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#Why are they better together than single?
itneverendshere · 9 hours
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reader maybe having a dad, like jj’s? very manipulative and controlling, sometimes it’s physical. and he comes out unexpected while rafes there
okay so i was planning to write off her parents as dead but this made me change my mind a little, hope you enjoy <3
wash the sins out of that house - r.c
pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)
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The sound of cartoons played low in the background, mixing with the faint clink of a fork against a plate. 
Rafe leaned back against the worn-out couch in your sister’s living room, watching as you flipped pancakes at the kitchen counter. Your sister’s kid, Milo, was glued to your leg, like always, babbling about some superhero show. The smell of breakfast filled the house, making it feel more like home than his own ever did.
Every little thing you did just made him fall more, if that was possible. He was always looking at you like that, like you were some kind of miracle.
It wasn’t just how good you were with Milo or how much you cared about everything and everyone. It was how much weight you carried without ever complaining, how you made everything seem easy even when he knew it wasn’t. You’d been staying here ever since the storm ripped through your house a few months back. 
Your sister was cool. Single mom, strong like you, but in a quieter way. She worked double shifts, and left you to help with Milo most of the time. Not that you ever complained, even after the long shifts, you loved to babysit. You were used to this shit—being the rock. Probably why you hadn’t freaked out when your house got leveled. You just rolled with it, found a place with her sister, and moved on like it was no big deal.
He’d been staying over more and more, crashing on the couch when he was too tired to drive back to Tannyhill. At first, it was just because he wanted to be near you when you couldn’t sleep over at his. But now… it felt like more. Like he could see himself living with you right away.
You glanced over your shoulder, catching him staring like an idiot. “You good?”
“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, leaning forward. “You need help or something?”
You laughed, shaking your head as you flipped another pancake. “You? In the kitchen? That’s rich, baby.”
“Hey, you never complain about my pancakes.”He shot you a grin, but it faded when Milo tugged at your shirt, asking something in that tiny voice of his. 
You crouched down, your voice soft as you reassured him, “Mommy will be back soon, okay? Just a couple more hours.”
You looked so at ease like you’d been raising kids your whole life. It did something to him—watching you like that. This tough, independent woman who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit, just… melting when you talked to Milo.
Rafe swallowed hard, not really knowing what to say. Every time he tried to picture your future together, it got fuzzy. Not because he didn’t want one. He already told you he did. But because he wasn’t sure if he deserved one with you. His life had been a mess half the time.
He’d hurt people. Done things.
But when he was around you, he didn’t feel like that entitled spoiled guy anymore. He felt like someone who could be better. For you.
The front door slammed open, and immediately, something was off. Rafe’s eyes shot from Milo’s cartoons to the guy who’d just staggered in. He could smell the booze before he even saw his face.
Who the hell?
You froze. The spatula in your hand hung mid-air as you stared at this man like you’d seen a ghost. But this wasn’t a ghost. This guy was real, and from the way he was swaying on his feet, he was about to make himself a problem.
“Some fucking daughters y’all are,” the guy slurred, his voice rough and soaked in alcohol. “Not inviting your old man over while he’s in town.”
Your dad? That was your dad?
Rafe’s mind spun. You never talked about your parents and he’d never asked because he wasn’t stupid. He could tell it was a touchy subject, just like his own dad was sometimes, so he never brought it up. He assumed they were gone and you only had your sister. He never imagined this. 
Not once had you mentioned your dad. And now here he was, stumbling through the door like he owned the place.
Rafe shot up from the couch, every muscle in his body tightening. Who the hell did he think he was, barging in here like that? You didn’t say anything right away, but your whole posture changed—your back straight, your pretty face like stone. You looked like you were bracing for something, and he didn’t like that one bit.
“Dad,” you said, flat and cold. “What are you doing here?”
He gave this ugly laugh, a mix of drunk and mean. “What, can’t a father check in on his daughters? Or are you too good for your family now?”
You didn’t even flinch. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there, still as a statue, while Milo clung to your leg, eyes wide, just as confused as Rafe felt.
Rafe stepped forward, putting himself between him and you. He didn’t care if this guy was your dad. He was drunk, stumbling, and saying things no father should be saying to his kid.
“Who the hell are you?” Her dad’s eyes flicked to him, narrowing, like he was sizing me up. “Rich boy? Boyfriend?”
He squared his shoulders, staring him down. “Rafe.”
“Rafe,” he repeated, laughing like it was some kind of joke. “Of course. She’d find herself a rich boyfriend. Always looking for the easy way out, huh?”
He had some fucking nerve walking in here, talking to you like that. Like Rafe was ever going to let someone run you down. He didn’t know anything about your relationship with your parents, but from the look in your eyes and the way you were gripping the edge of the counter, he was starting to get the picture. This wasn’t the first time your dad pulled something like this, clearly.
You grabbed his arm before he could take another step. “Rafe, don’t.”
Your voice was low, almost pleading. Not because you were scared, but because this was deeper than just a drunk guy running his mouth. This was something you’d been dealing with for years, and your boyfriend was just now getting a front-row seat.
Your dad sneered at you. “That’s right. Tell your little boyfriend to back off. You’re not so tough now, are ya? Always thinking you’re better than me. Always looking after your sister’s kid like you’re some kind of hero. But you’re not. You’re just like your mother. Weak.”
That’s when Rafe felt it. That surge of anger, that need to hit something.
No one talked to you ike that. No one.
He could feel his fists clench, chest tightening. He was ready to throw your dad out himself. But your hand tightened on his arm, and he looked at you. Really looked at you. You seemed tired, like you’d been through this a thousand times before, and you didn’t need him to step in. Not right now.
“Let him go,” you said quietly. “He’ll leave when he’s done.”
Rafe didn’t want to back off. Every instinct in him was screaming to throw this piece of shit out on his ass. But something in your voice, something in the way you were looking at him, made him stop. You weren’t asking for help. You were asking him to let it go. For now.
He swallowed the anger and stepped back, though he kept myself between you and your dad. He wasn’t leaving you alone with this guy, no way in hell.
Your dad’s sneer didn’t falter. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He swayed a bit before heading for the door, muttering under his breath. “Ungrateful little—"
The door slammed behind him, leaving the room dead quiet. The kind of quiet that made you realize just how loud things were a minute ago.
You exhaled slowly, like you’d been holding your breath the whole time. You turned back to the counter, flipping the pancake like nothing happened. But Rafe could see the way your hands shook just a little.
He stood there for a second, still running through everything that just went down. He’d never seen you like that before. And he didn’t like what he saw.
“Baby,” he said quietly, stepping closer.
You didn’t look at him. “He does that sometimes. Shows up, drunk, says whatever he feels like saying. Then he leaves. Same thing for as long as I can remember.”
Rafe didn’t know what to say. His mind was racing, trying to wrap around the fact that this was your life. You’d been dealing with that guy for who knows how long, and you never said a word about it.
“That’s not okay,” he said finally, his voice rough. “That’s not normal.”
You sighed, finally turning to face him. “Yeah, well. Now you met the whole family.”
You didn’t know what else to say.
There wasn’t much to say. This was just how things were for you. Your dad was a mess, and you’d learned to deal with it, ignore it even. There was no fixing this. Not really. At this point, it didn't affect you or your daily life that much.
“I should’ve asked,” he said, his voice thick with guilt. “About your family, I mean.”
I shook my head, feeling the weight of it all. “I wouldn’t have told you,” I admitted. “Probably would’ve said he’s dead.”
You didn’t want to be that girl—the one with family baggage so heavy it crushed everything good in your life. You didn’t want Rafe looking at you like I were fragile or damaged. It was bad enough that you were as broke as it got. You’d just gotten used to him wanting to help, to be a little less independent, to let him take care of you and spoil you every once in a while.
This though? You never wanted him to find out. 
But now… he knew. He knew what you came from. And you couldn’t hide it anymore.
“I don’t care,” Rafe said suddenly, breaking the silence. Like he was trying to convince you and himself at the same time. “I don’t care about your dad. I care about you.”
You could feel his eyes burning into you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you kept your focus on the pancakes, the routine keeping you distracted. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how hard you tried to stop it.
“I just… I didn’t want you to see that,” You finally admitted, your voice small and raw in a way you hated. “I didn’t want you to know how messed up everything is.”
Rafe moved closer, his body warmth seeping into your side as he leaned against the counter next to you. He didn’t try to touch you, though, and you were grateful for that. You weren’t ready for that.
Not yet.
“Messed up? Baby, have you met me?” He let out this soft, disbelieving laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it. 
You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes. And there it was—that soft, almost sad look he got sometimes when he thought about his family. About how his mom left and how his dad never really let him in. Ward Cameron was friendly enough with you, and he wasn’t a complete asshole to his son, but he was absent, not really caring about keeping a constant connection with his kids. It hit you then that maybe you two weren’t so different after all.
Maybe that’s why you worked.
But still, the shame stayed. The feeling that now that he really knew you, the ugly parts you kept hidden, he might not stick around. Guys like him didn’t stick with girls like you, right? Despite him doing the exact opposite until know.
“This changes nothing, okay?” he said, his voice softer now, almost like he was trying not to spook me. “Not with me.”
He wasn’t looking at you like he was about to leave. His eyes were steady, clear. He didn’t look freaked out or like he regretted being here. He just looked… real. Like he meant every word.
 “This is a mess, Rafe. You saw it.”
“I don’t care,” he said, like he needed you to hear him. “I don’t care about any of that. None of it changes how I feel about you. I love you.”
You bit your lip, turning your attention back to the pancakes because if you didn’t, you were afraid you might cry. You weren’t the crying type, but after everything, your dad showing up like that, and Rafe not running for the door—it was a lot. Too much, maybe.
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix anything,” you said softly, flipping the last pancake and turning off the stove. “You can’t fix my dad or the way things are. I don’t want you to try.”
“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Rafe said, stepping closer to you now. “I’m just… I’m here. With you. That’s all I want.”
You felt his hand brush against yours, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if you were ready to be touched. But when you didn’t pull away, his fingers laced through yours, and the warmth of it broke through the dread thad settled over you since your dad walked in.
Finally, you turned to face him, and there it was—that look in his eyes again. The one that said you were more than enough, that he saw you, really saw you, and wasn’t running for the hills. You knew him like the plam of your hand now, and he wasn’t bluffing. He never lied to you.
Your heart did this weird thing, like it flipped and dropped all at once. It was still a little scary to hear him say that. Scary because it meant he was sticking around, and as much as you it scared that was exactly what you wanted. For him to stay.
Because you loved him just as much, and you didn’t mind reminding him every day.
Milo broke the silence, tugging at your shirt again. “Is it time for pancakes now?”
You couldn’t help but smile at the innocence in his voice, the way he had no idea what had just gone down. You bent down to scoop him up, holding him close, the warmth of his growing body keeping you sane in the moment.
“Yeah, buddy,” you said softly. “It’s time for pancakes.”
Rafe watched you, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. This is why he knew you’d be a good mom one day. He kept that thought in the back of his mind every day since you gave him the bracelet on his wrist.
The way you picked up Milo and smiled—it calmed him down. The whole scene was so you—taking care of things, keeping it together even when everything around you was a mess.
“Eat up, kiddo,” you said, ruffling his hair as he dug in with way too much syrup. 
Then you glanced at Rafe again, your smile still lingering but more reserved, like you were still processing everything.
Milo was halfway through his second pancake, syrup smeared all over his little face, when he looked up at Rafe with those wide, innocent eyes.
“Hey, Rafey, can we go to the park after this?”
You were clearing the plates from the counter, and Rafe caught the quick glance you shot his way. You had a shift starting in an hour, and Milo probably knew it too, even if he wasn’t saying it.
He leaned back in his chair, wiping a bit of syrup off Milo’s cheek with the corner of a napkin. “The park, huh? What’re you thinking, swings? Slide?”
Milo grinned, syrup dripping down his chin. “Both! And the big jungle gym! You said I was big enough for it now, remember?”
He laughed, remembering the time a couple weeks back when Milo had looked at that massive jungle gym like it was Mount Everest, and Rafe told him he was totally ready to conquer it. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
You shot him a look as you grabbed your bag, ready to head out for your shift. “You sure about this?” you asked.
Rafe waved it off. “Yeah, no problem. Milo and I got this.” He grinned at the kid. “We’re gonna hit the park and maybe even stop for some ice cream after if your mom’s cool with it.”
Milo’s face lit up like Christmas morning, and you laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re spoiling him, baby.”
He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but deep down he liked how easy it felt, like this was where he was supposed to be. “Eh, he deserves it.”
You walked over to where Rafe was still leaning against the counter, and without overthinking it, you leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
“Ewwww!” Milo groaned dramatically, scrunching up his face like he just witnessed the grossest thing ever. “Why do you always gotta kiss him like that?”
You and Rafe both burst out laughing, and Rafe shook his head, ruffling Milo’s hair. “Get used to it, bud,” he said, still smirking. “She’s gonna keep doing that.”
“Not in front of me,” Milo said, still looking completely disgusted but clearly loving the attention. “It’s so gross!”
You grinned and gave Rafe a playful tap on the chest. “Guess we’ll have to start sneaking around now.”
Rafe chuckled, pulling you in for another quick peck. “I can live with that.”
Milo let out an exaggerated groan, dramatically slapping his hands over his eyes. “Ugh! I’m never getting a girlfriend if that’s what you have to do.”
“Good,” you said, shooting him a wink. “No girlfriends until you’re thirty.”
Rafe laughed again, and Milo just sighed, completely over it. “Can we just go to the park now? Please?”
You shook your head, smiling at how easily the moment turned light again. “You two have fun. I’ll see you later.”
You headed out the door, the sound of your nephew still groaning in the background making you smile as you went, promising yourself you’d answer whatever questions Rafe had about your parents, the second you two snuggled up in his bed at night.
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callsign-muffin · 1 day
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Heal Together: Chapter 6
(Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw fic)
Sorry this chapter took much longer than usual. I wasn't sure if I wanted to share this on the page but y'all might already know... I'm a nurse. So my schedule is nice because I only work 3 days or nights a week but... sometimes those days/nights knock me on my ass. This week was no exception.
I really appreciate every single person who has liked, reblogged, and commented on my work. It means EVERYTHING to me. I hope you all enjoy this part!
Masterlist + Playlist
Word Count: 2.2k+
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You had been flipped to nights this week and your body was suffering from the sudden change to your circadian rhythm. You and Carly walked to the parking garage in exhausted silence together as the sun rose over the hospital. It was a hard night to say the least, you both were assigned to unstable elderly patients that seemed to be circling the drain. It almost felt cruel to keep them from dying peacefully because there was no way they were ever going to get better. The life sustaining care you were forced to give was just prolonging the inevitable. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, Bradley tried to text you when he woke up at 5am for work to ask how your shift was going. You quickly responded that it was crazy and that you couldn’t talk until you got off at 7:30.
Bradley Bradshaw: Please tell me you’re out of there and able to see this incredible sun rise
You: I am, thank God! I love San Diego sunrises
“Who’s that?” Carly peered over at your phone and saw the name, “Oh my god! He’s checking in on you post shift?!”
You rolled your eyes, “It’s his second time checking in on me, he texted me when he got up earlier but I said things were too crazy on the unit to talk.”
“What happened between you two then?” She asked, “You said he didn’t stay the night or anything.”
You knew she was going to ask for more information soon enough. You two were on your feet caring for your patients all night so there was no time to catch up at the nurse’s station. “He didn’t. But we hung out for a while, talked, drank a lot of wine, and he couldn’t drive himself home. So he took an Uber and then took me to brunch when he came to pick up his car.”
“He didn’t kiss you?” She asked.
You shook your head, “Nope, didn’t after brunch either.”
“Huh,” she looked puzzled, “He’s obviously so into you, we could all see it at the bar. And he took you out on a date. And he’s texting you first thing when he wakes up… he obviously likes you. Why hasn’t he kissed you?!?!”
You shrugged, “I mean, maybe he isn’t and he just wants to be friends. I also feel like dating a former patient probably breaks some kind of nursing ethics code.”
It was something that occurred to you after brunch with Bradley the day before, the possibility of this flirtation messing with your professional life.
Carly’s face dropped when the two of you stopped at your car, “Oh my god… I hadn’t even thought of that.”
You shifted your weight uncomfortably, “Yeah… so I’ve gotta ask you and I’d like you to pass it on to Madi and Sam too, not to discuss Saturday or my… friendship with Bradley at work.”
She nodded, “Of course, I’m sorry I even brought it up briefly when we got on the unit last night.”
“It’s okay, no one was around to hear. I’m just not very well liked by the senior nurses and some of the providers. I just don’t want to give them something to talk about, you know?” You explained.
“Absolutely. When is your contract up?” She asked.
“4 weeks, they asked me to extend though.” You rubbed your eyes, desperately trying to stay awake.
“Are you gonna do it? Or is it too early in the morning to talk about this?” She giggled.
You nodded, “Bingo. Let’s leave this as ‘to be continued’.”
“Alright, get home safe.” She waved you off and headed towards her car a few spots away. 
Once in your Toyota Corolla and buckled, you blasted loud music and freezing cold AC to keep you awake and alert on your commute home. Once there you peaked at your phone.
Bradley Bradshaw: Now that you’ve enjoyed the sunrise, you gotta get your ass to bed.
You: Yes sir, I’ll be out of commission until 1500 hours.
When you arrived home, you looked at your phone again to see Bradley replied with the saluting emoji. You dragged yourself out of the car and up to your apartment, in front of your door was a plastic takeout bag. The parcel was still warm when you picked it up, it was clearly left there just minutes ago. You blinked through your exhausted blurry vision and saw a note typed in the comments on the receipt… it was from the same place you had brunch with Bradley two days before.
“After working through the night, you deserve a true Californian breakfast and a nap. —Bradshaw”
This may be one of the most thoughtful things anyone had done for you in a while. You were so exhausted, you didn’t realize how hungry you were until you caught a whiff of the parcel. When you entered your apartment, you threw your bag down and went straight to the kitchen. You opened the bag to find a breakfast burrito neatly wrapped in aluminum foil, Bradley’s go to menu item. Maybe it was because of the surprise of it waiting for you at the door or because you were absolutely starving, but that thing tasted better than sex. You started your post night shift ritual with a shower. After brushing your teeth, doing your skin care, and changing into comfy clothes, you drew the black out curtains in your room, turned on the sound machine, and set an alarm for 2pm before popping a melatonin gummy. After many years as a nurse and often flipping between days and nights, you had this sleep ritual down to an absolute science.
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Y/N <3: thank you so much for breakfast. That may be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.
Rooster’s heart fluttered when the message flashed across his phone around 8AM. The Dagger Squad had just finished running a drill that ended with 200 push ups. That small rush made him forget how his muscles were screaming at him. He went to reply and saw the “do not disturb” icon was on. He was so glad since that meant you were most likely sleeping. So he left a reply for you to wake up to.
Bradley: I’m glad it came just in time! Hope you’re taking the best nap ever :)
“Is that sexy nurse?” Natasha inquired as she peered over his shoulder.
Rooster rolled his eyes, “Phoenix, she has a name… and that’s none of your business.”
“So yes,” she smirked, “you are texting her.”
“I’m replying to her,” he corrected, “she worked all night last night and is on again tonight. So she won’t get it until she wakes up.”
She stood on her tip toes to get a better look at the screen, “You sent her breakfast?!?!”
Bradley was not loving this line of questioning but he knew he had to answer or Phoenix would never lay off, “I sent UberEats for her to come home too.”
“You are down bad, my friend.” She shook her head.
“Am not.” He quipped back.
“ Are too!” She shoved him.
“That’s not fair Phoenix, just cause you’re one of the boys doesn’t mean I’ll stoop low enough to shove a woman.” He groaned.
She chuckled, “You’re just scared to get your shit rocked, Bradshaw.”
Hangman suddenly appeared beside Phoenix, skillfully placing her in a headlock. “Is this little lady giving you trouble, Rooster?”
She squirmed and screamed, “Hangman, I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
“Ya know Phoenix,” he sighed, “Forever the bully.”
Phoenix reached over and Hangman a firm tap in the junk, causing him to jump and release her.
Rooster couldn’t help but smile as the two of them fought like siblings.
“I was asking him about the hot nurse from the other night.” She explained, “He’s texting her and sent breakfast to her place for her to come home to after work.”
Hangman’s face lit up, “Bradley, Bradley, Bradley… I never thought I’d see the day. You’re courtin’ a fine lady.”
Bradley rolled his eyes, “Courting is a strong word. I’m showing her that I’m… kinda interested.”
Hangman and Phoenix gave each other knowing looks.
Natasha nodded, “Uh huh, yeah. Sureeeeee.”
2pm rolled around and Bradley was wrapping up his work day on base.
Y/N <3: Not the best nap ever but pretty damn good. I’m gonna walk on the beach and get some sunshine before it’s back to the dungeon for the night. What are you up to for the rest of the day?
Should he shoot his shot? She wouldn’t keep engaging with him if she wasn’t at least a little interested, right?
Bradley: Joining you for a walk on the beach if you’ll allow it.
Y/N <3: I would love that. What time can you be at my place?
This was good. This was really good. She’s invited him back to her place. 
Bradley: I gotta change out of my uniform and stuff, how does 3 sound?
Y/N <3: Perfect, I’ll see you soon :)
Rooster had an extra skip in his step as he packed up his things, grateful for the 6am start allowing his work day to have an early finish. Once in his Bronco, he sped home to change into some casual clothes. He decided to really shake it up and not wear his usual Hawaiian shirt and jeans combo. A UVA t-shirt and some gym shorts seemed a lot more appropriate for a casual beach walk. Bradley really couldn’t believe he was putting that much thought into what he wore for something so casual. 
When he walked up to her door he could hear music through it. Whatever Y/N was listening to, she was clearly jamming. When he knocked, she quickly called out, “It’s open!”. He got a better listen to the music once the door was open, it was high energy with a… saxophone? It was kind of lit.
“What is this?” Bradley asked, “It’s awesome!”
“Modern Woman by Bleachers,” she entered the living room wearing a similar outfit to his, a university t-shirt and gym shorts, “Isn’t it great? Kinda gives me Springsteen vibes.”
He paused and listened a little more, “Yes, that’s spot on!”
“Let me just make sure I have my life together for work, so I can just change and leave later.” She said, heading toward the kitchen.
He took another good look at her as she took her lunchbox, water bottle, and an energy drink from the fridge and set it out on the counter. Fresh faced from her nap, hair in a bun, shorts and a t-shirt… he had never seen anything more beautiful.
Y/N paused for a moment and looked over at Rooster, “Is everything okay? Do I have something on my face?”  
He shook his head, “Yes, everything’s great… you look great.”
She smiled shyly and continued her task, “Thank you, Bradley… are you ready to head to the beach?”
“Hell yeah,” he asked, “which beach are we headed to?”
“Nothing fancy, just the beach a few blocks away.” She shrugged, “Hope you don’t mind tagging along on my normal, boring jaunt.”
He shook his head, “Y/N, nothing with you could be boring. I’d have fun watching paint dry.”
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The two of you walked along the shoreline; the waves ebbed and flowed across the sand and towards your feet. The wind whipped across your face and through your hair, making it dance wildly. Bradley looked so handsome beside you, you couldn’t help but stare and hope that maybe it would be less obvious since you had sunglasses on.
“I should start doing this more, it’s much more pleasant than running.” He chuckled to himself, “It’s so peaceful.”
You giggled, “Drinking bleach is more pleasant than running, in my opinion.”
“You’re not a runner?” He asked.
“Not unless something’s chasing me.” You quipped.
A smirk slowly crept across Bradley’s face. You weren’t exactly sure what was going through his head but you felt the sudden urge to start sprinting. Next thing you knew he was hot on your heels and you couldn’t help but giggle breathlessly, running on sand was so freaking hard! Two strong arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you off your feet with ease.
“BRADSHAW!!!” You cried out through your giggles, leaning your head back on his shoulder behind you.
His face burrowed into your neck, “You say you’re not a runner but you’re pretty speedy.”
You turned your head to look at him, nose to nose, still giggling breathlessly.
“You’re so beautiful.” He said simply.
It was like two magnets, your lips crashed into his, there was no force that could stop it. Once you realized what you did, you quickly pulled away, “I’m so sorry.”
He placed you gently back on your feet, “Y/N, the only thing you owe me an apology for is stopping.”
Your stomach fluttered, “Soooo… you wanna do it again?”
“Kiss me, you fool.” He chuckled, grabbing you by the cheeks and stroking them sweetly with his thumb.
You stepped closer so you two were chest to chest and gently brushed your lips against his. With a jolt of pure electricity, you pressed deeper into his kiss. It wasn’t until this moment, when you tasted his lips, that you realized how fucking starving you were.
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literaryvein-reblogs · 15 hours
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Virginia Woolf: On Words
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Listen to the only surviving recording of Virginia Woolf’s voice.
A transcript of Woolf’s broadcast, ‘On Craftsmanship’, BBC, 29 April 1937.
Words, English words, are full of echoes, of memories, of associations.
They have been out and about, on people’s lips, in their houses, in the streets, in the fields, for so many centuries.
And that is one of the chief difficulties in writing them today — that they are stored with meanings, with memories, that they have contracted so many famous marriages in the past.
The splendid word ‘incarnadine’, for example — who can use it without remembering also ‘multitudinous seas’?
In the old days, of course, when English was a new language, writers could invent new words and use them.
Nowadays it is easy enough to invent new words — they spring to the lips whenever we see a new sight or feel a new sensation — but we cannot use them because the English language is old.
You cannot use a brand new word in an old language because of the very obvious yet always mysterious fact that a word is not a single and separate entity, but is part of other words.
Indeed it is not a word until it is part of a sentence.
Words belong to each other, although, of course, only a great poet knows that the word ‘incarnadine’ belongs to ‘multitudinous seas’.
To combine new words with old words is fatal to the constitution of the sentence. In order to use new words properly you would have to invent a whole new language; and that, though no doubt we shall come to it, is not at the moment our business.
Our business is to see what we can do with the old English language as it is.
How can we combine the old words in new orders so that they survive, so that they create beauty, so that they tell the truth?
That is the question.
And the person who could answer that question would deserve whatever crown of glory the world has to offer.
Think what it would mean if you could teach, or if you could learn, the art of writing.
Why, every book, every newspaper would tell the truth, or would create beauty.
But there is, it would appear, some obstacle in the way, some hindrance to the teaching of words.
For though at this moment at least a hundred professors are lecturing the literature of the past, at least a thousand critics are reviewing the literature of the present, and hundreds upon hundreds of young men and women are passing examinations in English literature with the utmost credit, still — do we write better, do we read better than we read and wrote four hundred years ago when we were unlectured, uncriticised, untaught?
Is our modern Georgian literature a patch on the Elizabethan?
Well, where are we to lay the blame?
Not on our professors; not on our reviewers; not on our writers; but on words.
It is words that are to blame. They are the wildest, freest, most irresponsible, most unteachable of all things.
Of course, you can catch them and sort them and place them in alphabetical order in dictionaries.
But words do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind.
If you want proof of this, consider how often in moments of emotion when we most need words we find none.
Yet there is the dictionary; there at our disposal are some half-a-million words all in alphabetical order.
But can we use them? No, because words do not live in dictionaries, they live in the mind.
Look once more at the dictionary.
There beyond a doubt lie plays more splendid than Antony and Cleopatra; poems more lovely than the Ode to a Nightingale; novels beside which Pride and Prejudice or David Copperfield are the crude bunglings of amateurs.
It is only a question of finding the right words and putting them in the right order.
But we cannot do it because they do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind. And how do they live in the mind?
Variously and strangely, much as human beings live, by ranging hither and thither, falling in love, and mating together.
It is true that they are much less bound by ceremony and convention than we are.
Royal words mate with commoners. English words marry French words, German words, Indian words, Negro words, if they have a fancy.
Indeed, the less we enquire into the past of our dear Mother English the better it will be for that lady’s reputation. For she has gone a-roving, a-roving fair maid.
Thus to lay down any laws for such irreclaimable vagabonds is worse than useless. A few trifling rules of grammar and spelling are all the constraint we can put on [words].
All we can say about them, as we peer at them over the edge of that deep, dark and only fitfully illuminated cavern in which they live — the mind — all we can say about them is that [words] seem to like people to think before they use them, and to feel before they use them, but to think and to feel not about them, but about something different.
They are highly sensitive, easily made self-conscious.
They do not like to have their purity or their impurity discussed.
If you start a Society for Pure English, they will show their resentment by starting another for Impure English — hence the unnatural violence of much modern speech; it is a protest against the puritans.
They are highly democratic, too; they believe that one word is as good as another; uneducated words are as good as educated words, uncultivated words as cultivated words, there are no ranks or titles in their society.
Nor do they like being lifted out on the point of a pen and examined separately.
They hang together, in sentences, in paragraphs, sometimes for whole pages at a time.
They hate being useful; they hate making money; they hate being lectured about in public.
In short, they hate anything that stamps them with one meaning or confines them to one attitude, for it is their nature to change.
Perhaps that is their most striking peculiarity — their need of change.
It is because the truth [words] try to catch is many-sided, and they convey it by being themselves many-sided, flashing first this way, then that. Thus they mean one thing to one person, another thing to another person; they are unintelligible to one generation, plain as a pikestaff to the next. And it is because of this complexity that they survive.
Perhaps then one reason why we have no great poet, novelist or critic writing to-day is that we refuse words their liberty.
We pin them down to one meaning, their useful meaning, the meaning which makes us catch the train, the meaning which makes us pass the examination.
And when words are pinned down they fold their wings and die.
Finally, and most emphatically, words, like ourselves, in order to live at their ease, need privacy.
Undoubtedly they like us to think, and they like us to feel, before we use them; but they also like us to pause; to become unconscious.
Our unconsciousness is their privacy; our darkness is their light...
That pause was made, that veil of darkness was dropped, to tempt words to come together in one of those swift marriages which are perfect images and create everlasting beauty.
But no — nothing of that sort is going to happen to-night.
The little wretches are out of temper; disobliging; disobedient; dumb. What is it that they are muttering? ‘Time’s up! Silence!’'
Source
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suncchaser · 13 hours
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I am so done with this situation and I feel like addressing it.
Jegulus shippers not only mistag posts, but have now started tagging their anti-Jily bullshit posts under the Jily tag and forcing the rest of us to read that shit and I am done with it.
How dare you go on the tag of a ship to rant about how they don't make sense to you when you have an entire account dedicated to a crackship with no canon basis between two characters who would never look twice at one another? "She hated him, she couldn't have changed her mind." Well, she did not and why she did was clearly explained in the books, so maybe read before you comment idiotic things. The breakdown of her friendship with Snape and James’ change of attitude and them becoming Head Boy and Head Girl together are the reason. Also, keep your fake love for Lily to yourselves because no one's buying it. You love Lily so much and yet, 90% of Lily-centred content is still coming from Jily shippers, you know, the people who you claim give her no personality outside of being James' wife and Harry's mother. While in Jegulus content, she's either treated as a surrogate or James' second choice or in a barely mentioned w/w with any random character you decide to pair her with. Also, if James is so horrible to the point you claim she deserves better than him how come you have entire accounts dedicated to him and a ship involving him? James is perfect for your darling boy Reggie but a terrible partner for Lily?
Also, I really do not give a single fuck if you don't want to ship Jily because boo hoo, Jily shippers are so mean to you. No one is ruining your online experience, no one is not allowing you to have fun. YOU ARE THE ONES DOING THAT TO EVERYONE ELSE. With constant mistagging to gain traction on your posts, literally invading every character/ship tags with your bullshit, constantly commenting under Jily content begging for Jegulus versions of it or inserting Jegulus/Regulus. There is a reason why most people who do not ship Jegulus do not like you. It's not jealousy or a big conspiracy. Most of you are just delusional and very fucking annoying.
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So I’ve been trying to pick up more romance books/movies as research for my own writing, as well as expending my horizons in general, and I’m starting to reach the conclusion that I am in fact not just a hater, a lot of romance is not well written.
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crybaby-bkg · 1 year
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cw: you two have a son together, mention of being married, old man Bakugou
older retired pro hero Bakugou, who you find hunched over his desk one night. it’s late and the day was long and your son was whinier than he usually is. you’d think the old man would be in bed right now, but alas—he’s not beside you.
instead, as you round the corner to get a full look at him, he’s wearing his reading glasses, adorning an old ratty tank, his arms still big but softer than the years from before. he has a book open in front of him, desk scattered with pictures you can’t see from your angle, scissors, stickers, glue sticks.
“What are you getting up to at this hour, old man?” You ask softly, smiling when Bakugou doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. his tongue is sticking out in the corner as he cuts a squiggly line on a picture, posing it beside another on a blank piece of paper.
“Therapist said I should get into crafting,” he grunts, finally looking over at you from over his glasses. “Do things with my hands, feel busy, get my mind off’a shit.”
you pad over to where he sits, the overhead lamp on his desk focused on the big baby blue book with white pages. peeking over his shoulder, you rest your head on top of his, chin nestled in the still unruly blond and silver locks, overseeing his work.
and honestly? it almost makes you wanna cry. it’s a scrapbook, the page open to pictures of your wedding day, how pretty you looked, how big he smiled at you. you can see other scattered pictures on his desk—when you got a promotion at work, when he was number one for seven months in a row, a positive pregnancy test, the cutest baby you’ve ever seen, two little teeth coming in, baby being held in dads big ole arms that will always protect him.
“After this page, I gotta do the honeymoon.” Bakugou speaks gruffly, setting down a picture to wipe a hand down his face. “And then life accomplishment shit, the baby, his first steps.” He sounds so tired, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around his shoulders, sliding down to smush your face against his own.
“You always have tomorrow. Come to bed.” You say against his cheek, squeezing him when you feel the rejection start up in his belly. But he deflates, pulling his glasses off, reaching around to pull you in his lap. He looks so grumpy, with his frown lines and crows feet, and yet so handsome with his small smile and soft eyes.
“I’ll print more pictures tomorrow. And maybe go by the store to get some more stickers, too.” He tells you in between kisses, his words soft, his hands rough through your pajamas. You hum against his mouth, holding his nape, afraid to ever let him go.
“You do that. Now let’s go to bed.” You whisper, standing up and pulling him with you. He closes the scrapbook for now, and you glimpse at the cover, heart melting at the picture of you two holding up your son, both kissing his cheeks. The picture is captioned with “Our Life” and you don’t think you’ve ever been more grateful to have met him.
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sciderman · 5 months
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Sometimes i remember a comics moment i randomly came across somewhere, where Sam Wilson mentiones a musical and Steve Rodgers says he doesn't like musicals, to whitch Sam goes "Guess that means you really are straight" and even tho i don't care about Cap America or the Avengers, the moment stuck in me for that quote by Sam. And like....Sci, any ideas if straight men actually don't like musicals or is that bullshit?
actually i think i know more gay men who hate musicals than i know straight men who hate musicals. i've had a drag queen stop me point blank when i was about to sing a barbra streisand song, and i know so many gays who pointedly hate abba. so based on my experience i think the inverse is true. most of the straight men i know are kind of impartial about musicals, but gay men? hate.
my theory is that a lot of gay men don't want to fall into stereotypes, maybe. but thaaaaat's just a theory! a gay theory.
#sci speaks#i'm trying to understand the gays. they are a mystery to me.#i've seen a lot more toxic masculinity coming from gay men than i have from straight men.#i think it makes sense. they have less women in their lives. so they reckon with a lot more masculinity. more dick measuring.#also gay men have some of THE most unhealthy romantic relationships i've ever seen in my life.#this isn't a blanket statement on everyone but just from what i've seen. it's such a strange pattern i've observed.#lesbians? healthy. straights? usually healthy. gay men? universally a tire fire that makes me say “if you hate each other so much ??”#“why are you together??????????”#i have never met a cis gay mlm couple in real life that was healthy. every single one of them made my eyes widen in horror.#i want them to be healthy. please treat each other better.#the number of bitchy bitchy fights i've seen between mlm couples in public that make me so terrified#but i know mlm relationships in general are usually less... affectionate than wlw relationships. even and especially friendships.#just an observation.#i hate to say that there is a definite difference between amab vs afab experiences when it comes to relationship dynamics but.#of course there is. there is. as much as i want to say gender and sex do not matter. it really does.#it makes a difference. it does.#which is kind of why i'm glad i was born in the body i was. when people say “trans means you feel you were born in the wrong body”#im like.. i don't think that's true. i don't think that's true for me.#i wouldn't be me if i wasn't born the way i was. and i want to be me. but i'm a boy. i'm a boy but in the body that i have.#my body is still a boy's body. because i live in here.#sorry this went off on a tangent.#but yeah i know my brain would be different if i was amab. and i don't want all those other issues.#i think the only reason i'm so peaceful and serene is because i'm afab. and afabulous.#i see cis guys and im like.. yeah i don't want what you got.#once again! lucky to be me! i'm lucky. im lucky i have a vargooba. thank fuck for that!#couldve been so much worse off. could've been born with a dick and would be fighting for my life right now.
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juliareed · 5 days
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Tell me how does it feel When your heart grows cold? How does it feel? How should I feel? Tell me how does it feel To treat me like you do?
#aliasedit#alias#irina derevko#julian sark#userthing#irina x sark#irina x khasinau#isplus#myedit#that sark/khasinau gif... the pure hatred in khasinau's eyes... INSANE.#khasinau feeling threatened by a 20 year old will NEVER not be funny. i mean he was right. he was literally right. right about everything.#he knew that irina was planning on killing him and that sark was counting on her to do it. knew that sark was on his way to replacing him.#knew that irina and sark were already making plans together - plans that did not involve him in any way.#and it's insane to think about how he probably watched sark grow up. probably knew him as a child.#probably didn't take him seriously - didn't see him as a threat - until it was too late.#and after he realized what was happening - he also realized how many chances he had to put a stop to it.#and how it wouldn't have mattered anyway. killing sark in his sleep when he was ten years old wouldn't have fixed anything.#irina would've just started all over again with someone else. because she had always intended to replace him with someone younger.#with someone who had no life before her. with someone EASILY impressed EASILY manipulated EASILY led.#the reason why she'd choose sark over khasinau - khasinau who she first met when she was eighteen;#khasinau who was her superior back at the kgb; who followed her into the criminal world;#who chose her over his past over his family over his country over every single person in his life;#who stayed by her side in her shadow now content with following HER orders -#the ONLY reason the ONLY explanation possible is that she was there to follow sark's progress from the very beginning.#she was there when he saw a gun for the first time in his life. and she was there when he first killed someone.#she was there every step of the way. and she knows him better than he knows himself.#and she'd choose sark over khasinau because khasinau knows what it's like to have power over her. what it's like to use power over her.#and putting him in a situation where he might be tempted to again is unacceptable. he might remember what it's like - to have freedom.#sark believes he owes everything to her - surrendering to the cia when it's sark on the outside is a better option.#like who would you choose. someone you made from clay all by yourself or someone who controlled your life when you were eighteen.
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un-pearable · 11 months
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illadvisedly been reading LU fic again and boy has the fic scene only gotten weirder about the leader thing
#the core conceit is that these are all singularly competent and accomplished heroes#awkwardly forced to work together and collaborate#the whole idea that time is ~ obviously the leader ~ is such boring nonsense#like Yeah i can see why it would shake out that way in the comic but in these fics people straight up take it as far as time outright orderi#ordering people around and being honestly mean. and it’s written off as ‘well obviously they’d all listen to him’#and like. okay for 1) with the exclusion of four all of these guys did their adventures independently. ft. fun sidekicks sure but they are#incredibly skilled individual fighters and experienced travelers#2) uh. nothing about time other than him arbitrarily being the oldest (bc jojo thought it would be more interesting - he never appears at#this age in canon) would make him an inherently better leader. he isn’t even the most experienced out of any of them#NOTORIOUSLY the hero of time is one of the youngest and wrapped up his heroism by the age of 12#if anything either warriors or four would be the best to formally lead (literal military captain and Guy Who’s Whole Adventure Was About#Teamwork). and 3) i don’t even really care about any of 2 i just think they don’t NEED a single leader like this much less that they would#pick one. they’re all stubborn little shits. they’ve got there little cliches and generally all like each other but fundamentally links are#just. not the type to fall in line in a hierarchy.#the best take on the leader problem in fic is usually ‘yeah whoever’s world this is is in charge to get us somewhere safe 👍’ and like#group consensus. i Get the level of respect time gets as ‘leader’ in the comic but fic wayyyyy over extends it (as a result of the scope#being bonkers bigger) but sincerely i think it’s incredibly stupid and ooc to write them as falling in line behind a Single Guy regardless#of which guy it is. and let’s be real it’s only time bc ocarina of time is the single most influential zelda game#idk. jay’s LUposting while halfway through an assignment again 👍#text✨#admittedly yes you do need someone to make Final Decisions on things. that is not the way most fics write time though#(to his and EVERYONE ELSE’S detriment. stop making people boring. let them fight about what they’re going to do more. time would be waymore)#interesting if people actually address the whole ‘he’s the oldest so he’s in charge’ thing as it really is: everyone mistaking him for Super#Skilled And Talented when he’s spent the 30 years since he killed ganon farming in the middle of nowhere. and he’s just like haha yeah sure!#i definitely know how to coordinate 9 fighters with distinct fighting styles ! i can do that! <- guy who sends his wife on market trips bc#he grew up in a forest of like 5 total children and still thinks normal human adults are weird
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thefinalwitness · 9 months
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thinking about shtolaiha fencing lessons this fine 1:33am on a saturday..... u know how it is............
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hecksupremechips · 1 year
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Listen I don’t really care about this play anymore and I haven’t interacted with it in ages but in Be More Chill I think Jeremy and Christine were good together and I won’t STAND for everyone in that fandom trying to convince me otherwise!!!!!
#the klock keeps ticking#ive. held onto this for a long time 👉👈#and i may be biased cuz christine was the only character i gave a shit about BUT#i stand by my opinion#i think it was refreshing too cuz in a lot of teen trash stories your generic guy protagonist has a crush on a girl#and shes pretty much always the generic popular girl or his generic childhood friend girl#but bmc was like ‘yeah so this guy is in love with this theater girl whos just really fucking weird and has autism swag’#which i adore we need more of that shit#and like i know WHY ppl hated them together because ppl hate female characters#especially ones that get in the way of THE SHIP BETWEEN TWO MALE CHARACTERS UWAAAAA#i was always of the opinion that michael was gay and he could do better than jeremy#like damn maybe a guy can be gay and single but ppl dont actually want gay characters#they want ships to fawn over#and then the Feminist™️ fans were like ‘i dont hate christine owo heres art of her being SUPPORTIVE of the REAL PAIRING the BOYS’#‘i headcanon her as pansexual so see im not misogynistic see i ship her with a female character she didnt even interact with see!!!’#‘im totally not doing this cuz i cant stand the idea that this harmless female character stands in the way of the male characters i woobify’#which hnnghh all this can segue into a rant i have about musical fans knowing nothing about the source material and therefore being sooo#incorrect in their interpretation of the shows they claim to enjoy#because i know none of these hoes gave a single fuck about anything that happened in this fucking teen trash play i KNOW they didnt#but aaaaaa later#anyways i dont stand for christine slander shes all i have left in this cruel world 😤😤😤
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prototypelq · 28 days
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Bioregionalism is such a fascinating idea. Is it idealistic? Absolutely, but I can dream about whatever I want to, and I'd really love to see this implemented.
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mechaseraph · 1 month
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Experiencing such intense Ryuki feelings right now, it really feels like I walked into start of the stormy sea. And I am still at ep 44😭and there's 6 to go and Kogami and me agreed to watch final together. You know, nothing beats exploding together with your bestie over piece of media
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dredshirtroberts · 6 months
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alright well. if i don't hear from grandma and grandpa by the end of the day, i might try and call them tomorrow (oh heeeyy easterrrr yeah happy that thing i don't celebrate anymore.... hope yours is good soooo did you see that i sent a text message ysterday about an email i sent 2 weeks ago? did you get either or those or.....?) but like.
i'm just so tired of having to deal with my fucking biofam.
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botchallthethings · 6 months
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fascinating how very many people are complaining about how a singles yarn isn't good for socks. I blame the manufacturer for putting nylon in it and advertising it as a sock yarn.
it has one ply! why did you think it would be good for socks??? aka about the most hard-wearing piece of clothing possible??
the knitters book of socks has ruined me
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joelsgoldrush · 13 days
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“NEVER IS A PROMISE” | 12.4k
old man!logan x fem!reader
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SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.
WARNINGS/TAGS: smut - mdni 18+ mentions of drinking, angst, some fluff, old man!logan x caregiver!reader, implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties), miscommunication, slow burn, pining, reader is shorter than logan and has long hair, charles in his cupid era, petnames, minor injuries, wound tending, mentions of blood, virgin!reader, dirty talk, cum shot, fingering, handjobs, oral sex (m receiving), loving sex, sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?), unprotected p in v
A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)
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No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 
“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”
Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”
“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”
“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 
“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet,” he hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.
His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”
Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”
Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.
That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”
Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.
He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”
You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."
Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” he reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them,” he relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."
“Damn,” you blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.
He leans back with a satisfied grin. "That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy."
"Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though,” you stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”
“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he ponders, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”
At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize. Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices, but says nothing in return.
It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on. The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.
Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.
What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere. In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—
Alright. You don’t need this either.
Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life. But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.
“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”
“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.
You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.
When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”
“Don’t say that,” you squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different,” you place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”
He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”
“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” you rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.
After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support. You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”
If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”
“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”
“You fancy him, don’t you?”
Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”
His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”
“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe,” you glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”
“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” his voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 
That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.
“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”
These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.
“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I,” you stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”
Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him. You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.
You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry. You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat.
Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread. Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.
“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”
You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.
Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.
“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Huh?”
“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”
The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.
“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”
Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”
“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.
When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.
Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.
It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers. As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.
And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.
He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.
It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.
Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.
You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.
Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.
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To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.
The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present. Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.
It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips. Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.
During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.
One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby,” he pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”
His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order. While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest. Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.
An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation. Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.
“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”
“How about with a kiss, huh?” he inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot. As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”
“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”
The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine. Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.
There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.
“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.
Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”
“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”
“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”
The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.
“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”
He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.
You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.
The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—
Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs. The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 
You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was the Wolverine. The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.
“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.
You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.
Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.
He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow. Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.
“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.
Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself. The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.
Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”
“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.
Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. A flush of crimson crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.
“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”
Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 
Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”
“Ninety-somethin’.”
You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”
“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”
And so began a new chapter in your life. The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence. Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.
“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening’,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.
“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”
“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”
Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.
Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your warm breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night. The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.
There goes another piece of you.
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You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.
He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto. On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite. But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.
Logan hasn’t come back home yet.
It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.
You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.
After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides. All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?
Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.
He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower. Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”
“They were following’ me. Had been doing’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.
“Did you kill them?“ you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.
Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”
You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.
“I thought—I was so scared, and I—“ your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—“
He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”
“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 
“I don’t—“
”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”
He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks. Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.
“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 
“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.
Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—“
You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”
“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.
“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface. Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”
You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind. Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.
That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”
If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 
He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.
It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored. You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.
“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 
Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”
You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you can’t quite put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”
“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.
Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.
You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.
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You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented. Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.
Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.
Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.
“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”
You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.
“Was it a nightmare?“ you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.
Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 
“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early,” you stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” you prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.
He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”
So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.
Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.
You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” you decide to ask him, straightening your back.
“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”
“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.
“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.
“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”
His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”
“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” you pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected. Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know. “When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”
Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.
“You never had a boyfriend?” he gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.
A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.
“How could they not want you?”
“They didn’t think like you do.”
“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”
Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”
There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”
You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”
“Come sit with me, doll.”
Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him. Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours. You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.
His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.
“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.
This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.
“I asked you something,” his teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.
“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.
“Why?”
Goddamn.
“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”
Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down,” you obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side. He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”
You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—
With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips. “So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” he edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”
It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”
“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt. Logan’s on the verge of drooling over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”
“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”
“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”
“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath. A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”
The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”
You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm. The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.
Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”
A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples. “It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.
“Just nice?” one of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”
“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” you can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this. Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”
He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”
It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.
“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 
“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God,” he slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”
“In a minute,” he begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.
Tears threaten to well in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”
“I can tell,” he curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, pretty girl. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”
Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax. Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily. You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.
“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”
Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.
“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”
Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest. He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.
“Like what?” 
“Like you want to see right through me,” he adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.
I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.
You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 
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Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.
You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.
He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 
You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.
“Good,” he looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.
This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog. Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.
Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 
“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 
As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him. “That lie’s older than me,” he slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. I gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”
Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.
By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.
Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise—you hate how determined he is. 
“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 
“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”
“How did you get this one?” you trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.
He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” he laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”
“Did it hurt?” it’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.
His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him. You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.
You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.
Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”
So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you. Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization.
“He looks happier, doesn’t he?” the old man says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 
“Logan, you mean?”
“Yes, my dear.”
You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”
“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”
Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“
“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 
A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.
One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.
“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”
There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”
Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.
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A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”
Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school. You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 
“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”
Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.
Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home. He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.
“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.
“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”
Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.
You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”
Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head. Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.
So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.
“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”
Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”
“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.
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How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?
Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.
It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.
Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”
“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent. You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.
When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up. But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.
You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever. He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.
And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.
This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps. You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.
After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?
I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.
The shit I’d for you.
God, I fuckin’ love you.
Not now.
The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts. It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.
But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.
Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?
Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.
Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.
“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.
As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.
“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”
Red. You’re seeing red.
“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”
At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”
“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—” before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.
There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake. His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.
“What where you doing with my phone?” it’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm. Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you something. Why did you answer?”
“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.
“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”
The nerve of this man.
“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?” you search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”
“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”
“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan,” you throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.
“And you are testing mine,” you rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”
Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”
“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”
“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”
Oh.
You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.
Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?
“Then why do you keep running?” you edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”
His arms surrounding your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.
You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place. Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.
This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.
“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”
You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”
“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”
“Don’t you dare say that,” you retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”
His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best,” he presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”
Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”
Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.
Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually. The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.
He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 
“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”
“I’m all ears.”
Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to,” you cup his cheeks, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”
If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room. Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.
You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you,” trailing his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”
Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.
He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine,” his tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”
At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.
It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you. You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.
For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 
Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughing?”
“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”
As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts. He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 
Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.
“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”
His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.
With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?
When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge. “That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”
Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.
Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound. You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 
Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.
“So this is what it feels like,” his voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing, baby. I was just thinking aloud.”
You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.
This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.
And God, is he feeling it.
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dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)
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