier. Something that gleamed in the depths of his gaze like a spark waiting for the right moment to ignite into flame.

"So, you were paying attention after all."

There was a true note of astonishment in Silco's voice, a hint of veiled admiration, almost indulgent. His thumb slid over your lower lip, a touch that was almost tender, almost loving—if not for the sharp possessiveness lingering in the way he held you.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." Silco continued, his voice a thoughtful murmur. "Considering where you came from. And speaking of that... I believe we have a few things to discuss, don't we?"

His eyes flickered away for a moment, and you followed them without needing an explanation.

The documents.

Scattered across the table, waiting for you, demanding your attention.

You tasted the bitterness of displeasure before you even realized the small sound of frustration that had slipped from your throat.

With a resigned sigh, you let your head fall against Silco's chest. The scent of tobacco and gunpowder mingled with the subtle perfume of his clothes, forming an aroma that, somehow, was comforting. Your arms curled around his waist in a possessive, almost childish gesture.

"Or..." you murmured against him, your voice deliberately slow, "we could do something more... satisfying."

A thick silence settled between you.

Then, Silco let out a low, drawn-out chuckle—one that dripped with intent.

"Something more satisfying, you say?" His voice dropped to a silky murmur, almost a predatory purr. Every word was laced with promise, with a dark, carnal undertone that sent a shiver down your spine. "Tell me, dove, exactly what do you have in mind?"

You didn't answer. At least, not with words.

Instead, you pushed yourself off the table in one fluid motion, your hands firm on Silco's shoulders, guiding him back into his chair with clear intent.

He didn't resist.

If anything, Silco allowed himself to be moved, amusement flickering in his eyes as he studied your every move, every unspoken decision.

Of course, he knew you were doing this on purpose.

The thought of facing those documents made you sick. You didn't want to think, didn't want to analyze.

You wanted to escape.

You wanted to get lost.

And Silco was the perfect way out.

When you pushed Silco back into the chair, you climbed onto his lap without hesitation, feeling his breath shift almost imperceptibly under your touch.

Your hands found their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in those dark strands as you tilted his face toward yours, drawing closer, your breath mingling with his.

Silco said nothing.

He didn't need to.

His smile said everything.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco knew exactly what she was doing. More than that—he knew what she was planning to do.

She liked to think of herself as unpredictable, a force driven by impulses she barely understood herself. But Silco saw through the illusion. There were patterns, small constants in her actions that she failed to notice but that he had long since memorized. A familiar rhythm to her defiance, an underlying structure to the chaos she believed she wielded so freely.

And yet, he allowed it.

There was a fine balance between encouragement and indulgence, and Silco walked that line with meticulous precision. He would not stop her—not yet. There was value in watching her act, in letting her take control of her own schemes. But Silco also knew exactly when to step in and when that moment arrived, he would do so without hesitation. Until then, he would indulge himself in this fleeting pleasure.

Silco's hand found its way to her hips as she climbed onto his lap, his fingers sinking into the soft, yielding flesh of her rear. He could feel the heat of her core radiating against him, could sense the way her body trembled slightly as she settled herself against him. It was a sensation that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to his groin.

But even as Silco reveled in the feeling of her body against his own, he couldn't ignore the way she tilted his face towards hers, her fingers tangling in his hair, her breath mingling with his own. It was an intimacy that spoke of a deeper connection, a bond that transcended the physical. Silco's heart raced in his chest, a strange warmth blossoming behind his ribcage as he gazed into her eyes, seeing the unspoken desire that lurked there.

His other hand came up to wrap around the delicate chain of her necklace, his fingers curling around the cool gold metal, the pendant digging into his palm. Silco used the leverage to pull her closer, to crush her body against his own, until there was no space left between them, no room for anything but the electric charge that seemed to crackle in the air.

Silco capture her lips with his own, his mouth moving over hers in a languid, sensual dance. He took his time, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her soft, pliant lips beneath his own. Silco's hand slid up the curve of her spine, his fingers splaying across the small of her back, pressing her closer, molding her body to the hard, unyielding planes of his own.

He could taste the desperation in her kiss, the way she clung to him, the way her nails dug into his scalp. It was a hunger that mirrored his own, a need that demanded to be sated. Silco met it with a hunger of his own, his tongue delving into the warm, welcoming cavern of her mouth, stroking along the velvet softness of her own, teasing, tasting, taking.

Silco's hand slid down to grip the back of her thigh, his fingers sinking into the firm, toned muscle as he hitched her leg up higher, opening her to him, inviting her to grind down against the rigid length of his arousal. Silco's breath hitched in his throat as he felt her start to grind against him, her hips undulating in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

The friction of her core rubbing against his aching arousal was exquisite torture, a delicious tease that sent jolts of pleasure shooting up his spine with each slow, deliberate rotation. He could feel the heat building between them, the air growing thick and heavy with the weight of their shared desire.

Silco's hands remained steady on her hips, his grip tightening slightly as he guided her movements, his own hips rocking up to meet hers in a silent, primal rhythm. He didn't encourage her to continue, didn't offer any words of praise or encouragement... but he didn't stop her either. Instead, he simply left her free to do whatever she wanted.

When she broke the kiss, her lips parting from his own, Silco felt a pang of disappointment, a sudden ache for the loss of her soft, pliant mouth against his own. But that ache was quickly replaced by a surge of anticipation as he felt her forehead rest against his, her breath mingling with his own, hot and heavy and laden with need. He watched, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark, as her deft fingers went to the knot of his tie.

Her deftly unknot his tie, the silk fabric slipping free of his collar with a soft whisper. He couldn't help but tense slightly as her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, her fingers working at the fastenings with a determined efficiency. It was a sensation that felt a thrill of anticipation and a hint of trepidation through his body, his heart racing in his chest as he wondered just what she had in store for him. But any fear he harbored were promptly banished as he felt her lips begin to trail along the column of his throat, her kisses and light bites sending a different kind of shivering down his spine.

Silco's head fell back against the chair, his eyes fluttering closed as he lost himself in the feeling of her touch. Lost in the haze of sensation, Silco barely registered the deft fingers working at his belt buckle, too consumed by the feeling of her lips and teeth teasing the sensitive skin of his throat. It wasn't until he felt her fingers deftly unbuttoning his trousers that he was jolted back to the present, his eyes flying open to stare down at her with a mix of surprise and dark, hungry desire.

He watched, his chest heaving and his skin flushed, as she wrapped her fingers around his bare flesh, her thumb swiping across the leaking slit, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there. Silco's hips jerked, a strangled groan punching from his lungs as he felt the first touch of her skin on his, the first brush of her fingers along his throbbing, burning flesh. It only lasted a few minutes until she prepared to level up.

Silco's hands shot up to grip her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her rear as she sank down onto his lap, taking him to the hilt. He could feel the scorching, velvet heat of her enveloping him, the way her walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing length, as if trying to draw him even deeper. It was a sensation that stole his breath and set his nerves alight, his cock pulsing and twitching inside her, growing even harder and warmer as her body welcomed him home.

But even as Silco reveled in the exquisite feeling of her body sheathing his own, he knew that he had to intervene before she started to move, before she began to ride him with that fierce, unrelenting passion that he had come to crave. It had been enough of her trying to get him to divert his attention from the documents to sex.

"That's enough."

"What?!" she breathed in frustration, more confused than angry.

"I know you think you need this, need to lose yourself in the oblivion of pleasure and forget about everything else but you can't keep running away from your past." Silco murmured, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into the soft flesh of her hips. "I would offer you that oblivion in a heartbeat, dove, but here are important things that need to be discussed."

"And you want to discuss this now?" her tone was disbelieving "In this position?"

He chuckled softly, his chest rumbling beneath her palms as he leaned in to brush his lips against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, teasing murmur.

"Well, I find our current position quite pleasurable."

She looked at Silco as if he had said the most unexpected thing in the world.

"Why do I get the feeling you've probably imagined us in this position before?" She gave a slight laugh, at least she didn't seem so annoyed now. "You, inside me, while you work... I didn't know that was one of your fantasies."

He threw his head back and laughed, a rich, deep sound that seemed to rumble through his chest and into her own, before he fixed her with a heated, smoldering gaze.

"Guilty as charged, dove. The thought of burying myself inside your body while poring over the tedious details of my work has crossed my mind more than once. I must admit, it's a fantasy that I find... rather tempting."

Silco's hands slid up the curve of her spine, his fingers splaying across her shoulder blades as he held her close, his hips rocking almost imperceptibly against her own.

"But that doesn't matter... Now, why don't you tell me how you managed to fake your own death?"

Silco felt the precise moment she gave up trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. It was subtle at first—the faint drop of her shoulders, the quiet exhale of resignation. But then, she leaned into him, her weight pressing against his chest in a way that made his breath hitch.

In the same way he had imagined having her like this, in that position, there was an undeniable part of him eager to continue what they had started. Yet, Silco forced himself to push aside the way his body responded, of how he wanted to bury himself even deeper in her and focused on the matter at hand. The conversation—though, if he were being honest, interrogation felt like a far more fitting word for what was unfolding between them.

Then, with a carelessness that sent a cold shiver of intrigue through him, she spoke.

"It's not hard to find someone with similar features to mine here in the lanes. Disfigure the parts that could be used for identification, and just like that, you have a replacement."

She said it so naturally. So effortlessly. Silco observed her, watching the way the words slipped from her lips as if they were nothing more than a simple fact of life. There was no hesitation, no weight of morality to hold them back. And perhaps she hadn't even realized it.

How chillingly practical it sounded.

"So..." Silco murmured, tilting his head slightly, his mismatched gaze sharpening. "You killed someone for this."

"Of course not!"

She jolted upright in his lap, her movements sharp and sudden—enough to make both of them suck in a breath at the same time, the unexpected friction between them sending a frustrating shiver through their bodies.

"Fuck..." she exhaled in a hushed, almost irritated murmur before shaking her head, her hands bracing against his chest. "She was already dead when I found her. Just another nameless body left for the rats in the gutter. I gave her an identity. I gave her a proper burial."

Silco narrowed his eyes, his expression unreadable but laced with skepticism. He studied her carefully, the sharp glint of his heterochromatic gaze dissecting every flicker of emotion on her face. She looked genuinely offended—indignant, even—that he would assume she had killed for this. It wasn't just a defensive reaction. No, there was something deeper in her outrage, something almost wounded.

For a moment, he entertained the idea that perhaps she really had been lucky enough to stumble upon someone with a similar build. The Lanes were unforgiving. It wouldn't be the first time a corpse had been repurposed for someone else's survival.

Still, that didn't make it any less impressive.

"Should I presume you had help pulling off such a feat?"

"You presumed correctly." she admitted, her voice quieter now. "But he's dead too."

The weight of those words settled between them, thick and unspoken. And yet, rather than pulling away, she let herself lean into Silco again, pressing against his chest as if seeking something—whether it was comfort, warmth, or just the grounding presence of another person, maybe even she wasn't sure.

"He was my... friend, a very dear friend." she continued, the word feeling foreign on her tongue, as if it no longer belonged to her. "He helped me while the enforcers were hunting me down in Zaun. Risked his own damn skin to keep me hidden."

Silco hummed, the sound deep and thoughtful. His fingers traced idle circles along the bare skin of her thighs, slow and deliberate, as if the motion somehow helped him process the information. There was something meditative about it, a contrast to the sharp calculations undoubtedly running through his mind.

"A gesture like that isn't common in Zaun."

She let out a slow breath, her gaze distant.

"He was a good man." she said finally, her voice carrying an odd mixture of certainty and regret. "Made bad choices... but he was a good man."

Silco let that information linger in the air for a moment, rolling it over in his mind like smoke curling from the end of a freshly lit cigar. Whoever this man was, he had to be someone with power—or, at the very least, the right connections in Zaun. Someone capable of keeping her hidden from the Enforcers all this time.

Someone like Vander, perhaps.

The thought was almost laughable. Almost.

After all, the Vander he knew—the man he had once fought beside—would have done anything to protect those he deemed important. But after he had slipped into his pacifist phase, after he had traded ambition for quiet survival, it was difficult to imagine him desecrating a corpse just to keep someone safe.

And yet... Silco had learned never to deal in absolutes.

"That day with Cayde you implied you spent years at the Institute. And the records mention you as a young woman when you escaped." His eyes sharpened, his mind already connecting the pieces before she could even confirm them. "You were taken there as a child, weren't you?"

She didn't answer aloud. She didn't have to. The small, almost imperceptible nod was enough. Silco hummed, his expression unreadable. His gaze flickered over her face, as if searching for something—anger, grief, regret. He found none.

"Your father gave you to them, didn't he?"

Another nod.

"And that's why you killed him."

There was no hesitation or silence this time.

"I have no regrets about it."

Silco leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. There was something striking about how effortlessly she said it, how firmly she held onto that conviction. No flinching, no uncertainty. It was a truth she had long since accepted, a wound that had scarred over with time.

"And why take so many years experimenting on a child?" he mused. "What exactly were they trying to achieve?"

This time, she didn't answer.

Silence wrapped around them like a tightening noose, thick and suffocating. Her eyes pressed shut, her expression twisted into something tight, restrained. Her fists clenched at the fabric of Silco's vest, gripping so hard her knuckles turned white. He could feel it—the way her entire body tensed against him, a visceral, instinctive reaction to whatever thoughts had just sunk their claws into her mind.

Revulsion.

It rippled off her in waves, a sickened response to something only she could see. And beneath it, tangled in the knots of her rage, was fear. Not the fear of pain, nor of death. No, this was something deeper, something that had its roots buried inside her long before this moment. She was holding onto him. Clutching at him like an anchor, as if the mere act of remembering could drag her back to wherever she had come from. As if it terrified her to even brush against the edges of that place in her mind.

Then, barely above a whisper, she spoke.

"A new Piltover... cast out the old and hand the city to the new. The true City of Progress exists beyond the constraints of morality."

Her voice was distant, hollow. A recitation rather than a statement. The words sounded practiced, ingrained—like something drilled into her over and over until they became second nature. A doctrine. A slogan.

Brainwashing.

Silco's gaze sharpened. He had seen it before—the way ideals were forced into people, molded into their very bones until they believed it was their own conviction speaking. Only, with her, something had gone wrong. Somewhere along the way, the conditioning fractured. The machine that had tried to forge her into something obedient had lost control of its own creation.

His fingers flexed against her back, grounding, deliberate.

"What were you made for?"

Silco was about to press further when he felt her shift again in his lap. This time, she didn't pull away—she curled into him instead, burying her face into the crook of his neck. The unexpected intimacy of it made him still for a fraction of a second, before he noticed something else.

"Ensuring that future... at any cost." She was trembling. Not from fear. Not from sadness... No, she was shaking with rage. "They made me a monster..." she whispered, her voice tight, raw with something dark and unrelenting.

Silco exhaled through his nose, something resembling amusement curling at the edges of his lips before he reached for her, his grip firm but not forceful. Slowly, he pulled her back just enough so that their eyes met—so that she had no choice but to see herself reflected in his gaze.

"So embrace it." he murmured, his voice steady, unwavering. "Become the monster they created."

His fingers trailed along her face, brushing aside the stray strands of hair that had fallen over her features. There was something meticulous in the way he did it, as if sculpting a masterpiece, revealing something he had long suspected was beneath the surface.

"True freedom lies in becoming the thing you have always feared, dove."

His hand drifted lower, fingers idly toying with the pendant resting against her collarbone. The gemstone caught the dim light of the room, flickering in shades of violet that stood in sharp contrast against the sickly green glow spilling in from the office window.

"Do you remember what I told you the day we first met?"

She let out a soft chuckle, breathy and slightly strained.

"You said a lot of things, Silco."

"Certainly." Silco agreed, tilting his head slightly, his lips curling into something dangerously close to a smirk. "But I'm referring to when I told you that you were a survivor."

His voice dipped lower, deliberate, edged with something that made her stomach tighten. His fingers ghosted over the pendant once more, a slow and methodical movement as he let the weight of his next words settle between them.

"And that survivors don't settle for scraps when they could have the entire feast."

He could feel the slight shift in her breathing—an almost imperceptible reaction, but one he didn't miss. Silco adjusted his position in the chair then, pushing himself upright, moving away from the lazy recline he had been in. The motion was smooth, fluid—except for one unintended consequence.

The slight roll of his hips against hers. It was barely more than a shift, yet it sent a ripple through both of them, a sharp reminder of the position they had momentarily forgotten. A sharp inhale left her lips. His own breath hitched, subtle but unmistakable.

"I stand by my words, and you should do the same, dove." His voice was smooth, yet edged with something sharper. There was no hesitation in the way he spoke, no room for doubt. "After everything, it is your right to seek revenge. And you shouldn't deny yourself that indulgence."

The way he said it, indulgence, made it sound almost... decadent. A luxury rather than a sin.

"You keep denying this part of yourself as if it were some kind of transgression." he continued, his tone lowering into something close to a growl. "As if embracing it would somehow damn you."

The words lingered in the space between them, but before she could respond—before she could even process the weight of them—Silco moved.

Fast.

His hands gripped her thighs without warning, fingers digging into flesh as he lifted her effortlessly. There was no hesitation in his movements, no uncertainty—just raw intention. The world tilted for a brief second as he rose from his chair, carrying her with him. And then, the cold press of wood against her back. He laid her down onto the desk, atop those documents she loathed so much. The weight of them beneath her, the weight of this—it was a cruel irony.

These papers, these meaningless scraps of ink... they were the embodiment of a reality she had spent so long trying to outrun. A future dictated by the past. A game she never wanted to play, yet found herself ensnared in regardless. And now, Silco had laid her atop them, as if forcing her to acknowledge it. As if daring her to face it.

"This..." he murmured, voice thick with something unreadable. "This is you."

A hand trailed up, tracing the line of her jaw with infuriating precision, before tilting her chin up just enough to meet his gaze fully.

"You are perfect."

Silco's hand slid up to cup her cheek, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft, delicate skin with a gentleness that belied the dark, hungry look in his eyes. He could see the way she gazed up at him, her eyes wide and searching, as if trying to discover something that Silco was hiding. She leaned into the touch so he leaned down to capture her lips with his own.

He kissed her deeply, fiercely, his tongue delving into her welcoming mouth as if he wanted to transfer his certainties to her through that kiss. He could taste the sweet, intoxicating essence of her, the flavor of her desire and her need, and it only served to stoke the flames of his own hunger. Silco's other hand slid down to her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft, yielding flesh as he ground his hips against hers, slowly, almost hesitantly. Silco could feel the way her body yielded to him, the way her walls clenched and fluttered around his shaft, as if trying to draw him even deeper inside her, even though the seductive mood before that interrogation had long since ended.

He knew deep down that he should continue questioning, but he already had answers to his main questions, so he would allow himself to use that time to take away her uncertainties and hesitation.

Silco's eyes fluttered open, his brows furrowing slightly as he felt the gentle tug at his vest, but precisely her fingers working at the fastenings of his vest. He pulled back slightly, just enough to break the kiss and meet her gaze with a heated, intense stare of his own. He could see the way her eyes glittered with a newfound hunger, the way her cheeks were flushed and her lips were swollen and slick with his own saliva

Without a word, he shrugged out of his vest, the garment falling to the floor beside the desk with a soft, muffled thud. Soon after, her fingers began the second task of opening the buttons on his shirt, as the last button slipped free, Silco leaned back to kiss her again, his hips began to move with increasing urgency, the rhythm of his thrusts growing faster, harder, more insistent with each passing second.

Silco's hand slid down the length of her thigh, his fingers gripping the soft flesh of her knee as he effortlessly lifted her leg, hooking it over his shoulder. The new position allowed him to drive even deeper into her, the head of his cock kissing the entrance to her womb with each powerful thrust. Silco's other hand gripped her hip, his fingers sinking into the supple curve as he held her in place, pinning her down against the desk as he took his pleasure from her willing body.

That moment was a kind of a reward. A silent gratification for finally lowering her guard, for peeling back yet another layer of that carefully constructed armor she had spent so long reinforcing.

She had changed.

Her morality, once a solid, unshakable thing, now teetered dangerously on the edge of something else—something far more ruthless. She had already stepped into the abyss, already dirtied her hands. It was only a matter of time before she stopped flinching at the stains.

And yet... something still held her back.

A hesitation. A resistance.

Not much. Barely there. But it existed and Silco was determined to snap it.

Her back arched off the desk, her breasts thrusting up towards the ceiling as a sharp gasp tore from her throat. Silco's heart raced as he felt her body tense and quiver beneath him, the way she clung to him, the desperate, needy sounds spilling from her lips... it was almost too much to bear.

Silco felt her hands suddenly cup his face, her fingers threading through his hair, her thumbs brushing against his cheeks. He could feel the intensity of her gaze boring into him, the way her eyes seemed to see straight into his very soul.

Her lips parted slightly, as if she were trying to form a word, a phrase. But no sound came, only the harsh, ragged sound of their mingled breaths filling the charged air between them. For a long moment, they remained like that, locked in a silent battle of wills, each trying to discern the true nature of the other's thoughts. The world seemed to fall away, the creaking of the desk, the distant sounds of the city fading into nothingness as they stared at each other, their faces mere inches apart.

Suddenly, it all becomes simply unbearable. Silco's hips give a last, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside her quivering depths as his release crashes over him like a tidal wave. At the same time, her back arches sharply off the desk, her nails digging into Silco's cheeks as her own climax overwhelms her senses.

For a moment, they remain locked in that perfect, agonizing instant, time seeming to stand still as they ride out the aftershocks of their intense coupling. Silco's breathing is ragged and labored as he slowly lowers her trembling leg from his shoulder, gently easing it back down to rest beside her other one on the desk.

He collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows to avoid crushing her, as he struggles to regain his breath and composure. The desk beneath them creaks and groans in protest at the sudden shift of weight, the documents scattered across its surface fluttering to the floor like fallen leaves. Silco pays them no heed.

His attention is on her.

His dove... his baroness.

His.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

The river's waves lapped against your body in a slow, rhythmic motion, pushing and pulling you as if the water itself was breathing. The cold had long since seeped through your clothes, turning the fabric heavy against your skin, and yet, you remained there, arms wrapped tightly around yourself in a vain attempt to preserve what little warmth was left.

You had no idea why Silco had brought you here. Not really. But it mattered to him. He stood a few steps ahead, half-submerged in the same water that soaked through your limbs, but he showed no sign of discomfort. If the cold reached him, he hid it well, as he always did. His expression was unreadable, his gaze distant, lost somewhere in the inky blackness of the river.

This place... it was familiar to both of you.

A graveyard.

Or, more precisely, your almost-graves.

Different circumstances. Different times. But the same water had nearly claimed you both.

"Ever wonder what it's like to drown? Story of opposites. There's peace in water. Like it's holding you, whispering in low tones to let it in. And every problem in the world will fade away."

His voice was low, thoughtful, carrying the weight of someone who had lived the experience he described. His eyes flickered over the dark water, following its movement as if it whispered secrets only he could hear.

"But then, there's this thing... in your head, and it's raging. Lighting every nerve with madness. To fight. To survive. And all the while, this question lingers before you: 'Have you had enough?' It's funny." he mused, tilting his head just slightly. "You could pass a lifetime without ever facing a choice like that. But it changes you forever."

You, more than anyone, could understand the weight of those words. And yet... the last part didn't quite resonate with your own experience. Not entirely. Because when you had tried to drown, there had been no fight. No raging madness lighting every nerve, no desperate struggle to claw your way back to the surface. You had wanted to die. Silco hadn't.

It was ironic, really. That the very place where Vander had once tried to kill Silco was the same place where that same Vander had pulled you out, gasping, shivering, alive.

Stories of opposites, indeed.

"I nearly drowned here..." Silco's voice pulled you from your thoughts. His words were slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring them. "By the hands of someone I considered a brother... someone you seem to admire so much. And I thank him for it."

Your brows furrowed, confusion creeping in as you tried to make sense of where this was going.

"That day." Silco continued, voice dipping into something deeper, something almost reverent. "I let a weak man die."

Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward—into the water. The movement was so sudden, so unexpected, that your body reacted before your mind could catch up. You lurched toward him, instinct screaming at you to reach for him, to pull him back from whatever had just taken hold of him. But before you could do anything, before panic could fully set in, Silco emerged just as quickly as he had disappeared beneath the surface.

Drenched.

Water streamed down his face, carving rivulets through his slicked-back hair, leaving it disheveled and wild. Droplets clung to his skin, his clothes now dark and heavy with the weight of the river. And yet, he did not falter. His voice did not waver.

"And another was reborn."

Silco stood there, still, unwavering, his back to you.

"Revenge... this need that consumes you. A blade sharpened by your own pain, poised to cut down those who wronged you" Silco's voice was calm, measured, yet there was an undeniable weight behind it. Like he wasn't just speaking to you—he was speaking through you. To something deeper. Something raw. "But revenge... it changes you. It can blind you, make you forget why you started. Or it can shape you. Make you something stronger. Something... inevitable."

You felt his gaze before you saw it. That piercing, knowing look of his. But when you finally dared to meet his eyes, your breath caught in your throat. He wasn't looking at you with amusement, or calculation, or even quiet approval. It was that look. That rare, quiet softness that made something in your chest tighten unbearably. The kind of look that made you want to crumble, to let go of the weight pressing against your ribs and just— breathe.

He moved toward you, slow and deliberate, as if afraid that one wrong step would send you running.

"You need to let that part of you die." he murmured, and his voice was almost... gentle. "The part that hesitates. The part that still believes there is a path without blood. Because as long as it exists... fear will still have control over you."

Silco's hands found yours, his grip firm yet careful, as if grounding you in place. His fingers intertwined with yours, calloused but warm, anchoring you to the moment—anchoring you to him. Then, in a voice that left no room for doubt, he spoke:

"You will never be a monster to me, dove."

The certainty in his words was absolute, unshaken—not a mere reassurance, but a truth carved into the very foundation of his belief. It sent a shiver down your spine, unraveling something deep inside you, something you had tried to keep buried.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn't just a kiss—it was ruin, a promise, a sin wrapped in something dangerously tender. His lips pressed against yours with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs, the weight of it both salvation and damnation entwined in a single touch. A glimpse of heaven laced with the fire of hell, colliding in that fleeting moment.

You had told yourself you wouldn't go down this path again. That you wouldn't let yourself sink any deeper into the abyss he so effortlessly lured you back into. You had tried to wash the blood from your hands. And yet, it was still there.

Lurking beneath your fingernails, staining the creases of your palms—a permanent mark, a reminder of what you had done, of what you were. But Silco's hands still held yours, unwavering. As if it didn't matter. As if the weight of your sins meant nothing to him. Perhaps, to him, it truly didn't.

Two souls tied, intertwined by pride and guilt drinking the poison of the same vine. Two sinners who could not atone for from a lone prayer.

You let him pull you under.

The water swallowed you whole, wrapping around your body with a painful familiarity, a cruel lover whispering sweet nothings in the form of burning salt and poison. The waves cradled your weightless form, indifferent to your struggle, the current tugging at you like an invitation to let go.

And you did.

You let yourself sink, deeper and deeper, surrendering to the quiet suffocation, trusting that someone would pull you back to the surface. So when Silco pulled you back into his arms, when his hands found you and held you, you let another part of yourself drown. You let it go. You let it die. Left over from you, only what he had chosen to bring back.

And in the end, those waters became your coffin.

Part 16

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I love the baptism scene so there was no way I couldn't include it in this story. Anyway, I was accepted to do an internship at a company so I have this job in addition to college. So let's hope I can keep up the regular updates. Well, I already have an idea of the next chapter and if you guys comment enough I'll give a little spoiler in a post during the week.

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#silco x reader #silco x you #reader insert #arcane fanfic #arcane silco #arcane #minors dni #no beta we die like silco #smut

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nahoney22 · 1 day ago

Text

Liar Liar (Part 3/?)

🫧Part Three - Sniffed Out // <<< Part Two

🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox x Female Reader

🫧 word count: 2.4k

🫧 Chapter Summary: When the opportunity arises for you to see Whisky again, you take it with both hands. But as suspicion grows amongst the Corrie Guard, Hound wants to sniff out the truth.

🫧 Warnings: Safe for work, more lying, slight angst, sad and guilty Fox.

“I need you to take this to the hangar and give it to the officer in charge when you get the chance.”

You barely heard the rest of Thorn’s sentence before your brain jumped at the opportunity laid out before you like a gift from the Maker themselves.

“I’ll do it!” you blurted out, practically leaping to your feet.

Every trooper in the room turned to stare at you. Stone and Thorn exchanged a glance, while Hound raised an eyebrow in mild amusement. From his desk, Fox, who had been focused on his holoreports, was now staring directly at you, visor unmoving.

“…Aren’t you busy here?” Thorn asked after a beat, skepticism lacing his tone.

“She can do it,” Stone cut in, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

“No, you won’t,” Fox said flatly.

Stone, still lounging like he owned the place, rolled his eyes and mouthed the words back in an exaggerated imitation. You bit your cheek to keep from laughing.

Thorn hesitated before ultimately shrugging and handing you the file. “Alright, knock yourself out. Just don’t disappear on us.”

You grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Commander.”

As you leave, rather eagerly and with a bounce in your step, it isn’t long after until Fox stands up and is ready to leave too.

“And where exactly are you going?” Thorn asked, arms crossing as Fox passed him.

“I’m heading to the Senate,” Fox replied smoothly.

Thorn tilted his helmet at him, unimpressed. “You haven’t received a transmission to go.”

Fox hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before replying, “I was asked to attend yesterday by the Chancellor himself, if you must know.”

Thorn still didn’t look convinced. “Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Be my guest.” With a dramatic flourish, he gestured toward the door. “Please. Don’t let me stop you.”

Fox grumbled something under his breath before striding out, the door hissing shut behind him.

The second he was gone, Thorn turned back to the group. “Okay, what the kriff was that?”

“Not a clue,” Stone said, propping his boots up on the nearest control panel. “Though, I did hear something interesting.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Stone’s smirk deepened. “Apparently, Fox apologised to her last night.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“Fox? Apologised? ” Thire repeated, skeptical.

“That’s what I heard,” Stone said with a shrug. “One of the boys saw them talking— laughing , even.” He pointed at Thorn. “And when’s the last time you saw Fox laugh?”

Thorn hummed in thought, but before he could answer, Hound, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke up.

“I think they’re seeing each other.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

Stone burst out laughing. “Oh yeah? Does she know that? ”

Thire snorted, shaking his head. “Come on, Hound, you really think Fox of all people is sneaking around with someone?”

Hound crossed his arms. “I’m just saying—she was acting giddy all morning, went out of her way to keep his caf warm, and now she’s jumping at the chance to head to the hangar the second an opportunity presents itself.”

“She’d do that for any of us,” Thorn pointed out. “She’s always been that way.”

“Alright, maybe,” Hound admitted. “But isn’t it weird how she leaves, and then he just happens to leave right after?”

“Maybe he actually was called to the Senate,” Thire offered.

Hound shook his head. “Fox never leaves without a direct transmission. And he sure as hell doesn’t look that flustered unless something’s up.”

Stone, still grinning, gave a lazy shrug. “Or maybe he’s just finally losing it. Wouldn’t be surprising.”

“Wouldn’t be surprising if you lost it,” Hound shot back, pointing at him. “Still waiting on Fox to apologise for blaming Grizzer when you were the one who stole from the ration box.”

Stone gasped, feigning offense. “I would never —”

Thorn sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright, enough. Can we please get back to work?”

Hound stood, stretching out his arms before securing his helmet. “Not me. I’m taking Grizzer for a walk.”

Thorn barely had time to argue before Hound was already heading for the door, leaving only Stone and Thire behind.

Thorn looked between them, unimpressed. “Can I expect either of you to actually do something useful?”

Stone just grinned. “Define useful .”

⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅

You dropped off the document for Thorn and lingered around, your eyes scanning the corridors and stations absentmindedly. You’d expected to run into Whisky by now—at least, that’s what you told yourself. But after a few minutes, you started to wonder if perhaps he was stationed somewhere else today.

Just as you turned toward to leave, a voice called out your name.

You whipped around, and there he was. Whisky.

He jogged toward you, a mechanic helmet perched on top of his head, adorned in a set of mechanic gear. His breathing was heavy, as if he had just sprinted across the entire base. You couldn’t help but smile as your heart fluttered in your chest.

He was a little out of breath as he came to a stop in front of you, still catching his breath.

"Hi," you say almost breathlessly, suddenly reminded of just how handsome he looks up close. You take a quick breath to steady yourself. "You okay? You look like you just ran a marathon."

Whisky chuckles, catching his breath. "Yeah, something like that. Just had to get away from some...work. Nothing major." He waves it off with a casual shrug.

"So, you alright?" He asks, his eyes flickering over you before quickly darting around, as though he’s checking for someone.

You notice his unease and a wave of guilt washes over you. "Sorry, I... I can leave if you're busy," you offer, feeling like you might have interrupted something or perhaps read the other night's conversation wrong.

Whisky’s eyes widen for a moment as he realises how his actions might've appeared. "What? No! Sorry, I just don’t want my boss to catch me slacking off." He looks around quickly, spotting an empty room nearby. "Come with me."

A jitter of excitement stirs in you as he takes your hand, the warmth of his fingers sending a shiver up your spine. He pulls you into the room, and the door hisses shut behind you both. Whisky relaxes visibly once inside, letting out a breath as he flashes you a wide grin. "There, that's better."

"I was running an errand for Commander Thorn," you begin, trying to sound casual. "Dropped off a file and figured I'd see if I could run into you—guess I got lucky." You leave out the part where you were hoping to see him, though your smile betrays you.

Whisky grins, his eyes softening as they settle on you. "Well, I’m glad you did," he says, his voice low. "Because, honestly... I was hoping to see you again."

You blink in surprise, your heart skipping a beat. "You were?"

"Yeah," he chuckles, stepping a little closer. "You left quite the impression on me."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. The moment feels charged, and you notice him reaching out, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair out of your face. The touch is soft, intimate. His fingers linger a little longer than necessary but you really didn’t mind.

"So, what's been going on with you?" he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost as if he’s asking something more personal.

You pause, wondering how much to share, but decide to be honest. "Funny thing... Fox, uh, Commander Fox, actually apologised to me today." You chew on your bottom lip, the memory of the interaction still fresh. "He was acting so strange, though... you didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?"

Whisky smirks, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "What makes you think I did?"

“Just because I told you he was quite a hard arse on me and then the next day he was all apologetic.” You explain. “But I don’t know, just a coincidence, no?”

He looks away for a moment as if considering it. "Well, maybe he's just starting to realise how important you are."

You hum in contemplation, considering his words but not fully convinced. "I don’t know about that, but... it was nice of him, I guess."

Whisky steps a little closer, his voice turning more playful. "Well, maybe he's just waking up to the fact that he’s lucky to have someone like you around." He pauses, a teasing lilt to his voice. "But enough about Fox. We were talking about you and what we should do.”

Your heart flutters again at his words, and you can’t help but chuckle. "Oh, really? And what exactly were you planning to do with me?"

A mischievous gleam appears in his eyes. "How about a walk? I know this really nice spot, and I think you'd like it."

You raise an eyebrow, teasing him right back. "A nice spot? Is that so?"

"Yeah," Whisky says with a sly grin, "It’s quiet, beautiful... just the right place for a little... conversation."

The flirtation in the air is undeniable and you could feel yourself getting hotter by the second. "Well, that sounds interesting. When are you free?"

"Two days from now.”

“That’s convenient because I am too! Unless a certain Commander needs me to hold down the fort.” You roll your eyes but excitement builds in you. Was this a date?

Before you can respond, your comm link buzzes in your pocket. You sigh, pulling it out. "Looks like I’m needed back at my station."

"Guess I’ll let you go then." He steps back, giving you space as you turn to leave. "I’ll be looking forward to that walk."

You flash him one last smile as you make your way to the door. "Me too." The door hisses open, and you glance back one last time, catching him watching you with that same warm smile.

Fox lets out a sigh of relief as the door hisses shut behind you, the tension easing from his shoulders. But the relief is short-lived as a smile tugs at his lips, the memory of your laughter and the way your eyes lit up lingering in his mind. He’d just managed to secure more time alone with you, and the anticipation was already thrumming in his chest. Yet, a pang of guilt crept in, twisting his stomach.

Fox ran a hand down his face, groaning softly. “Kriff, what am I doing?” he muttered.

He should tell you the truth, come clean before this went any further. But the thought of you looking at him differently, of that brightness in your eyes dimming… He hesitated, leaning heavily against the desk behind him. “I’ll sort it out,” he promised himself. “I just need a little more time.”

As he turned to leave, the door slid open with a sharp hiss. For a brief moment, hope sparked in his chest thinking you had come back. But the hope shattered instantly when his eyes landed on Hound, who stood in the doorway, arms folded and a smug grin plastered on his face.

“Well, well… Nice new gear, Commander. Got a new job you didn’t tell us about?” Sarcasm dripped from every word, and Fox felt his blood run cold.

He opened his mouth to explain, but nothing came out. He must have looked like a cadet caught sneaking out after curfew because Hound’s grin only widened.

“I mean, I always thought you could use a break from all that work, but I didn’t think you’d go full-time mechanic,” Hound continued, his voice teasing but laced with curiosity. Then, his expression softened, and he clapped a hand on Fox’s shoulder. “Look, if you and her are seeing each other, your secret’s safe with me. Honestly, good for you, Fox.”

Fox’s shoulders sagged, but the relief didn’t come this time. He looked away, staring hard at the floor, his jaw clenched.

Hound’s smile faltered. “What’s up? I thought you’d be happier about this. I mean, she’s brilliant.”

Fox’s mouth felt dry, the words sticking to the back of his throat before he finally forced them out. “She doesn’t know it’s me.”

Hound blinked. “What?”

“She doesn’t know it’s me,” Fox repeated, his voice low, almost ashamed. He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of his own words settling heavily in his chest. “She thinks I’m just a mechanic.”

Hound’s mouth fell open, and he looked at Fox as if he’d just grown a second head. “How? She has eyes, doesn’t she?”

Fox let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. It all started at 79’s.”

He closed his eyes, the memory flooding back.

He remembered sitting alone at the bar, nursing a drink after you had told him the boys wanted him to come out and let loose for one. And despite attending, he still found himself wanting to be alone and just trying to forget the chaos of that week. But then he’d heard your voice, laughing and teasing your friend. It was the first time he’d heard you laugh, really laugh, and it made his chest feel tight. He’d watched you from the corner of his eye, the way your face lit up, how animated you were as you spoke.

Then, you’d looked at him, just a passing glance, but it was enough to knock the wind out of him. He looked away quickly, feeling weird for staring. But he couldn’t help himself, stealing glances whenever he thought you weren’t looking.

“I thought she knew who I was,” Fox admitted, his voice rough. “But she didn’t. She didn’t recognise me. And… I just went along with it. I didn’t think it would go this far.”

Hound’s face softened, his arms unfolding as he leaned back against the doorframe. “Fox, what the hell did you get yourself into?”

Fox ran a hand down his face again, the weight of his lie pressing down on him. “I don’t know. I can’t get out of it. I just keep digging myself deeper. She’s… she’s got this way of looking at me, like I’m someone worth knowing.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the air thick with Fox’s confession. He looked up at Hound, his expression conflicted. “I really messed up, didn’t I?”

Hound let out a slow breath. “Yeah, you did.”

Part One - 79's

Part Two - Reflection

Part Three - Sniffed Out

Part Four - Dreams and Nightmares

Or read on AO3 here for more parts

please reblog to support your content creators ♥️

Tags: @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @tentakelspektakel @stellarbit @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @the-bad-batch-baroness @dreamie411 @griffedeloup @501st104th212th99s @clonecyare88 @namechange-mykidfoundmyblog @mitth-eli-vanto @cloneflo99

#commander fox #commander fox x reader #tcw fox #star wars #commander fox x you #fox x you #nahoney22 writes #liar liar Fox series #coruscant guard #coruscant guard fic #clone wars

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tetragonia · 2 days ago

Text

A Functional Family

Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader

summary: Gojo took you and 9 year-old Megumi to a restaurant down the road. It was the closest you all had to a functional family.

notes: fluff/angst? Megumi is a smol bean, younger!Gojo, and all that

words: 600+

It was a rare evening off, and the three of you found yourselves at a small, cozy restaurant tucked in the corner of a quiet street in Tokyo.

The neon lights outside flickered as you sat down at a corner booth, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.

Gojo, ever the curious one, was leaning over the menu like it was a life-or-death decision. He didn't seem to notice how Megumi was absentmindedly tapping his fingers on the table, eyes focused more on you than the menu itself. You already decided what to eat just from a glance. You almost finished the novel you brought, knowing that this would be another long day with Gojo.

"Just pick something already," you said lightly, not even looking up from your book.

"Give me a second, (Y/N)! This is crucial," Gojo replied, flashing his usual mischievous grin. "I need the perfect dish to accompany our evening. Can't just settle for anything."

You rolled your eyes, knowing full well he’d pick something without a second thought once he made his decision. Megumi, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally broke his silence.

"Do you two always get along like this?" Megumi asked, his voice quiet but amused.

You looked at him, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of your lips. You were just introduced to Megumi a couple months ago, but you already knew that this kid was way too mature for his age. Too perceptive as well sometimes.

"What do you mean, Megumi-chan? Can’t you tell? We’re the perfect team."

Gojo raised an eyebrow at you, "I dunno, (Y/N). You seem a little too relaxed around me for someone who constantly gets annoyed by my antics."

You chuckled softly.

"The more I get used to you, the less I care about your nonsense. But don’t get comfortable—I know when to reel you in," you winked at Megumi, who now had a knowing smile on his face.

"I don’t think I've ever seen this side of you, (Y/N)," Megumi said, voice just a little quieter, his gaze soft. "You were always serious and hardworking."

You paused, realizing how much you had come to rely on their company, the warmth you hadn’t realized you craved. You reached out to ruffle Megumi’s hair, her touch light but affectionate.

"That's 'Onee-san' to you, Megumi-chan," she teased.

Gojo snorted from across the table, "Hey, that’s my line. I'm the one who's been his big brother, not you!"

You raised an eyebrow.

"Sure, Toru, but I'm the one he respects the most," youw voice was playful, but there was something softer in her eyes when she looked at Megumi.

Megumi didn’t argue, though the blush on his face betrayed the warmth he felt in that moment. He might even want to ask Gojo if Tsumiki could join them too one day...

Suddenly, the elderly woman serving them came by and paused to smile at the sight of you three.

"Aah, what a happy family you are," she said with a grin, her eyes twinkling as she looked at the three of you, pausing on Megumi. “He looks like you, Ma’am.”

Gojo choked on his drink, you coughed, and Megumi blinked, clearly caught off guard by the comment.

You, trying to regain her composure, cleared your throat, "Oh, I—"

Gojo, ever the one to make a scene, put a hand over his heart dramatically, "I know, right? I'm just so proud of my family."

You shot him a glare while the nice old lady smiled and went back to the kitchen.

"Satoru, you're the last person I want to hear that from. And do I look that old for people to assume that I’m Megumi-chan’s mother? Oh, no.”

But despite the teasing, there was a warmth in your voice as you spoke, an unspoken acknowledgment of the bond they had. Even Megumi, his face still flushed, couldn’t help but smile softly.

It was moments like this—small, unexpected, and full of unspoken connection—that made the chaos of their lives worth it. A family, even if it was one of their own making.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #satoru gojo #megumi fushiguro #jjk fluff #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jjk fics #jjk imagine #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jjk x you #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen imagine #fushiguro megumi #tetrapost

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joeliz99 · 2 days ago

Text

“You, Always.”- Danny Ramirez

Warnings: Slowburn, Friends to lovers, RPF fic, Fluff, Multi-part series

(In case you missed the first four chapters, click here)

Part Two

Where we begin again

Fifth Chapter

Three months after NYC. A summer in Miami. No time like the present.

Danny was back in his hometown for two weeks, a short but much-needed break before diving back into work and a massive new project that awaited him. The first few days were spent with family, relaxing and recharging. But as his second and final week approached, he couldn’t shake the thought of (Y/N), who now lived in Miami as well. He hadn’t heard from her since he’d texted her his number, and since both of them were over-thinkers, they hadn’t managed to spark a real conversation over text.

That night, lying in bed, Danny couldn’t help but reach out, sending her a text message before he regretted it for good.

"Hey (Initial)! Hope you're doing well. I’m in town for a couple of weeks and thought it’d be nice to catch up if you're up for it. Let me know what you think. See you soon! :)"

When (Y/N) saw his message, she froze for a moment. It had been a while since they last spoke, and she hadn’t expected him to reach out after sometime. She’d wanted to respond right away, but her schedule was packed. Hours passed, and though she saw the ‘read’ status on her phone, she couldn’t find the right words or moment to just do it.

Danny, after noticing hours had passed, began to doubt himself. Maybe he had misread the whole scenario. Perhaps she really wasn’t as interested in reconnecting as he’d hoped.

In reality, it wasnt that she wasn’t interested. She was just busy and, honestly, a little overwhelmed by it all. The next evening, after mentally editing her response a few times, she hit ‘send.’

"Hey! Sorry for the late reply. I’ve been caught up this weekend, but let’s plan something for the week. What are you in the mood for?"

Thursday of that same week, (Y/N) hurried through the streets of Miami, trying to get to the ice cream shop on time. Of course, today of all days, everyone at the office had needed something from her, pushing her lunch break nearly twenty minutes late. Now, someone was already waiting for her.

As she neared the shop, she slowed her pace, taking a deep breath to regain her composure. Outside, Danny sat at a table, focused on his phone, his posture relaxed. (Y/N) adjusted her purse and walked toward him, catching his attention as she approached.

“Oh hey! You made it.” A smile spread across his face as he stood, greeting her with a side hug and a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I’m so, so sorry. Work’s been crazy today—I hope you don’t mind the change of plans.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head. “Not at all. I’m chill with whatever. It’s good to see you.”

(Y/N) smiled as they headed inside, scanning the array of ice cream flavors.

“You eat anything yet?” Danny asked after a beat.

She shook her head, still focused on the options in front of her.

“Want to grab something else first?”

“What? No, no. I’m good. Ice cream’s better than real food anyway.”

Danny shot her a half-smile, clearly unconvinced. She caught the look and glanced back at him.

“I like your hair,” she said, changing the subject. “It looks longer than the last time I saw you. Actually, I think this is the longest I’ve ever seen it on you.”

“Oh, yeah.” He ran a hand through it absently. “I have to shave it all off for a project, so I figured I’d just let it do its thing for now.”

“Are you serious? What a waste of good lucious hair.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head as they paused to place their orders.

Outside the day felt warm and with a thick scent of freshly baked waffle cones wafting from the shop behind them. (Y/N) and Danny sat down on a bench and entertained themselves in a casual conversation while the occasional murmur of passing conversations mixed with the distant hum of traffic.

“So, I’m kind of curious… Where do you work again? I don’t think we ever talked about that.”

(Y/N) pulled the spoon from her mouth, tilting her head as she considered the question. “I work at a marketing agency as a Content Production Assistant. I handle all the audio editing for their productions and stuff like that.”

Danny hummed, nodding as he swirled his spoon through the melting edges of his ice cream. “That sounds cool. Do you like it?”

She hesitated. “I guess… yeah. It’s not exactly where I want to be, but I don’t mind it. It pays the bills, I’m getting real-world experience, and I’ve gotten more comfortable with my work. I just wish I had more time for my own projects.”

Danny took a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ll get there,” he said. “When I got out of college, I struggled bad. At one point, I was juggling three jobs while still trying to stay on top of auditions and callbacks. I was desperate for anything.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It took me a long time to get to where I am now, and honestly? I still feel like I’m barely getting by.”

“Shut up.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes with a smile. “You’re doing amazing.”

Danny turned to her with a smirk, tapping his spoon against his cup. “Yeah? So that means you’ve seen me on TV?”

Her posture stiffened. She licked her lips, suddenly more focused on her ice cream as she stole a quick glance at him.

“Ohhh, so you have!” His grin widened.

“Uhh…” She stayed quiet, gauging his reaction. “Actually… I haven’t. Like… at all.”

Danny’s smile faltered. “Wait, are you serious?”

(Y/N) bit her lip, suppressing a laugh when she noticed the slight flush creeping onto his cheeks.

“This is embarrassing… Why would you say I’m good if you’ve never seen me?!”

“Because!” She laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “I’ve seen you in your element. I know you’re good.”

Danny exhaled dramatically, slouching back against the bench. “Okay. I’m done with this conversation.”

“No, no! Wait.” She nudged him again, her grin playful. “I actually do want to know what you’re working on. Are you gonna tell me about your next project?”

Danny turned his head slightly, giving her an exaggerated, unimpressed look before shaking his head.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a baby, Danny. I said I’m sorry.” She playfully punched his arm, and though he said nothing, a small smile crept onto his face.

“Well, it’s good that you’re sorry… but I really can’t say anything for legal reasons.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him.

Danny smirked, barely holding back a laugh.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait until it’s out in theaters.”

(Y/N) was about to fire back a playful remark, entertained by the easy rhythm of their conversation, when her phone started to ring. She ignored it at first, hoping it would stop on its own. It did—only for a series of text messages to pop up on her screen.

Her eyes scanned the messages quickly, and as she reached the last one, her expression shifted.

“Are you serious?” she muttered, exhaling sharply as she read it again.

Danny, catching the change in her demeanor, leaned slightly toward her. “You have to go?”

She nodded with a frown. “Yeah… Apparently, my lunch break was supposed to be shorter today whether I wanted to or not. We have a last-minute client meeting, and I have to be there.” The disappointment was clear in her voice. “I’m really sorry, Danny.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” He smiled, already standing up and taking the empty cup from her hands to toss it in the trash. “At least we got to hang out for a bit. We’ll plan something next time I’m in Miami.”

“Right… Sure.” She tried to return his smile, though it came out a little sheepish. Leaning in, the girl gave him a small hug. “Thanks for reaching out. We’ll stay in touch, alright?”

“Sounds good to me. Now go before they call you again.”

(Y/N) nodded, waving once before hurrying back toward her job. Danny stood there for a beat, hands in his pockets, watching her go before turning in the opposite direction.

But as she walked, something nagged at her. It had all felt too short and too fast. Even more-so when she had taken her sweet time to actually plan something decent with him. And now, the reality settled in—she probably wouldn’t see him again for months. Maybe longer.

Before she could overthink it, she pulled out her phone and dialed his number.

Danny glanced at his screen, momentarily confused. Had she called by mistake? Still, he answered.

“You butt-dialed me or something?” His laughter was the first thing she heard.

“No, not really.” She hesitated only for a second. “When exactly are you leaving Miami?”

“In two days.” His tone shifted slightly, curiosity creeping in. “Why?”

“Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”

“Uh, no, not really. I was just gonna spend the day with my mom. Why?”

“Would she hate me if I stole you for a couple of hours?”

Danny let out a chuckle. “I doubt she’d hate you for any reason in the world, to be honest.”

(Y/N) smiled, knowing damn well he was right about that.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow after five. I’ll send you the details later, okay?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss (Initial).”

“See you tomorrow. Bye.”

As she hung up, a smile tugged at her lips, her chest suddenly feeling lighter. What she didn’t know was that on the other end of the call, Danny felt the exact same way. After all, maybe going back to being friends wasn’t going to be as hard as it seemed.

The next day rolled in, and thankfully, (Y/N) was on time and much more relaxed than the day before. She waited at the park, casually snacking as she watched people stroll by, some walking, others riding bikes along the path. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the scene, and the usual Miami heat had softened under the evening breeze.

Just as a new playlist started playing in her earphones, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She pulled out one earbud and glanced over her shoulder.

“Hey,” Danny greeted her with an easy smile.

“Oh, hi!” Her own smile mirrored his as she took a quick look at him from head to toe, checking if he was dressed for the occasion. He was—comfortable athletic wear, a hat, and, as always, the same chain resting on his chest.

“Let’s go. We’ve got places to be!” she announced, already starting to walk.

Danny chuckled, shaking his head at how naturally she spoke to him, as if they had just seen each other minutes ago. He followed her lead, still unsure of their destination, until they stopped in front of a rollerblade rental shop.

“You’re kidding.” He looked from the skates to her, eyebrows raised. “Are we roller skating?”

(Y/N) nodded nonchalantly.

He let out a laugh. “Did it even cross your mind that I might not know how to do that?”

“You don’t?” She tilted her head, though she didn’t seem all that concerned.

“I do,” he admitted. “But you didn’t know that.”

“I guessed.” She simply shrugged. “ I don’t, by the way. Figured it would be a good time to try it out.”

Danny stared at her, half amused, half baffled. “Bro, what? Are you crazy?” He laughed again, shaking his head. “I cannot wait to see how this ends. You’re unbelievable.”

(Y/N) finally laughed, not bothering to argue as she went ahead with the rental process. Before he could protest further, she handed him a pair of skates and dragged him back toward the park, just steps away from Miami Beach.

They sat on a bench, helping each other lace up their skates. Danny stood first, testing his balance before extending both hands toward her.

“Alright, come on,” he said, steady and sure. “Let’s see if you survive this.”

(Y/N) took his hands, already laughing as she wobbled to her feet.

The moment (Y/N) was fully standing, she realized she had made a mistake.

Her feet wobbled dangerously beneath her, rolling in opposite directions as she clung onto Danny’s hands for dear life.

“Oh—oh no, wait—” she stammered, trying to steady herself.

Danny, already grinning, barely held back a laugh.

“Oh, this is bad” he said dramatically, his grip tightening to keep her upright. “I thought I was gonna have to help you a little but you might actually die.”

“Shut up!” she whined, struggling to find her balance. “This is harder than it looks!”

Danny, completely at ease on his skates, skated backward while still holding onto her, making it look effortless.”

“See, the key is—”

Before he could finish his sentence, (Y/N) yelped as her foot slid forward too fast, and just like that—bam—she hit the pavement.

For a split second, there was silence.

Then, Danny lost it

“Oh my god—” He doubled over, laughing so hard he had to brace himself against his knees. “That was amazing. I wish I had my phone out.”

(Y/N) groaned from the ground. “ Can you please not?! “

“No, no, I’m motivating you,” he said between chuckles, offering her a hand. “Come on, get up. Let’s try this again.”

She took his hand and, with his help, got back on her feet. This time, she lasted about ten seconds before her legs betrayed her again.

Thud.

Danny clutched his stomach, laughing even harder.

“I swear—” (Y/N) glared at him from the ground. “If you laugh one more time—”

“Sorry, sorry!” He wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I’m done, I swear. Come on champ. Get up.”

He held out a hand again, and after a second, she narrowed her eyes at him but took it anyway.

“Alright,” This time Danny pulled her closer so she had no choice but to hold onto his shoulders for support. “We’re gonna take this slow. No sudden movements.”

(Y/N) nodded seriously, gripping onto him like her life depended on it.

“Good.” He smirked. “Now… say ‘Wheee!’”

She blinked. “What?”

He suddenly pushed off, skating forward with her clinging onto him.

“Danny, NO!”

Her scream echoed through the park as he burst out laughing all over again.

Two very long hours passed—and after an embarrassing number of falls—(Y/N) finally started to get the hang of it. She still wasn’t graceful, and Danny never missed an opportunity to have fun with it, but at least she could move without immediately wiping out.

By the time they returned their skates, both of them were starving. So, without much thought, they walked to a nearby burger spot, grabbed their food, and made their way to the now-dark beach.

The sound of the waves filled the quiet space as they sat down on the sand, shoes off, letting the night breeze cool them down. Danny took a big bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully before turning to (Y/N).

"Alright, I’ll admit it," he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. "That was way more fun than I expected. Even if you’re all bruised up and traumatized after it.

(Y/N) scoffed, nudging his arm. "You know what? You’re actually a hater. There’s no need to mention that stuff.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. But seriously, this was great. We need to do it again."

(Y/N) smiled, resting her chin on her knee as she looked out at the water. "I’d love to. Just gotta figure out when we’ll actually be in the same city again."

Danny hummed in agreement. "Yeah… schedules are a pain. But we’ll make it work. Even if it takes months, we’ll plan something.”

"Deal," (Y/N) said, holding out her pinky.

Danny grinned and locked his pinky with hers without hesitation. "Deal."

For a moment, neither of them said anything, just enjoying the cool breeze and the comfortable ease between them.

However long it took, they both knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

————————————-

Still wanting to read more? Here are some other Danny’s shots to read. You’re welcome!!!

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animereaderinsertwriter · 2 days ago

Text

part one - two - three - four -five

i saw you in a dream (bucky barnes x reader)

tags/warnings: plot with porn, fluff, a little angst, there is some mild amnesia, major plot twist, first person (bucky's) pov, inspired by this song

blurb: In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

These are the words inscribed on Bucky's wedding ring. A wedding ring that he doesn't remember ever having. It's not a vow he made-- not that he remembers, anyway-- but it might just be one that he decides to keep anyway.

ao3 here

“I’ve decided to call off of work for a while,” my wife explains to me over breakfast. “I’d rather be around if you need me than be at work, and we’ve got ample savings to live off of in the meantime.”

I ask her if she’s sure about that— I don’t really need a babysitter, I’ve already gotten over my meltdown about this whole thing— but she assures me that she believes it’s the right decision.

“What do you do for work, then, that they let you have time off so easy?”

She hesitates.

“I work for Tony Stark,” she replies after a moment. “As it stands, though, he’s got an excellent team, so they can share the load of whatever I’m leaving behind. Besides, it’s time I took a vacation.”

She’s keeping something from me, but I let it slide.

“Babysitting me is hardly a vacation.”

She shoots me a sly grin over her cup of coffee.

“Who said I was babysitting? Keep up the sass and I’ll call Dolores to sit with you while I go to Bali.”

I’m startled into a laugh.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I? Try me, soldier boy.”

There is a strange energy between us that makes me feel oddly playful. I want to forget about eggs and bacon and chase her around the house instead.

Gradually, though, that energy fades as we run out of things to talk about. Awkwardness subsumes us again, and since I cooked, (Y/N) offers to wash dishes, presumably to escape the weight of the silence between us.

About an hour of that tension is all either of us can stand.

“I’m going downstairs to train,” she says, throwing a bar cloth over her shoulder. “Would you like to join me?”

I blink.

“We have a downstairs?”

“Yes— a basement.” A fond smile comes over her face. “You designed it yourself.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I did?”

“Oh yes.” She grins. “Come on, dear— I’ll give you the tour. You’ll love it.”

She walks past me just close enough for me to feel the heat from her body, but does not touch me. She keeps going just long enough for me to see the full length of her figure, then turns back to throw at me a mischievous look over her shoulder.

“Well? Coming?”

She keeps walking, and I keep staring. This time, though, I grin. This hint of playfulness gets a rise out of me not unlike the one from before, and I realize that this must be what normal is for us.

What a fox.

Like a hound dog wagging his tail, I move to follow her. This, if nothing else, should prove interesting.

***

Three and a half hours later, I’m sore, sweaty, and I can’t feel my face.

To be fair, we’ve only been working for most of three hours. The majority of the first hour was spent on rediscovery— and what an hour it was! Not only did I apparently stock most of the cool machines I’d used in Wakanda, but there were also some things I’d never seen before, such as the combat simulator that Shuri had apparently gifted me last year for my birthday. (Y/N) warned me that it felt real, but I didn’t believe her until those nerve stimulators of Shuri’s mimicked exactly the feeling of a bullet ripping through my shoulder. It’s unpredictable, the simulator; it generates combat scenarios at random, and not every conflict ends well even if you do everything by the book. It’s a genius invention, and I spend an hour and a half on that alone.

As fascinating as the combat simulator is, though, it doesn’t hold a candle to what comes next.

While I rest from playing with all my (new) gadgets, my wife has been working slowly and steadily, alternating between lifting weights and training with a punching bag. She’s sweating heavily, and she looks pretty fatigued, but she keeps at it with a determination that reminds me of Steve. Eventually, though, she sits down to rest too, and between gulps of water, she says,

“Spar with me.”

“What?”

The word comes out as a laugh. She smirks.

“Laugh now, Sergeant Barnes, but I learned from the best.”

“Oh yeah?” I challenge playfully. “Who?”

Her smile is radiant and warm; it feels like a house fire in my chest.

“You.”

My heart skips a beat.

She thinks I’m the best.

It’s a stupid thought, perhaps even a silly one, but it’s there. Even so, looking at her now, moving to stand with her hair all mussed and her face all sweaty, I know I can’t seriously spar with her.

At least, that’s what I think until she whirls a kick at my head, forcing me to block it with my forearm.

“I said,” she pants, baring her teeth in a feline grin, “spar with me.”

The word no had been on the tip of my tongue— but I’ve never been one to leave a blow unanswered.

I grin back, and the game is on.

I launch myself from my seat, aiming to use my size to my advantage and grapple her— safely, gently, of course— to the ground. All my arms catch is air. She bounds lightly backwards, as graceful as a dancer, and holds her hands up in a ready position.

After I aim a few hits at her, missing each one, I realize her strategy. I’m bigger, stronger than her, sure, but it takes a lot more for my muscles to move my larger body than it does hers. She’s baiting me into my strikes, hoping to fatigue me before she presses what then will be her advantage. I adjust accordingly. I feint left, but move right— the motion traps her as my metal metal hand closes around her soft flesh. I think I have her until she uses the same momentum that I use to pull her to me to bash her forehead against the bridge of my nose, stunning me. She wrenches free and tries to sweep my feet, but I’m too sturdy for her. Instead, she falls with the motion, and I follow her to the floor in an unsightly but effective crawl to try and close the distance between us for a grapple. She doesn’t make it to her feet before I’m on her, and I know it’s game over now.

Size for size, strength for strength, I’ll win.

Surprisingly, though, she still makes me work for it.

In an impressive show of agility, she rolls away from me before I can grab her— but not before aiming a kick at my temple that, had it landed, might have been deadly. Frustrated, I make a grab at the foot that kicked at me, and she stomps my fleshy hand with her heel— meet punishment for the pettiness of my grab. Truly irritated now, and in sorry pain, I get my feet underneath me and throw myself at her once more.

She rolls again, and my hand misses her arm by only half an inch. In fact, she almost makes it to her feet before I finally latch both arms around her waist and bring her down hard. I win the ensuing scramble; only a few seconds pass before I have her pinned beneath me, my hands circling her wrists and forcing them to the ground beside her head. Her legs are pinned open by my knees, and I grin in fierce triumph.

“I win,” I say, and I know my expression must be wild with joy.

Her expression doesn’t exactly match mine, though. Her eyes are wide, her lips are parted, and…

And her chest, slightly exposed and pressed forth by her raised arms, is heaving.

The world slows. My awareness narrows to just the places where our bodies are touching, which is… a lot of places. My heart is racing, I can’t catch my breath— and neither can my wife. My wife, who is panting, sweaty, and beautiful, whose soft thighs are on either side of mine, and whose eyes say she wants me to close all the distance that there is between us.

“Bucky.”

She breathes my name like a sigh, and I know that in this moment, I’ll do whatever she asks of me.

“Bucky,” she repeats, “I think— I think I need to shower.”

That’s… not what I wanted to hear.

I let her up. She dusts off like it’s nothing, but I can see the tremble in her limbs. She’s fatigued beyond fatigue, utterly exhausted— and so, I find, am I. On unsteady legs, I move to follow her, then stop.

“Eat something,” I tell her belatedly, uselessly. “I mean, to keep your strength up, you should probably eat.”

She turns. Her smile is sad.

“Thanks Buck, darling. I will.”

And thus, like a newborn fawn, she stumbles out of the room on shaky legs, leaving me to stand in humiliating silence with a raging hard-on and nothing to do with it.

***

While (Y/N) showers, I raid the kitchen.

My own shower was short and cold. I took it in the guest room, which is just as richly furnished as the rest of the house. It wasn’t the best shower I’ve ever taken, though, since I wouldn’t exactly call it refreshing. I came out of it just as I came into it— tired, frustrated, and hungry.

One of those things can be fixed quick, fast, and in a hurry by an enterprising guy like me, though, and I place my bets on the fridge as I crack it open for a peek at its treasures.

There is everything imaginable in that refrigerator. So much that I have a hard time choosing anything at all. I settle on boiled eggs, string cheese, and an apple to start, and when that doesn’t do the trick, I manage to put together the ingredients for a simple but flavorful soup.

By the time (Y/N) returns from her shower, the soup is finished and there’s a bowl cooling for her on the counter. I serve it to her myself when she comes into the kitchen, and she thanks me tiredly as she sits at the dining room table.

“This is good.” She blows on the steaming spoonful she’s scooped up. “Thank you.”

I shrug.

“Sure thing.”

Once she’s done, I take her bowl and clean up. Her eyes are drooping sleepily, and I have to work to hide my smile from her as she yawns cutely.

“Wanda, Nat, and Bruce want to go out tonight,” she sighs tiredly, looking at her phone. “They’ve invited us, if you’re interested— although, just so you know, they likely have selfish intentions for asking us to come.”

I cock my head to the side in question. My wife blinks blearily, then clarifies.

“You can’t get drunk, so you always DD.”

“Not selfish, then.” I laugh, “just common sense.”

“Mm, maybe. Wanda gets weepy when she’s drunk, and Bruce gets cornier. Natasha stays Natasha, but sometimes her languages become… interesting.”

“And you?”

She grins.

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m a delight, as usual, even when I’m drunk.”

Oh, I can translate that pretty easily. My money says she’s worse than all three of them combined.

“So,” she continues, “you in or out?”

I consider declining— (Y/N) seems too sleepy now to go out later in the day— but then I remember our sparring earlier and decide that, super-soldier-ness be damned, a drink might be a good idea after all.

“I’m down. You sure you’re not too tired? We worked hard earlier.”

“I’ll nap,” she yawns.

I continue cleaning up, and she shuffles in the direction of the master bedroom with a muffled thanks for the food.

A little while later, I settle in on the couch and very politely pretend that I can’t hear the distinct buzz of a vibrator through the walls as my wife, on the other side, softly calls my name, doubtless thinking me unable to hear.

Damn that super soldier serum. Never did me any damn good.

***

I’ve never taken so long to dress in my life.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I completely fried my brain looking at the wardrobe in front of me. There are… there are colors here. Colors and designs and textures— how the fuck am I supposed to match any of this to anything else? I have half a mind to ask (Y/N) for guidance. However, the other half of my mind would insist that I jump off a bridge before resorting to having her dress me like I’m some kind of doll, so instead of looking at the clothes and continuing to overwhelm myself, I move to look at myself in the mirror and try to imagine an outfit that I would like.

While I’m scrutinizing myself trying to find the best outfit, I realize that my hair is different than I remember it. It’s still long, but there are more layers. I like it, I think. It makes me look cleaner, sharper.

I finally settle on a black button-up and a pair of jeans. There’s a jewelry box on the dresser that I found my socks and underwear in, and I open it to find jewelry that must belong to me: a couple medals (Jesus, they’re old!), a silver chain, and a set of cufflinks.

There is also a wedding ring.

I lift the wedding ring and examine it. There is an inscription looping on the inside of it that reads,

In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

I consider putting it on my finger, but I decide against it. I haven’t earned the right to wear it— not yet. I have no right to my wife; as I am, I can’t be what she needs. I’ll need to wait until I can prove to her and to myself that I can still make her happy before I can feel right about it.

I place the ring back in the jewelry box and try not to feel disappointed.

I pick up the silver chain. It might be a nice addition to the outfit, I think. I put it on, stare at it, then take it off. I peer at myself, sigh, then put it back on.

It’ll have to do.

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I finally manage to meet my wife in the living room, ready to head out. I make it halfway through the threshold to the living room before my jaw hits the floor.

Her dress is champagne gold with a perfectly-draped neckline that I feel sure makes my eyes bulge out in cartoonish heart shapes. The thin straps of the halter neckline settle pleasingly over her shoulders, and when she turns, I thank God for every roll, dimple, and contour of her back. Her long, delicate earrings brush her shoulders as she turns back to me, and I decide then and there that it’s over for me. There’s no way I’m not going to spend every minute of every day trying to make this dame happy for the rest of my life. Greek statues would be jealous of such a beauty. Hell, I don’t discriminate— statues of every race, color, and creed can eat their hearts out. They could never compare to her.

“Hey handsome. Whatcha think? Will I do?”

My approval must be obvious; she smiles cheeky and adds,

“It has pockets!”

To show me, she sticks her hands in them. The motion makes her breasts jiggle prettily, and I fix my gaze on the light fixtures in the ceiling trying to will away the urge to peel that fucking dress off of her with my teeth like I have any right whatsoever to do so.

I really don’t know what the hell’s come over me. I feel like a hound-dog slavering over a fox. I’ve always loved women— who doesn’t?— but this feels… different. I ache for her in a way that makes me want to crack open her rib cage and live there.

“You look great.” My mouth is dry. I clear my throat. “Really great. I feel a little underdressed, looking at you. I can change, though, if you— ”

She grabs my arm, right on the muscle of my bicep.

“Don’t you dare,” she murmurs, looking up at me through her lashes. “If you look any better, I’ll have to keep a baseball bat around to beat the women off of you.”

She squeezes my bicep, then releases me, her expression subdued.

Was that… jealousy?

Interesting.

I offer her my arm— the metal one. She takes it, and I try not to feel smug.

“Ready?”

She smiles, nods, and accepts the arm I offer— but not before glancing at it and frowning. I frown too, confused about what might have displeased her, but there’s nothing I can figure out before we’re loading up in what is apparently my Jeep Wrangler. She directs me to each of our friends’ houses— “Wanda last,” she insists, “to give her time to put the kids to bed”—and then to the nightclub Natasha likes.

The club is nice— the whole place looks like the inside of a lava lamp— but it’s full to the brim with sweating, drunk, scantily-clad people who all seem to feel entitled to touch everyone else. I personally don’t have any interest in that sort of thing, especially not this grinding business that looks little better than public dry-humping. Back in the day, I’d be spinning girls all around the dancefloor; I’d keep them on the floor until their feet hurt and even after. Now, though? I wouldn’t be caught dead doing… whatever that stuff is.

Well, if (Y/N) asked for a dance, I’d do my best. Anybody worth their salt would know better than to say no to a dame like her. But the thing is… she doesn’t ask me.

“I’m going to dance for a while,” she yells at me over the sound of the music. “Are you good here?”

“Peachy,” I shout back, propping my feet up on a rung of the barstool I’ve claimed. “Have fun, beautiful.”

Her smile glows in the blue-green light, and then she’s gone with Wanda and Natasha, who seem just as eager to dance.

Out of politeness, Bruce hangs out with me at the bar for a little while and we talk shop— S.W.O.R.D’s research and operations, Steve’s programs there— but it’s clear that he wants to dance as well. Before long, I send him off with a clap on the shoulder for encouragement, and then I’m alone at the bar, sipping surprisingly good whiskey.

A while later, a woman sidles up beside me to order a drink. I turn to look at her. She’s a dark-haired beauty with skin the color of polished bronze and hair like big, dark, fluffy clouds. Her lips are full, and they glitter with reflective golden gloss.

“Hi!” She greets me as we make eye contact. “You’re super handsome, oh my God!”

I blink.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Say, do you wanna dance?”

“No can do. I’m here with my wife.”

The response is automatic. I shock myself with it. For a guy that’s only been married less than forty-eight hours, I’m coming to find that the “nope, I’ve got a wife” instinct sure does kick in fast.

“Oh my bad king! Have a good night!”

She turns to go, but I reach out and grab her arm.

“Wait, wait!” Jesus, fuck, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’ve got to be the stupidest man alive… but this might just be what I need. “I… think I might need some advice. Do you know stuff about relationships?”

She purses her lips in thought, then nods her head.

“Bad ones, yeah. Good ones, not so much. Also, babe, I’m a little drunk so I dunno how useful I’ll be to you right now.”

“That’s fine.” Reconnaissance, I tell myself. This is just simple reconnaissance. “You mind if we talk a minute?”

“I don’t mind at all! Yap away!”

I tell her the important bits and leave out the stuff she probably shouldn’t know.

“Like I said, I just feel like I barely know her anymore, but I… I want to try and make it better. She’s good to me, and I want to be good to her. Plus, the chemistry is…” I think back to that sly smile, the press of her thighs against mine. “Off the charts. I just wanna be the man she fell in love with.”

Lani— that’s my new friend’s name— nods thoughtfully.

“And you say you’ve only been back stateside for a couple days?”

I nod and feel a little guilty using someone else’s war for my white lie. Still, though, I don’t know what all my excuses would consist of if there was only peacetime in recent years.

“Then this is just relationship throat-clearing,” Lani tells me confidently, throwing back the shot I bought her. “Ack— that’s strong. But yeah, it’s just a phase. If you wanna speed stuff up, I recommend physical touch. Not the sex kind, you understand— just hold her. Your bodies have probably done a little forgetting even if your minds haven’t. Might be a good idea to start there.”

“But how do I initiate it without coming off.. weird?”

Lani and I talk for a long time. I lose track of how long. Before I know it, it’s been two hours, and I look up to realize that I haven’t seen my wife in that amount of time. I look around, but I don’t see her.

“Don’t worry,” Lani is telling me, “You seem like a good guy, and you’re trying. If she loves you, you’ll work it out just fine.”

A weird look comes over her face, and she adds, “Besides, if I’m guessing correctly… she’s definitely still burning hot for you, king, so good luck out there.”

I turn back to her and thank her sincerely. She pats me on the shoulder and thanks me in turn for the drinks. It’s only right, she insists, that her bad experiences should serve to help someone else prevent them. With that, she’s off, and I’m sitting by myself once more.

Tired now, but armed with a good strategy, I stand, stretching my legs. I scan the dancefloor for my wife, but I don’t see her in the immediate vicinity. When I do catch sight of her, I wish I hadn’t— her eyes are all molten fury as she squishes her way through the crowd of dancing bodies. Whatever has happened tonight, she’s not happy about it, that’s for damn sure. Still determined to act on the advice I was given, I start to make my way toward her, but before I can get very far, I see someone grab my wife’s arm and yank— hard. She stumbles, and I catch sight of the person who’s holding her.

It’s a man. A large, scruffy-looking man with a look of trouble about him.

I start to shove through people faster.

(Y/N) tries to snatch her arm back, fails. She’s clearly a bit drunk, and stumbles when he yanks her over to him. I’m two strides away, but not close enough to help before the situation explodes.

My wife, full of righteous fury from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head, rares back and punches the guy straight in his ugly face.

He lets her go then, but people start screaming and the crowd jostles me away from her. I’m trying very hard not to lose my patience and start swinging my elbows— I could kill someone like that with my level of strength— but I’m starting not to care as I watch her use her fists like hammers on the guy’s skull. I’ve seen shit like this among soldiers before, back in the day. She’s drunk, she’s angry— and, judging by how long she lasted against me sparring, she’ll catch a fucking manslaughter charge if I don’t intervene soon.

I scream her name above the din, but she doesn’t hear me. Her knee connects with Ugly Guy’s nose, and I finally break free from the people-prison that had me trapped.

“Hey!” I call out to her, reaching for her arm. “Baby, hey, he’s had it, okay, you made your—”

She whirls on me, and I catch hell in the form of a cupped hand smacking painfully against my ear.

“Stay the fuck out of this,” she snarls at me, vicious and cruel. “I’m not done here.”

Oh, but she is. I can be every bit as vicious and every bit as cruel as she can be, and I prove it by grabbing her from the back and putting her in a metal-armed headlock.

“Stand down, babygirl,” I growl close to her ear. “You don’t want to kill him.”

“I do,” she confesses darkly, struggling vainly against me. “I want his bleeding heart in my hands!”

“Then not here, not now.” Bouncers have finally noticed the commotion— too late, sadly. They’re heading for us, but I keep my voice level and calm. “Behave or I swear to God I won’t let anyone bail you out of jail.”

“You have no right to command me!” She thrashes in my arms like a trapped animal. “Let me go, asshole!”

“I have every right.” I tighten the lock.

“Says… who?”

“Says this.” I tighten my arm more, and she wheezes like a squeaky toy with the squeaker ripped out. “Now behave. I don’t wanna go to jail.”

And, let’s be real— if that stupid, ugly fuck decides to raise his hand to her even in self defense, it’ll be both of us sitting in a jail cell. I’d kill him for it.

I let her go then, and she stumbles, clutching at her throat and gasping for air. I feel an instant flash of regret, but I have no time to process it before I’m gathering her in my arms and promising the bouncers that we didn’t start it, but that we’re leaving so as not to cause more trouble. They look at us skeptically, but decide that we’re apparently not worth the trouble and send us on our way.

Natasha and Bruce catch up with us at the doorway. They saw the whole thing, apparently, and had the same trouble I did with trying to reach (Y/N) before she caused more trouble for herself and us.

“You guys go on home,” says Natasha, a strange look in her eyes. “We’ll catch up with Wanda and we’ll all get an Uber home when we’re ready.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, desperate for an answer in the affirmative.

“Yes, we’re sure,” Bruce says, placing a reassuring hand on my wife's shoulder. “We all get mad sometimes— and sometimes, we all need a break.”

If Bruce Banner tells you that you need to take a chill pill, you take one.

And so that’s how my wife and I end up parked in our garage, staring straight ahead at the wall in absolute silence. I’m lost in thought, pondering how such a promising evening went to shit so fast, when (Y/N) breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry I hit you.” Her voice wavers a bit. “And that I called you an asshole. I was just so mad…”

She’s fighting tears. I want to stretch out my hand to her, but I don’t know that the gesture would be welcome.

“S’okay. You had a right to be mad at that guy. He was a total creep.”

She shakes her head.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t mad at him. I mean, I was, but not initially.”

I turn to her, but she’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. With great effort, I keep my voice gentle.

“What happened? Why were you angry, then?”

Her lower lip trembles.

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Bucky.”

It’s not the answer I wanted, but it is an answer I will accept.

“That’s okay. We’ll talk about it later.” I think for a minute, then add, “Also, I’m sorry for putting you in a headlock and then insinuating that I have a right to order you around.”

She huffs a laugh.

“I deserved it. All you did was keep me from making a pretty big mistake.”

“Still,” I insist, “I was meaner than I would have liked, and rougher too. I’m sorry.”

“Bucky, please don’t apologize— not for this. It was the right call.”

“But I am sorry it had to happen that way. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

To my shame, there is still a red line at her neck where my arm pressed against it. It’s not bruised or anything, but the mark itself shames me.

My wife turns to me, rigid and acerbic. She says,

“James Buchanan Barnes, I have begged on my actual knees for the same thing you did this evening and worse for my own, selfish… lascivious reasons. When I tell you that no apology is necessary, I mean it. You have nothing to apologize for. No touch from you could ever be too rough for me.”

The implication she just made— that she enjoyed being in a headlock, that she… gets off on that rough and ready side of me— lays heavily between us.

I’m utterly speechless.

“Ugh, I’m still fucking drunk,” she groans. “Don’t listen to me. I’m going to bed.”

She clambers out of the Jeep and makes her way into the house. I sit there for a minute to process, then turn the car off and follow her inside.

By the time I make it in, the water to the main shower is running. With a loose plan in mind, I undress down to my boxers and slip between the covers of our shared bed adjacent to the bathroom and wait for her to finish.

Then my hearing picks up on something I’m not supposed to hear— a whispered phone call that is meant to be masked by the running water of the shower, but isn’t.

“I don’t know, Shuri.” My wife is saying, her voice thick with tears. “He may wake up tomorrow and remember everything. No, the tests won’t be back for— oh stop that, you know we don’t have Wakanda’s resources. No, I don’t think international travel is a good— Shuri! Listen to me, he’s okay. Why am I so emotional then? Why do you think! Because— ” there is a pause, a shuddering breath, then, “Well, I’ve made a fool of myself. Oh, Shuri, what a jealous fool I’ve been!”

(Y/N) recounts the evening as she remembers it, and I am horrified to discover her version of events. Right off the bat, I apparently managed to fuck up by not wearing my wedding ring— apparently she saw that as a sign of rejection and not the show of respect I had intended it to be. That pain, of course, exacerbated the jealousy she describes to Shuri as me openly flirting with and buying drinks for a hot, drunk chick— a jealousy that she thinks she doesn’t even have a right to feel because I’m no longer hers— or at least that’s what she thinks I seem to think.

This account paints me in a terrible light indeed. I feel physically ill listening to all of my actions being laid out and twisted into something they were never meant to be.

“I can’t even be mad at him, Shuri,” she cries, a terrible, aching sound that wrenches my heart and roils in my gut. “It’s not his fault— he doesn’t even know me. And— I mean, yeah, I know he saw the ring ‘cause he had on the necklace, so he had to have looked in— ugh, don’t distract me! My point is, what if he never remembers? He— he may want to leave. No, I won’t stop him— I want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just— I love him, Shuri. If he leaves, it will break my heart.”

I keep listening , but those words bounce around in my brain.

If he leaves, it will break my heart.

“I don’t even think he thinks I’m pretty anymore. When he saw me in my cute little dress— you know, the gold one with the pockets?— he looked up at the ceiling as if he’d rather look at anything else. Oh, Shuri, it’s over. It’s hopeless!”

It’s all I can do not to bust the bathroom door down and correct every misconception she has. Instead, I bide my time, resting my eyes and my body as she finishes her phone call and her shower. She needs this time and space, so I give it to her until the water shuts off and she makes her way to the bedroom where I lay in apparent sleep.

(Y/N) steps softly up to the bed, then hesitates. I’m willing to bet she’s contemplating sleeping in the guest room. Without opening my eyes, I say,

“Don’t be shy. There’s plenty of room.”

Gingerly, she climbs into bed. She settles as far from me as she can get— an admittedly respectful distance in a circumstance such as this one. Still, I’m unsatisfied.

“You can stay there if you’d like,” I tell her, “but I’ll feel terrible if you fall off.”

She doesn’t move. It’s remarkable how quiet her crying is, but I can feel the sadness radiating off of her in waves.

I sit up.

“Hey.” I open my arm— the metal one— up to her. “Come here.”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t have to do this, Bucky,” she sniffles. “You— you’re really not obligated to comfort me. If anything, I’m supposed to be comforting you.”

“Why?” I ask. “I’m not the one who’s lost anything. From where I’m sitting, I’ve only stood to gain. I have a home, friends, and a beautiful wife where I used to have none of those things. But you… you’ve lost a husband.”

She covers her face with her hand, and I take it upon myself to close the distance between us. I pull her to me, and she buries her face in my chest while she cries.

“I’m sorry,” she says, over and over. “I’m sorry…..”

I soothe her as best I can. I rub circles into her back and hold her close. When she shifts awkwardly, I grab Kleenex from the nightstand and let her blow her nose. The whole time, I take Lani’s advice and don’t let her get more than three inches away from me.

When she’s calmer, I begin to speak. I start with what I feel should be the most obvious fact that she has misunderstood.

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” I tell her firmly, brushing hair away from her face. “I’ve seen a lot of women in a lot of places all around the world and even outside of it, and to me, you beat the hell out of all of them. When I saw you in that dress, it was all I could do to keep my hands off of you and go back to whatever it was we were doing in the basement earlier.”

My wife blinks owlishly. I don’t wait for her to respond before I press on.

“But,” I continue, “I kept my hands to myself because I haven’t earned that yet. I’m stumbling in the dark here with no clue what I’m doing— I’m not the man you married. At least, not yet. But I’m trying to be. I want to be him. That’s why I didn’t wear my wedding ring. I wanted to be worthy of it— worthy of you— before I put it on. In retrospect, I’m realizing I must have seemed like an asshole by not wearing it— even further from the man you know and love.”

“Oh Bucky,” she sighs, tears streaming down her face, “you really are the man I married, even if you don’t know it, you sneaky, conniving, eavesdropping bastard. You listened to my phone call with Shuri, didn’t you?”

I turn pink from the top of my chest to the tips of my ears.

“That depends on how mad you’ll be if I say yes.”

She lets out a snotty giggle that’s stupidly cute.

“S’what I get for marrying an assassin and a spy,” she smiles through her tears. “Go on, dear— you might as well finish up. You’d better have a jam-up excuse for letting that girl fawn over you all night, or I’ll still be cross with you.”

I shrug.

“That one’s easy. I was asking her for advice about you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She’s quiet for a long time after that. I keep handing her tissues and she keeps blowing her nose until the fount of her tears finally dries up.

“So?” I probe gently, taking her hand in mine, “Am I forgiven?”

“Of course.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s me who should be asking for forgiveness— I should have trusted you to start with.”

I shake my head with a grin.

“My wife can do no wrong as far as I’m concerned. Even when she does something wrong, I’ve got to assume that it’s my fault somehow.”

“Bucky,” she laughs. I lean my forehead against hers and decide to press my luck.

“Can I kiss you? I’ve wanted to since we sparred earlier, and I think it would go a long way towards soothing any ruffled— mph.”

Her lips are soft against mine. She kisses me once, twice— and then I deepen the kiss, adjusting our bodies until my hand is threaded through her hair, forming a cup around her skull as we kiss deeply, unhurriedly, as though we have all the time in the world. Her hands roam and so do mine, and in this slow, sensual exploration, I am completely, utterly lost.

Selfishly, I want more. I want to pull my wife into my lap and let her feel what she does to me— I want to kiss and touch her and make her feel good— but Lani had advised me against this temptation.

“If you give in too soon, somehow sex and intimacy become the same thing, which… they aren’t,” she’d told me. “She needs one much, much more than the other, and I’ll give you a hint— it’s not sex. Trust me, even if it feels right in the moment, it won’t later. It’ll feel transactional. That's the worst possible outcome, ‘cause when it comes down to it, there’s always a better deal somewhere else. Give her safety, though, and she’ll always be yours.”

So that’s what I do. I hold her and kiss her and touch her until she’s tired, and then I tuck her into my chest and wait until her breathing evens out to close my own eyes and sleep.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #smut #fluff #angst

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