#also something that plays into it for me is trying to use positive thinking and approach subjects without bias

[abeautifullittlefoooool]

it's a goddamn blaze in the dark, and you started it

summary: you hated the idea, and they promised not to, but when they did anyway, you couldn't stay out of it

pairing: Johnny Sinclair x reader

contains/warnings: swearing, reader being a hypocrite, not proofread by anyone but me, all the I'm no expert writer disclaimers

a/n: I can't stop thinking about how many different ways they could have lived so. also, I don't want to talk about how long it took me to get all the lines. "unrealistic" DON'T CARE!!!!!!! these are the lies I tell myself to sleep at night. little something to read while I work on requests

"Where are you going?" you asked your father, who was suiting up to go out. Paramedic. You knew he was on call but what could have possibly happened in this town at this time of night? The only thing open were taverns and even a bar brawl never ended in someone serious hurt around here.

"Call out from Beechwood," he told you simply, pulling his clothes on in a rush with no time to chat. "Older man, not your boyfriend, don't worry," he assured you so you wouldn't push. He didn't have time for that. But when did you ever not persist?

"Can I come?" you questioned and he looked at you like you were crazy.

"No, you can't come, y/n. Just because it's on your boyfriend's family's island doesn't mean I can bring my daughter when they've closed all boats in or out for a medical emergency. I'm going now."

"Gat!" you called out over the sounds of the chopper above and sirens by your side. His head snapped to you running over to him on the dock from the street.

"Y/n! What are you doing here?" he inquired, looking you up and down as you stand before him.

"What are you doing here?" you inquired back as your father grabs packs out of the van.

"Trying to get to Beechwood but they won't let me," Gat told you, gesturing to the water east. You looked back at your father, then to Gat.

"Come with us," you said, following your father down the stairs, and without a question, he does.

"Cady!"

"Johnny!" you and Gat called out as you trotted up to Clairmont. From a conversation with your father on the boat over here, Gat knew Cady was alright. But that didn't mean he wanted to be absent from the Liars anymore during this. They shot up and ran to you. Arms thrown around you nearly tackle you but you stay upright in their tight embrace.

"Catch us up," Gat quizzed and you got the run down as you walked back into Clairmont.

Johnny was clinging to you like never before walking. Arm linked and hands holding yours between both of his, fingers interlinked. He pressed a kiss to your hair then whispered in your ear.

"Thank you for coming," and you didn't know why it had so much emotion.

You watched with a grin, not able to help it, feasting your eyes on Johnny lip syncing into one of Tipper's beloved, prize, expensive, ivory elephants as he danced around in his white dress shirt and boxers, Old Time Rock & Roll by Bob Seger playing from the record player. You had come in because you heard it playing but hid behind the wall as you saw Johnny. 'Oh my god, he's doing the whole Tom Cruise thing' you thought, hand covering your mouth keeping back your giggles. It was the performance of a lifetime; you had to give him that. Until his foot slipped and the ivory elephant hit the floor, cracking apart.

"Oh fuck!" Johnny yelped as you, Cadence, and Gat ran in. "Shit, shit."

"The moms are going to kill you," Cadence voiced in utter shock at the damage. You'd never seen someone fidgeting like they had sweaty palms more in your life than Johnny on the floor right now. Gat seemed speechless. Mouth opening and closing as he failed for words. In the same position as you.

"It was an accident," Johnny weakly defended himself, which you found amusing.

"Those things cost like a hundred grand each," Gat reminded him before Mirren closed the door behind her.

"Fuck it," she announced before pushing the other one off the pillar it was displayed on, making you and Cadence shriek, unable to stop it for breaking.

"My god!"

"Mirren!" Cadence and you scolded.

"What?" she asked through a chuckle. "That shit doesn't matter- Why are you guys all looking at me like that?" Your hands covering your mouth were now from Mirren's hair change. It was short. You all burst out laughing. "Come on! It's not like we were gonna sell that on the black market and save a starving family. We barely know how to get on the dark web."

"Your hair, Mirren," Cadence finally spoke.

"It looks awesome," Gat remarked.

"I know, I know, I said that," Johnny notes. You ruffle his hair from standing beside him.

"I'm sure you did, no need to sound so desperate," you teased in a whisper, making him glare at you with no heat.

"Thank you, it's symbolic!" Mirren declared, "like those dumb elephants are."

"We're gonna be grounded till graduation," Johnny dramatically stated. The phone rang making Cadence gasp.

"Oh, my god, Granddad," Cadence remembered, moving swiftly.

"Okay," Johnny exhaled.

"Pants, Jonathan," Gat lambasted Johnny.

"Yeah, I know!" Johnny moaned, tugging them off the chair as everyone exited the dining room.

"I thought I should let you know I enjoyed it," you playfully informed him as he stood back up.

"Yeah?" he questioned, clearly intrigued as he pulled his pants back on.

"Yeah, like my own, better, Tom Cruise," you commented, wide smile on your mouth as you moved closer.

"Out of Risky Business?" he asked. You nodded, eyes on his lips

"I was why you watched that movie-" Johnny mentioned, faces mere inches from each other.

"I'm trying to kiss you, stop talking!" you told him off through a giggle.

"Oh!" he realised, finally taking the hint. His hands within an instant were under your thigh and supporting your back as he dipped you, making you yelp before his lips met yours and your hands raked into his hair. "How's this for a kiss?" he smugly questioned.

"Shut up," you mumbled through a suppressed laugh.

You watched the will burn as kindling, zoned out of the conversation at the warmth on your face from the fire and Johnny's arm around you. Tomorrow could be hell, but right now was amazing.

"What if we made...a mess so big...only a Sinclair could clean it up?" Cadence proposed. You looked over to her with furrowed brows. "What if all the petty material things that tore our family apart were just gone? Just like that."

"Okay, I think Cady's the cult leader," Gat joked, making Mirren giggle.

"I'm serious. I mean, Clairmont is built on a foundation of hate," Cadence delineates and you could tell Gat was proud, head tipped down with a smile. "We could tear it down. Teach Harris and the moms the ultimate lesson."

"What did you have in mind?" Johnny questions and you couldn't believe he was entertaining this. But you could also smell the whiskey on his breath.

"We could burn it to the fucking ground," Cadence suggested and you could help but laugh.

"Could you imagine?!" Johnny questioned.

"I could imagine the moms' faces," Mirren replied through laughter.

"Guys, I mean it! Clairmont's just a pile of trophies," Cadence said.

"Trophies won with a bullshit, unfair advantage," Johnny agreed.

"Yeah, it's basically the seat of the patriarchy," Mirren observed. You and Gat look hopelessly across from each other. There's no way they'd actually do this, right?

"Yeah, with Harris at the head of the table," Johnny added.

"Right! so if it was all gone, we'd have to start over. Maybe, they'd stop. Maybe we'd be a family again. It'd be like a purification. I mean, things can't get any worse, right?" Cadence rambled. She was a rambling drunk.

"Gaattt, this is usually where you chime in as the voice of reason," Johnny half joking reminded the boy just as silent as you. You shot him a look to say something. Anything against this.

"it's the Sinclair house, I don't get a say," Gat bowed out. You couldn't believe him. After months of advocacy and speaking out about injustices and arguing with Cadence over her entitlement, when there was a chance to say something, actually do something, he avoided the conversation. "Well, you guys know I'm not even going to be welcome here anymore," he tried to reason his lack of a voice. What a coward.

"Well, that's exactly why we have to do something. They're tearing each other apart, and us along with them. Look, they need to learn," Cadence decided. You could see she was all in on this and you just couldn't say anything. How could you vocalise how idiotic you found this with starting a fight with a drunk Cadence and a measly Gat who'd come to her defence?

"mm-mm, they'll punish us and send us to some boarding school in the Swiss alps," Mirren pushed back. Finally, someone pointed out a hole in Cadence's lack of a plan.

"No! we are so sorry that we overflowed the dishwasher and we swiped the good whiskey then we made s'mores and watched movies at Cuddledown. We watched Ferris Bueller and Sixth Sense for Johnny and then we fell asleep! and we smelt the smoke too late," Cady spit balled. You were in awe at the levels of stupidity that had them thinking this was a good plan.

"And no one would believe us but it wouldn't matter-" Johnny started as he stood up, disrupting your headrest.

"Becausseee"

"People might talk!"

"Yes!"

"NO!" you stood up and shouted. "I'm appalled with all of you!" you scolded. They stood silently. "How you at all think this is a good plan?! You're not arsonists! You're privileged teenagers who have neglected to think about that fact that burning down Clairmont won't do shit! 'Oh yeah, lets burn down 1 out of the 4 mansions on our family's private island, that Cady was assigned in the will, that'll show em!' Do you hear how stupid it sounds?!" You fired off. Johnny's hands rested on your shoulders.

"Baby, relax," he poorly tried to calm you.

"Relax?! yeah, relax worthy environment, my boyfriend and friends planning arson while the one who's wanted to play high and mighty this entire fucking summer sits there silently in support," you continued, calling out Gat.

"They're not going to listen if you shout!" Gat yelled, standing up.

"Then why did you yell at Cady?! Huh?! I have seen you 2 argue more this summer than actually get along!"

"Maybe that's because you're not around much!"

"Oh, I wonder why, because Harris doesn't like unmarried young couples spending the night together. So what that really means, Gat, is that I'm not a fucking pussy who has been beating around the bush with my crush since I was 12 years old and then suddenly, after cheating with her, disregarding her feelings, not communicating, you know, every other shitty thing you've done, acting like I care about her so much that I'm going to let her burn a house down. Do you know how fucking dangerous that is?!" you tore him apart. He couldn't speak.

"We've moved on, y/n!" Cady chimed in.

"Like you should move on from this idiotic fucking plan. My God! you know, you're privileged and entitled, and I always knew that could affected all of yours views, but I never thought it would make you genuinely fucking stupid," you said, sitting back down. Mirren stared at you awkwardly, Cadence was clearly pissed, Johnny's arm around your shoulders did little to comfort you since it wasn't giving much support to his currently hated girlfriend, and Gat silently sat, thinking you supposed.

"She's right," Mirren piped up.

It was hours later than they wanted it, but you fell asleep on Johnny's shoulder and they formulated a plan. Smother the place in alcohol and gasoline and paper, light a match, and get out. Johnny would grab you on their way to the boat that Gat would man and jet off.

You stirred as you started to sweat in your jeans and t shirt. Had Johnny placed you right in front of the heater? Your eyes peer open. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. That wasn't a gas heater. That was Clairmont. You've never been wider awake. You jump up, head on a swivel as you see none of them around. They're in the house. You didn't even consider your danger; you ran in.

Gat's figure.

"GAT! GET THE FUCK OUT!"

"I CAN'T FIND CADY!"

"GET OUT!" you scream from your gut, yanking his arm back out towards the entrance.

"Y/N!" Gat yells back into the house but you're running up the stairs and Cadence is flying out. He catches her in his arms and holds her tight before running to the boat. Gat's mind is replaying how you 3 may never leave. On the boat, he sees a painting tossed out a window, then a falling Mirren. He panics she's broken something but she's up, grabbing the painting then running. Thank God for adrenaline.

Your shirt pulled off and around your face like a mask was better than nothing at keeping the smoke out of your respiratory system, but you were starting to feel faint. Till you trip. You look back from your spot on the ground.

Johnny.

"JOHNNY!" you screech. He doesn't respond. You're right next to him. He heard. But he doesn't respond. He's passed out. You don't even question your actions. Your arms slip under him and you're up.

"Where's Johnny? Where's y/n?" Cadence asks Gat on the boat, concerned as she noticed not only was Johnny not out yet, but you weren't asleep by the firepit anymore. Gat's silent, watching Clairmont for a sign of either of you. "Where are Johnny and y/n, Gat?" Cadence demands an answer, voice breaking in worry. "There!" Gat shouts as you come sprinting.

"Is Johnny in her arms?" Mirren asks, intrigued and confused. She didn't think you were weak, but Johnny was easily tens of pounds heavier than you. You didn't know the plan. You just knew the other Liars were on the boat so you headed to the dock. You throw Johnny aboard before jumping on yourself, kneeling down beside him.

"Isn't he heavy?" Cadence inquires.

"He's not heavy, He's Johnny, you fucking bitch," you spit back at her, assessing Johnny for a pulse. It was there. It wasn't too late. But you could feel it slow under your fingertip. Cadence is taken off guard by your hostility. Hands on top of the other, you pump Johnny's chest. Better a broken rib than dead, right? You pause, opening Johnny's mouth as you tilt up his chin, blocking his nose before pushing a big breath into his mouth. "Come on, come on, come on, please, please, Johnny," you whimper, continuing chest compressions, tears that were streaming down your face in Clairmont now pooling in your eyes that watch his face for any expression. You can't stop. No. You can't. Tears fall onto his shirt as you sniffle. Gat driving the boat, somewhere, couldn't help, and the girls were in shocked. "Johnny, please, please, please don't die on me, you can't fucking die!" you cry and then a gasp. "Johnny!" you squeal, shooting down to hug him tight.

"Hi...hi," he pants, hand weakly patting your back.

"I thought you were dead, and-and-and-I couldn't-" you stutter, tears flooding your eyes as you pull back, face above his as your hands hold his head.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he breathlessly assures you, his eyes closed as he rests back into your hands, his hands holding your wrists. He opens his eyes and takes in your face, before they dart to your torso. "What happened to your shirt?"

"Burnt while I was running out with you so I shook it off frantically," you tell him, he nods, coming to sit up slowly. You help him, making sure he doesn't faint again.

"Gat, don't look at my girlfriend," Johnny jokes, arms wrapped around you like a cover. He nearly died and he was still making jokes. Only Johnny.

"Believe me, I'm occupied," Gat replies, steering the boat. "Besides, I've seen her in a bikini before, how is that different?"

"This is very different, Gat! One is whatever bikini material is and one is cotton and lace," Johnny jokingly lectures Gat, making you and the girls giggle. Gat rolls his eyes.

"It is actually pretty cute, where'd you get it?" Mirren asks.

"Can you all just shut the fuck up for a second?" you beg, head tilting back against the side of the boat as you suck in shaky breaths. They go quiet. "Just because I'm beyond grateful that my boyfriend is alive doesn't mean I'm not fucking pissed with all of you. If I didn't love you guys, I'd kill you with my own hands right now."

"It'd be kind of a waste of cpr and a shirt, wouldn't it?" Johnny rhetorically questions and you turn your head to the side to glare at him. His lips in that stupid smirk.

"Looks like you won't be enjoying the other half of that set for a whiille," Mirren pipes up. Cadence and Gat snicker.

"Fuck off," Johnny retorts. Despite being so ridiculously angry, you never knew you could be this angry at people, you shuffle closer to Johnny, resting your head on his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him.

"I love you," you murmur quietly, not knowing what else you could express with your words at this moment.

"I can tell. I love you too," he murmurs back, holding you tight.

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Ew sounds like loser behavior

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

Very clear who got the better deal 🙂‍↕️👏🏻

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

The dream

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form. The literature of hunger and restraint. And you were good at it.

Period 👏🏻 (also where can I sign up for this class?)

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

It be like that sometimes 👀

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline. He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class. He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Clearly it didn't work 🤭

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was. And then he argued. Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

Why is that hot for no reason?

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

As she should be 👏🏻

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

Valid

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking. And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

To be early and not do something to pass the time? He has my fill respect, I could never

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care. Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

Iconic 👏🏻

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.” You raised a brow. “You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

She's not wrong lol

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful. It hit him square in the chest. It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

Oh I'm sure he would 🤭

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring. He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He is fighting for his life 🤭

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

I wonder how long this will last 👀

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.” The air in the room changed. “I want you,” he said, firmer now. “I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.” You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

Well maybe that's a sign to just not shut it down? 👀

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here. “I’m not confused,” he said. “And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

He so sure about it and knows what he wants, I respect that

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

For real

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.” He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse. “It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.” “Stop,” you said, louder than you intended. You wanted him to stay. And close the door. And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you. And that was all it took to understand.

Ahhh yes 🥳👏🏻

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.” Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

If you want to tell yourself that, sure

“I want it raw.” He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face. And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

Because he HAS been imagining that moment for months 🤭

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees. “Look at me,” he growled.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

Yes finally 👏🏻🥵😮‍💨

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex. And you were never going to forget this.

Whoops, but there are worse things to not forget 🤷🏻‍♀️

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

What a sight 😌

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.” “I know.”

I just loved this moment

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.” You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it. “You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you. His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans. “You don’t want me to.”

I mean, he is not wrong

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

🥵🥵🥵

That was the beginning of the end. Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt. He used it to unravel you. And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

Oh this is gonna be interesting 👀

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.” You obeyed. “Good girl.”

🫠🫠🫠

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hated how much you wanted it. And you loved that he asked.

I just loved this part!!

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

Don't threaten me with a good time

You lay back, smiling. You did this. You ruined him.

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?” You whimpered. It was like he heard it. He smirked. “I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.” He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving. And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

Sounds like a plan, I'm in 🥵

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts. Your legs parted on instinct. His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off. Because this wasn’t sexting. This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend. This was real. And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

🥵🥵🥵

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe. He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again. The sound of it was obscene.

No words 😮‍💨🥵

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet. It that scared you more than anything else.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop. He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

I really don't know what to say anymore 😮‍💨

Ahhh omg!!! I would love to read more of them if you feel up to it 👏🏻

The Pupil

Summary: Restraint gives way to obsession.

Word count: 7.7 K 😬

Pairing: College Student!Bucky Barnes x Professor!Reader

A/N: No one asked for this. This idea hit me when I was contemplating my career choices because I started work Thursday and gremlins come next week, and I thought, if I was a professor and Bucky Barnes walked in my class….🥹 .This is long, it is self indulgent and it is my therapy. I apologize for the length, but it could have been much longer. Hit me up to tell me how you feel about it.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Power imbalance (professor/student, age gap 38/26) raw p in v sex, sexting, phone sex, masturbation, video sharing, unprotected sex. Obsession, emotional repression, and blurred lines. Reader self-deception and power/control themes. Bucky is feral, intense, and fully locked in. Young dom Bucky all the way. Angst, mutual unraveling, no fluff, all heat. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

----------

You didn’t always dress like this.

Not in the elegant high-waisted trousers that elongated your already long legs, and the silk blouses in slate and cream, each one buttoned up and tucked just so.

And not in the heels, expensive, pointed, and high, meant to remind you, and everyone else, that control starts at the ankle.

There was a time you tried to disappear.

Back when you were married to a man who said he liked your brain but openly resented your ambition. Who told you quiet was dignified and called you “intimidating” instead of a boss.

Back then you wore flats and cardigans and neutral tones and made yourself smaller in rooms where you should’ve stood tall.

And then one day, you stopped.

Your divorce wasn’t explosive.

It was silent.

You kept your name, your tenured position, and the apartment with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He kept the excuses.

And the you learned to love your own company. Late-night reading by lamplight. Coffee in silence.

Fresh sheets, open windows, and no one to bend for.

You built a life that didn’t need anyone else in it. You weren’t lonely. You were whole.

Or so you thought.

Five years after the divorce, at 38, you were tenured, respected, published, and a bright star in Brooklyn College’s English Department. 

You strode into the lecture hall in heels and pencil skirts, your hair up, your lipstick bold, and your syllabus uncompromising. Your specialty was desire on the page, Womanist texts, subversion in narrative form.

The literature of hunger and restraint.

And you were good at it.

You were used to being the subject of attention from your students, attention that extended beyond a concern for their grades. 

Sometimes they were just curious. Sometimes they were crude. Occasionally, they flirted, tried to make you laugh, or tried to match your intellect with theirs.

But you handled it. You shut it down.

You had been with colleagues once or twice, brief encounters that scratched an itch but never lingered. They never made you miss someone when they left your bed or made you want to stay.

There had never been any encounter that made you pause in the doorway of your own classroom and forget, for a split second, what the hell you were about to say.

Until him.

Until James Buchanan Barnes.

—--

You didn’t notice him when you took roll, not at first.

You were focused on your board notes, your syllabus, the usual opening-week checklist, names, majors, who looked restless, who would drop by week three. 

But then you turned, mid-sentence, scanning the room, and your eyes landed on him.

He hadn’t raised his hand. He hadn’t made a sound. But the way he held himself drew your attention like a magnet. 

He sat with the rigid stillness of someone trained for tension, shoulders wide and braced inside a seat not built to hold him, his spine so straight it looked like a kind of discipline.

He wasn’t fidgeting and he wasn’t distracted; he was just silent, present, and alert.

That should have been your first clue. But it wasn’t the way he sat that stopped you.

It was the rest of him.

The overlong dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear. 

The worn black T-shirt pulled across a chest that didn’t belong in a sophomore seminar, and the way his lips pressed together in concentration as he read your syllabus like it was a puzzle to be solved.

The large, veined hand curled around a pen instead of a keyboard, and his notebook was full of cramped, deliberate handwriting.

He looked like someone who had seen the world, someone too young to have such old eyes, though he was older than the others in your class.

He looked like someone who was trying very hard not to be noticed. And it didn’t work.

Because the second he lifted his eyes to meet yours, brilliant blue, sharp, and unwavering, it was over.

You told yourself it meant nothing. He was just a student. One of many.

But then he spoke.

And his voice was low, steady, and crackling with an alluring tenor that almost masked how smart he really was.

And then he argued.

Not with arrogance, but clarity. Citing Baldwin and Heller without a trace of hesitation, pushing back just enough to make it interesting, enough to make your breath catch.

And suddenly you knew.

This one was going to be dangerous.

—--

He knew professors were supposed to be older.

Seasoned. Maybe tired-looking. Overworked and underpaid, carrying canvas tote bags and books with cracked spines.

He wasn’t expecting you.

You walked in like you owned the entire department, heels sharp against the tile, jaw set in a way that made him sit straighter without thinking, and not a single strand of your hair was out of place.

You were wearing a slate grey silk blouse, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that clung to your shape with elegant precision. And your lips were a color that made his mouth go dry.

And Bucky Barnes forgot to breathe.

He picked up his pen before you even spoke.

Not because he was trying to impress you, but because something about you told him that half-assed wasn’t welcome in your presence.

You didn’t look directly at anyone when you entered. You set your bag down, clicked your pen once, and began to speak with the urgency of someone who had no time to waste.

In less than ten minutes, you quoted Morrison, asked a question no one dared answer, and looked directly at him when he did.

That was the first time your gaze met his. And it turned his stomach inside out.

You were older than him, but not in the way that word often implied. You didn’t look tired. You didn’t look diminished. You looked like power.

You looked like someone who had learned to survive, and who didn’t flinch when she walked away from the battle.

He wanted to impress you, of course.

But more than that, he just wanted you to look at him like that again.

——

The semester moved forward, and Bucky was in the front row every class, early enough to see you walk in. He didn’t fidget, he didn’t scroll his phone, and he didn’t scribble anything until you started talking.

His eyes were always on the door, and when you walked through it, his pulse kicked like a reflex.

You were striking.

Every week, in silk blouses, pencil skirts, or tailored trousers, always poised and sharp-edged, never once looking like anyone else on campus.

But what unstrung him was not how you looked.

It was the way you never once looked at him like an object. You never treated your students like they were interchangeable. When you looked at him, you saw him.

And Bucky felt it.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy Postmodern Literature. It sounded like the kind of class where people tried to out-theorize each other, but it surprised him.

And it was the first time since returning to school that he felt like he belonged.

Before your class, he felt like a ghost in the hallway.

Older than most of them at 26, but younger in other ways, like he’d lost time, like he was trying to catch up to a life that had kept going without him.

The Army was paying for his education. Six years in, two years out, into places no one ever talked about. He came back with too many memories and not enough peace.

Literature helped. Reading gave the noise somewhere to go. He filled notebooks just to keep the chaos from spilling over.

And you made it matter.

When you spoke, he listened with his entire body. Every word felt like a match being struck. Every question you asked set something in him on fire.

He kept his face blank when you entered, but inside, something locked into place every time.

“This isn’t a survey course,” you said on the first day. “This is an excavation. We’re going to talk about hunger, about power, about desire, and about what happens when stories lie to us.”

Bucky Barnes was going to learn everything you had to teach.

And not just from the syllabus.

—-

The first time Bucky Barnes had you shook was unexpected.

“Stanley Kowalski isn’t just a villain,” you told the room.

“He’s a study in what happens when masculinity hides its own fragility. What’s worse, being violent, or pretending you’re not?”

There was a pause.

Then his hand went up.

“Yes…?”

“Barnes. James Barnes,” he said, as if you didn’t know his name. You knew his name.

“I think pretending is worse. Because then people convince themselves it’s not violence at all. It’s just… what men do.”

The room went quiet. It was a good point. A sharp one. You nodded, your lips curving just slightly. 

“Interesting. Care to elaborate, Mr. Barnes?”

He leaned forward on the desk, shoulders tense but voice calm. 

“Stanley’s problem isn’t just power. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to everything. Stella. The apartment. The air they breathe. And when someone tells him he’s not, he loses his mind.”

Your breath caught.

“An excellent observation,” you said, forcing your tone steady.

And you moved on to the next point, your pulse racing.

—---

He didn’t mean to linger. But he did.

Most of the class had already filtered out into the dark, backpacks slung over shoulders, the last few stragglers murmuring their way toward the exit. The lateness of the class cleared the room quickly. 

But Bucky stayed seated in the front row, fingers drumming quietly on the edge of his notebook, eyes fixed forward, on you.

You moved with quiet purpose as you erased the board, your blouse soft under the glow of fluorescent light, and your heels clicking softly against the tile.

You always moved like that, like you had all the time in the world. Like you knew he was watching, and you didn’t care.

Or maybe you did. Maybe that was the problem.

When you turned to face him, your expression was unreadable, carefully professional. 

“Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Just wanted to thank you. For the lecture.”

You raised a brow.

“You’re paying tuition. No need to thank me.”

“Still,” he said, shifting his weight, but not too close. 

“Most professors don’t talk about Streetcar like that. You didn’t soften him. You didn’t make Stanley a hero. You called him what he was.”

Something flickered across your face. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity. Your mouth curved, just barely. 

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

He smiled warmly. Not cocky, but careful. 

“Would it work if I said yes?”

You stared at him for one beat too long. And then you laughed quietly. The sound was beautiful.

It hit him square in the chest.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” you said. But you weren’t dismissive.

It would’ve been easy to say something he shouldn’t. Something about how well that skirt fit the curves of your ass, or the slope of your neck, or the way you looked like a woman a man could ruin himself for, and thank her for it.

But he didn’t.

He just cleared his throat and said, “Goodnight, Professor.” 

And then he walked out. Before he could make a mistake.

—---

You were at your desk during office hours, door open, glasses on, red pen in hand, halfway through dissecting an undergrad’s overwrought interpretation of Beloved when you heard a knock.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew it was him.

There was a particular rhythm to the way James Barnes moved that was controlled and deliberate. That soldier steadiness in every step. You took a breath before looking up, willing your heart not to react, willing your body to stay still.

“Professor,” he said, low and polite, leaning just slightly into the doorway.

“You got a minute?”

“Of course,” you said, gesturing to the chair across from you like it was just another Wednesday.

Like you hadn’t been hyperaware of him since the moment he walked into your class. 

“Come in.”

He did, wearing a dark henley, jeans, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He sat down slowly, and you caught a whiff of his scent.

It made your mouth dry.

“I wanted to talk more about the reading,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

“Always.”

He pulled out his copy of The Awakening, pages heavily annotated. 

You should have been focused on what he was saying, but you weren’t. Not entirely.

His voice had that textured quality that hummed through your spine when he spoke. And the way he watched you, like everything you said mattered, was dangerous. 

It made you lean forward. And it made your next question softer than it should have been.

“Do you think Edna is selfish? Or just trapped?”

He tilted his head.

“Both. But I think the trap came first.”

God. He was good.

You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and tried not to notice how the room suddenly felt too warm. 

He spoke like it was casual. But he knew it wasn’t. Not to you. He could tell by the way your eyes lit up. 

He could get addicted to that.

He could tell that you were impressed, and that you didn’t want to be. 

That knowledge made something hot flicker in his chest.

He thought about what you’d look like letting go.

He thought about backing you against that desk and hearing you say his name. Not Mr. Barnes, Bucky.

He thought about dropping to his knees and making you forget every reason you were telling yourself not to want him.

“Mr. Barnes,” you said, clearing your throat lightly, “are you trying to impress me again?”

“Not trying,” he said, voice even. “Just telling the truth.”

That stopped you for a second. And in that second, you smiled.

That was your mistake.

Because in that smile, you gave something away.

And he knew it.

That smile wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t professional. 

And it definitely wasn’t safe.

It told him that you were thinking about it too.

Even if you wouldn’t admit it.

He didn’t say any of that. Not yet. But one day soon, he might.

—--

You weren’t expecting to see anyone you knew at Prospect Park.

This part of Brooklyn is your quiet zone. Your weekend escape. You come for the live music, the breeze off the trees, the way the city softened just enough to let you breathe.

You were wearing a sundress, nothing scandalous, but light, flowing, a little backless. Your hair was loose and you were comfortable. Free. 

Younger than you usually let yourself feel.

You had your blanket spread out near the edge of the crowd, a book open on your lap, eyes closed as the saxophone swelled. And then…

“Professor?”

Your stomach dropped. Because you knew that voice. You opened your eyes slowly and turned your head, and there he was.

James Barnes.

He was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, t-shirt snug across his chest. He had a water bottle hooked through one finger, and he looked… stunned.

You blinked, and sat up slowly. When your eyes met his, they widened just enough for him to see the truth: you hadn’t expected to see him either. 

And you weren’t ready.

“Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes raked over you, quickly, respectfully, but there was no hiding the way they lingered. 

You looked… radiant. Relaxed. And so young. Relaxed in a way he’d never seen you. Unguarded.

Your sundress moved when you shifted, a flash of bare shoulder and the curve of your neck knocking something loose in his chest. 

For a second, he forgot you were his professor. 

He just saw a woman so beautiful it felt unreal to look at you out of context. 

You watched the moment he really saw you with your hair down and your sandals off and your mouth slightly parted in surprise.

He didn’t say anything for a second too long.

And it rattled you.

You were used to being looked at. But not by him. Not like this.

“You here for the show?” you asked, trying to sound calm.

He nodded slowly as his eyes dragged over you again.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see anyone from campus.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“What, professors don’t like jazz?”

“No,” he said. “I just didn’t think you looked like this… out in the wild.”

You laughed, too loud. Embarrassed. And a little flattered.

“Well. Surprise.”

He didn’t look away.

And that’s when you realized, you were not in control of this moment. Not the way you usually were. Because for the first time in years, you’re the one who doesn’t know what to do with your hands. Or your mouth. 

Or your rapidly racing heart.

Bucky made small talk, played it cool, but he couldn’t stop staring.

He didn’t know you could laugh like that. He didn’t know a simple sundress could make his brain short-circuit when he’d spent weeks imagining what you look like underneath all that silk and structure.

He could leave. He probably should.

But you’re not telling him to.

And for a moment, just one long, buzzy moment, Bucky wondered if the line between you already broke, and you both just keep pretending it’s still there.

—---

You patted the edge of the blanket before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Feel free to sit,” you said, tone light, professor-pleasant. 

He hesitated only a moment, then lowered himself onto the corner, legs stretched out in front of him, careful not to sit too close. You straightened your spine but didn’t lean into the warmth.

“So,” he said after a beat, eyes forward, voice casual.

“Didn’t take you for the Prospect Park jazz type.”

You hummed softly, keeping your gaze on the stage. 

“Everyone needs a little fresh air.”

He nodded, giving you room. You sat shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence that allowed you to think too much.

The set ended with a soft cymbal roll and a murmur of applause. You clapped, grateful for the distraction and for something to break the silence that’s been stretching between you like a tripwire.

Bucky, James, Barnes, Christ, brushed his palms on his jeans and stood slowly. You stayed seated, not trusting your legs just yet.

“Well,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “I should get going.”

You nodded, eyes on your book even though you haven’t read a word of it since he sat down.

“Of course. Thanks for saying hi.”

He paused. You felt it.

“I’ll see you in class,” he said finally.

And you nodded again. Too fast. Too clipped.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Your name on his tongue would ruin you. You knew that. So you were grateful, in a sick way, that he didn’t use it. That he kept the mask on, even as he walked away without looking back.

Only once he was far enough away do you finally exhale.

—----

The next week, he waited until the last twenty minutes of your posted office hours.

Long enough that you probably thought no one else was coming.

You were behind your desk, papers stacked to your left, a half-empty yogurt cup in the trash beside you. Your hair was pinned back tight, the way you always wore it on days when control mattered most. The soft hum of your laptop filled the quiet, a jazz playlist coming from the speakers.

You looked like calm incarnate. But he saw the hesitation when you glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Barnes," you said, voice as composed as your posture. "Come in."

He did, quietly and carefully keeping his distance. He always did. He asked about Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. His tone was casual, almost too casual, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

And then…

“I’ve been thinking about what you read in class,” he said, voice low.

“The part about self-deception.”

You looked up slowly. You knew where this was going.

“Is that what this is?”

You didn’t answer.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he continued. “Not with you.”

The air in the room changed.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now.

“I’ve wanted you since the first class. I thought I could ignore it, bury it under respect, or rules, or whatever you needed from me. But it’s still there.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Not well. Not normally. Not with him standing there saying that like it was a truth he’d been carrying in his bones since the beginning of the semester.

You stared at him, searching for something you could use to shut it down. Immaturity. Fantasy. Entitlement. But it wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t testing you. He wasn’t fantasizing. He was telling you the truth. And now it was here.

Said aloud in your office.

“I’m not confused,” he said. 

“And I’m not asking for anything. I just needed you to know I’m done pretending I don’t feel it.”

You folded your hands in your lap because you didn’t trust them not to move. Not to reach. Not to tremble.

“This isn’t possible,” you said, voice thin. “You’re my student.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t back down.

You exhaled, and let the silence grow.

That usually made people fumble excuses to fill the void. And when he didn’t retreat, didn’t apologize, didn’t break, you reached for the only weapon left: distance.

“You’re twenty-six.”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know.”

“That’s over a decade.”

“I’m aware.”

You hated how calm he was. You hated that some stupid, aching part of you wanted him to lose control, because at least then it wouldn’t feel so dangerous. Or deliberate.

“You’ve seen things,” you said. “You’ve survived things. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

He didn’t argue. And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’ve worked my whole life for this career,” you snapped. “I’m not throwing it away for a moment in a park or a crush you can’t separate from fantasy.”

“It’s not a crush,” he said. “And it’s not a fantasy.”

“Stop,” you said, louder than you intended.

He did.

And your throat burned. When you finally spoke again, your voice was softer.

“I need you to leave.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you and nodded.

“Of course, Professor.”

You didn’t watch him go. You kept your eyes on the stack of ungraded essays in front of you, pretending they mattered more than the fact that you hadn’t really wanted him to leave. 

You wanted him to stay. 

And close the door.

—--

You didn’t assign any reading the next week.

You told yourself it was because midterms were coming. You told yourself it was merciful.

It wasn’t.

It was preparation.

You kept it clean in class, composed. Cold, even.

You called on him once, just to prove you could, and he answered in that low, calm voice like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t wet under your skirt for the full fifty minutes.

And when the room cleared, and he stayed in his seat, you just stood.

“I need to see you in my office about last week’s meeting, Mr. Barnes.”

He just sat there and watched you walk out of the door, listening to your heels click their way down the hall to your office.

You left the door unlocked.

You waited.

And when he finally stepped into your office and shut the door behind him, you just looked at him. And he looked at you.

And that was all it took to understand.

You stepped back against your desk and swallowed hard.

“We don’t talk about this after,” you said, quietly.

“Okay,” he said, eyes dark.

“But you need to say it.”

You nodded once. “It’s just sex.”

Bucky knew you were lying, but you were offering him something and he was going to take it. He moved toward you.

You held his gaze.

“I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he said. “Tested last month.”

“So am I.”

A pause. You lifted your chin.

“I want it raw.”

He exhaled through his nose, something primal flickering across his face.

“Jesus. You sure?”

You nodded again. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rasping now. “Fuck yeah.”

And when his hands finally landed on you, you felt your control collapse. And it felt so good.

He kissed you like you were already his, like he’d spent months imagining this exact moment, how your mouth would part, how your hands would clutch at his shoulders, how your body would give the second he asked.

You moaned into him, soft, needy, and unguarded. And that was all he needed. He lifted you in one clean motion and set you back on your desk.

Urgently. You shoved the papers aside with one sweep of your arm. Something fluttered to the floor. You didn’t care.

His hands pushed your skirt up to your waist, exposing your bare thighs, and when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath…

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at you like he’d never seen a pussy before.

You hooked your ankles around his hips. 

“Don’t waste time.”

He looked up, eyes locked on yours, and slid two fingers through your cunt, like he wanted to memorize how wet you already were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You were like this all through class?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your head tipped back when he sank to his knees.

He didn't tease and he didn’t take his time.

His mouth was on you in seconds, hot and filthy, his tongue licking up your slit, mouth closing over your clit like he’d been studying for this moment. And he had.

You gasped, one hand flying to the edge of the desk, the other buried in his hair as he groaned into you. It was too much. Too fast. Too good.

You’d touched yourself thinking about this. Pictured it. Fantasized. But nothing had prepared you for the way he devoured you. Like he needed it to breathe.

Your thighs shook. Your hips rolled into his mouth. And when you came, you heard him groan like he felt it, too.

He stood quickly, shoved his jeans down just enough, and lined himself up without another word.

You looked down and your breath caught. You wanted it. You asked for this. You reached between your legs and guided him in yourself.

You both groaned.

He filled you in one slow thrust, inch after inch of hard, perfect pressure, and you nearly came again right then.

His hands gripped your thighs. He drew back and thrust again, so hard the desk creaked.

You bit your lip to keep from screaming.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You did.

His eyes were wild.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “Wanted you.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”

He did.

Every thrust was deep, deliberate, devastating. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and obscene. Your body took him like you were made for it, like this was inevitable. Like finally.

He slid one hand up your blouse, pushed your bra up, palmed your breast, and groaned when you arched into it. His mouth was at your throat, biting, sucking, and praising through gritted teeth.

“So tight. Fuck you feel so good.”

You clawed at his back.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped. “Don’t stop! Please”

He buried his face in your neck. 

“Not stopping. Not, fuck, not pulling out…”

You came hard. Writhing, and breaking beneath him.

And when he followed,seconds later, pulsing inside you with a choked groan and a helpless thrust, you realized: This would never be just sex.

And you were never going to forget this.

—----

He knocked the next week at office hours. You almost wished he wouldn’t.

You looked up, your expression blank. “Come in.”

He stepped inside. Closed the door gently. Not locking it. 

You gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

He did.

You watched him for a moment. He looked good. Too good. Calm again. Always so goddamn calm. You folded your hands in your lap.

“This can’t happen again.”

He didn’t flinch. Just waited.

You cleared your throat. 

“What happened in this office was unprofessional. And dangerous. For both of us.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t care how quiet we are. If anyone finds out…”

“They won’t,” he said softly.

“That’s not the point.”

You didn’t raise your voice. But it felt like a scream.

“I worked too hard for this. I have too much to lose.”

“I know.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He met your eyes. 

“If you’re done, if you really don’t want me to touch you again, say it.”

You opened your mouth. But no words came out. Because that wasn’t true. And you both knew it.

So instead, you said: “This ends now.”

And he nodded once. But his eyes didn’t believe you.

And when he stood to leave, your body betrayed you again. Because you wanted him.

You said it before you could stop yourself.

“James.”

It was soft, a sound you weren’t aware you were capable of. Not so full of need like that. 

But he heard it. He paused in the doorway. Shoulders tensed. One hand still on the knob. He turned and met your eyes.

And you didn’t take it back.

He stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him, locking it this time.

He crossed the room in three strides, hands on your body, spinning you around with authority. And you let him. 

Your blouse was still buttoned. Your trousers were still on. But you were soaked the moment he touched you. 

“You knew I couldn’t resist you,” he said, voice low behind you.

His mouth grazed your ear as he pressed into you, hard beneath his jeans.

“You don’t want me to.”

You didn’t deny it, just unbuttoned your pants and let them fall.

No panties again.

His hands were on you in an instant, dragging you back against him, cursing under his breath when his fingers slipped between your legs and found you already dripping.

“You wanted this.”

“Don’t talk,” you breathed.

But you didn’t mean it.

He pushed your blouse up, leaned over you, one hand planted on the desk beside yours, the other between your legs.

“You still want it raw?”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He undid his jeans. You felt the press of him against your thigh, hot and thick and ready.

And when he pushed into you, you gasped.

There was no easing in. Just a deep, brutal thrust that forced a broken moan from your lips. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled it away.

“Let me hear it.”

He fucked you hard. So hard that your desk rocked.

You forgot how to breathe as your cheek pressed against the cool surface of your desk and as your hands gripped the edge. 

He fucked you like he owned you, like this was always going to happen. 

Like he knew exactly what you needed, and he wasn’t going to let you hide from it again.

“You’re mine right now,” he panted. “No lies. No rules. Just this.”

You came fast, unexpectedly, a sob punching out of your throat as you clenched around him. He groaned and followed you seconds later, spilling inside you with a sharp cry, his hips stuttering against your ass.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. He leaned over your back, both hands braced on the desk now, chest heaving.

You stayed still beneath him, your body still shaking.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what could you say?

—--

It was break week, and of course you could survive without seeing Bucky. 

It was just sex, and you were a grown woman. You wouldn’t text him; he didn’t have your number and you only had his because you had his student information.

You told yourself you wouldn’t. 

It was unprofessional.

You told yourself that if you just made it through Monday without texting, the rest of the week would be easier. And you almost believed it.

But by Thursday afternoon, your resolve had withered under need. Your apartment was too still. Your phone was too close.

You typed the message three times. Deleted it each time. Then sent it anyway.

You Did you finish Baldwin yet? Figure out the nature of self-deception?

You threw your phone across the couch the second it delivered.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then…

James: Did you really just text me about Baldwin while I’m picturing your ass bent over your desk?

Your stomach flipped.

You told yourself not to respond.

You absolutely responded.

You: I was being professional.

James: You didn’t sound very professional last time I had my fingers inside you.

You closed your eyes. And your pulse dropped straight between your thighs.

And then, another buzz.

James: Should I stop?

You stared at the screen.

Then your thumbs moved on their own.

You: No.

And that was it.

That was the beginning of the end.

Because now he had your number. And he didn’t just use it to flirt.

He used it to unravel you.

James: What are you wearing right now?

You shouldn’t have answered. But you did.

You: Nothing you’d be allowed to see if we were in class.

James: I wouldn’t need to see it.

You: No?

James: I’d just need to hear you.

Your breath caught as you watched the bubbles.

James: Want me to call you?

Your heart pounded as you stared at the screen.

Then you typed.

You: Yes.

—---

You answered without thinking.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Take your hand,” he said, voice calm, “and put it between your legs.”

Your breath caught instantly. 

“James…”

“Do it.”

You did.

And it was worse than being touched. Because now, every movement was yours, but every command was his.

“Are you wet?” he asked.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. 

“Yes.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You miss me?”

You closed your eyes, head dropping back onto your pillow. 

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“I want to hear you,” he growled. “You started this. Now I want you to tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

You swallowed.

“Your hands on me. Your mouth. The way you sound when you come. The way you…”

“Touch yourself.”

You gasped at the sound of his voice in your ear, that subtle shift to something darker, something claiming.

“Just two fingers,” he said. “Keep the pressure light. Don’t come yet.”

You obeyed.

“Good girl.”

Your hips bucked slightly.

“Oh, you like that?” he asked, smug now. “I bet you’re soaked.”

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“No you don’t,” he said, quieter now.

“You love this. Being ruined without me even being in the room. So fucking desperate for it you couldn’t go one more day without hearing me.”

You whimpered, and his voice dropped further.

“Circle your clit. Slowly. Just like that. Stay with me.”

You could hear his breathing now. It wasn’t clean. He was hard. He was touching himself too. You knew it. You heard it in his voice.

“I want you so fucking bad,” he groaned.

“That desk wasn’t enough. I need to fuck you until you cry. Until you forget how to teach. Until you forget every name but mine.”

Your hips jerked.

“You close?”

“Yes, fuck, James, I…”

“Not yet.”

You froze.

“I want you begging.”

“I am.”

“No. Say it.”

You shook.

“Please, James. Let me come. I need it. Please…”

“Now,” he growled. “Come for me. Right now.”

And you did.

Hard. Gasping. One hand clamped over your mouth, the other between your legs, writhing into the mattress as the sound of his voice pushed you right over the edge.

On the other end, you heard him break too, a low, broken grunt, a whispered fuck, the subtle sound of his body surrendering.

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy. Full.

“Still just sex?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because that was the lie. And you’d both just drowned in it.

—----

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time you closed your eyes, you heard his voice.

Touch yourself. Good girl. Come for me. Like a current under your skin. Like a drug you couldn’t shake.

By midmorning, you gave up trying. You poured coffee, opened your laptop, stared at the stack of essays you were supposed to grade.

And then you reached for your phone.

No plan. No script.

Just the ache.

You: What are you doing?

He replied almost immediately.

James: Whatever you want me to be doing.

Your thighs pressed together. You were hopeless.

You: You’re insufferable.

James: You’re obsessed.

You didn’t argue.

James: Send me a photo.

Your pulse spiked.

You: Of what?

James: You. Just your mouth. No smile. Nothing posed. I want to see the version of you I shouldn’t have.

You hesitated.

Then turned on the front camera.

Hair messy. No makeup. Pillow creases still pressed into your cheek. Lips parted. No performance.

You sent it.

Seconds passed.

Then,

James: Take your shirt off.

You stared at the screen.

James: I want to see your tits while I jerk off.

Your breath caught.

You looked around your empty apartment like someone might be watching.

Then you pulled your shirt over your head.

You weren’t wearing a bra.

You angled the camera down just enough.

You took the photo and stared at it.

You looked... undone.

You sent it anyway.

James: Fuck. You’re perfect.

Another message followed right after.

James: Next time I want video.

You: What do you want me to do?

His reply came fast.

James: I want to hear what you sound like when you finger yourself and look into the camera like it’s me.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your face burning, your body already responding.

You hated how much you wanted it.

And you loved that he asked.

—------

You turned off every light but one and propped your phone up on your nightstand, angled carefully. You could see yourself in the frame, messy, flushed, bare.

Your pulse was already high and your mouth was dry. Your fingers shook as you hit record.

"Hi,” you whispered, embarrassed.

Then you bit your lip and tried again.

“James…”

His name felt like a weight in your chest. Your thighs shifted.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You lowered the camera slowly, past your collarbones, over your breasts, down your belly. You spread your legs.

No teasing. No preamble.

You wanted him to see the truth of it. The urgency. The craving.

You let your fingers slip down, just two, and parted yourself. You were already, still, wet. You couldn’t fake it.

You circled your clit, slowly as you said his name. 

“James…”

Your free hand slid up your body, palming your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped.

The camera caught everything. The angle of your hips. The arch of your back. The way your mouth opened when you slipped the two fingers inside yourself.

You looked into the lens, right at him

“You want this, don’t you?” you whispered. “You want to watch me come thinking about your cock inside me?”

You fucked yourself harder.

Faster.

“Is this how you want me? Needing you?”

You whimpered, unable to stop.

“You’d fuck me so good if you were here.”

You knew he’d watch it more than once, you wanted him to. You wanted him wrecked.

“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, hips bucking. “I’m gonna…fuck…James…”

You came hard, legs shaking. Your body exposed in all the ways you swore you never would be.

You let the camera roll as you caught your breath, chest heaving.

Then you leaned in and whispered, “Your turn.”

And stopped the video.

You sent it. No warning. No text. Just the file.

Seconds later, he responded.

James: Jesus fucking Christ.

Then a voice message.

You hit play.

He was breathing hard.

“Baby,” he said, wrecked and reverent, “I’m gonna come just thinking about what I’m gonna do to you next time I see you. You think I fucked you hard before? You don’t even know.”

You lay back, smiling.

You did this.

You ruined him.

—----

Your phone buzzed.

You sat up straight and your heart kicked like it had been waiting. You pressed play.

The image loaded.

And what you saw was dim lighting, the camera angled low. And there he was, naked, stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He was hard. Thick, And leaking from the thick mushroom tip that destroyed your soul.

“Baby,” he said, hoarse. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

Your breath caught instantly.

Baby.

No one had called you that in a long time.

He stroked himself slowly, base to tip, eyes locked on the screen.

“You send me that video, looking like that, saying my name like it’s the only word you know, and you expect me to be calm?”

His hand tightened. His abs tensed.

“You were dripping, weren’t you? So fucking wet. Just thinking about me.”

He dragged his thumb over the head of his cock and groaned.

“I can’t stop watching it. Can’t stop seeing your fingers inside you, your mouth, your tits, those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

He was close. You could see it in the way his hips shifted, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.

“I swear to God, the next time I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until you beg me to. I’ll hold your legs open and fuck you so fucking deep. There will be no hiding.”

You whimpered.

It was like he heard it. He smirked.

“I want to feel you shake under me. Want to feel your nails in my back, your come on my cock, your voice saying my name.”

His eyes flicked down.

“I’m gonna come,” he panted. “You watching, baby? You gonna come with me next time?”

He grunted, low, raw, broken, his body tensing as he came hard, ropes of it spilling over his hand, across his stomach, the sound of it filling the room.

You were breathless.

He looked straight into the camera, chest heaving.

And said, “Next time, you ride me until I forget my own name.”

The video ended.

You sat there, phone still in your hand, thighs pressed tight, pulse racing.

And that was the moment you knew this wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t just sex. This was an addiction.

And you wanted more.

—--

You didn’t think. You didn’t ask. You didn’t play.

You watched his video in your bed, one hand clutched in the sheets, thighs slick and trembling, your whole body strung tight with need.

You didn’t touch yourself. Didn’t move. You just stared at the screen.

And then, you opened the message app, tapped his name, and sent him your location.

No text, no explanation. Just a pin.

Come here.

That’s what it meant.

You knew he’d understand.

You stood up and unlocked the front door. 

Then you waited.

And when you heard his knock, you didn’t hesitate, you opened the door.

He stood there, hood up, breath ragged, eyes already dark. No words.

No one said a thing.

He pressed you against the wall, lips crashing into yours, hands already sliding up your sides, lifting your shirt to bare your breasts.

Your legs parted on instinct.

His knee pressed between them, his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were real. You pulled at his hoodie. He dragged it off.

He wasn’t gentle and you didn’t want him to be. You guided his hand between your legs.

He groaned.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” he rasped. “All I did was show you how bad I want you.”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his belt.

Because this wasn’t sexting.This wasn’t a video. This wasn’t pretend.

This was real.

And you needed him inside you like oxygen.

—--

He pressed you against the wall like he was starved. He was frantic. There was no careful undressing. No asking. Just taking.

Your shirt was gone before you even realized it. You didn’t remember lifting your arms. You only remembered the sound of him groaning when he saw your bare chest, the heat of his mouth on your nipple, the way he bit down just enough to make you gasp.

He unzipped his jeans and, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free you almost dropped to your knees. But he grabbed your face, and kissed you again, deeper this time. 

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you.”

You didn’t argue,  you just turned and pressed your hands against the wall and arched your back, giving him everything.

He groaned. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaking wet folds, and then with one sharp thrust, he entered you. 

You gasped loudly.

He filled you, raw and perfect, like your body had been made to take him.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “This pussy’s unreal.”

You pressed your forehead to the wall, eyes shut, trying to breathe.He pulled back, then slammed into you again. Again. Again.

The sound of it was obscene.

Your walls clenched around him, as one hand slid under your body, finding your clit. He rubbed in tight circles as he fucked you deep.

“You close?” he panted. “You gonna come on me already?”

“Yes, God, don’t stop…”

He slammed into you harder.

“You want me to fill you again?”

“Yes, fuck, yes….”

“Say it.”

“I want your come,” you choked. “I want it inside me.”

He groaned, gripped your hips harder, and pounded into you like he meant to stay.

You came hard, shaking, gasping, and ruined.

He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and coming with a sound that made your whole body throb. You felt every pulse of it. Every drop.

He stayed like that for a moment. Inside you. Chest against your back. Breathing hard.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Softly. Almost sweet.

It that scared you more than anything else.

-----

Send asks, reblogs, comments. Let me know if you feel the way that I feel. 🫠

[daughterofheartshaven]

The Timeline of Irving Braxiatel

Irving Braxiatel is just about the Doctor Who character with the most broken timeline, and that's kind of an accomplishment. And, if you know me, I think that sort of thing is a challenge.

So when @oswinoswald15 asked me what was up with Pandora after the events of the Gallifrey story Mindbomb (if you don't know what that means, don't worry! I will explain), it quickly spiraled into something a lot more complicated. @dearsweetleela and @i-would-like-a-jelly-baby also expressed interest in seeing this, and I hope you both enjoy.

So I could just do this as a "here's the timeline here's what I think" but I think it would be really interesting to take this era by era - breaking down each era of Doctor Who spin-off material Braxiatel has appeared in and how I would construct a timeline using just those stories. My motivation here is in part because I think that's cool, but also in part because I think it helps to understand Brax's timeline if we look back to before it broke in the early 2010s. The way this will work is that I will discuss an era of the franchise, then show what I think Brax's timeline would look like at that point. I'm also color-coding this: red for Virgin Doctor Who books, purple for Virgin Bernice Summerfield books, pink for Big Finish Bernice Summerfield, and blue for Gallifrey audios.

So without further ado, I welcome you to another journey through the wormhole of the Doctor Who expanded universe, with a focus on the man that is Irving Braxiatel. Have fun!

1994-1996: The Doctor Who New Adventures

This starts simple. Irving Braxiatel was introduced in the Virgin New Adventure Theatre of War (or, if you're feeling pedantic, he got a brief cameo at the end of the VNA that came right before it, Legacy. I will be treating that as part of Theatre of War for the rest of this essay), where he was shown to be an old friend of the Seventh Doctor and the owner of the Braxiatel Collection - an art and archelogy collection established on an asteroid owned by the man himself. The story is set in the year 3985, but it is implied that the Collection has existed for a very long time by this point. We see his personality - he's the Brax we know and love from the word go - but he's not given any sort of backstory beyond "he and the Doctor go way back." Most of his "screentime" in the book is dedicated to his interactions with the Doctor's companion Bernice "Benny" Summerfield, and the dynamic between the two is absolute top tier.

Braxiatel appeared twice more while Virgin Publishing held the license to make Doctor Who books. The Empire of Glass is a First Doctor book, and explicitly established Braxiatel as a Time Lord who, at the time this book is set, still lives on Gallifrey. The Empire of Glass positions Braxiatel as an interventionist who has been trying to effect policy change from the inside, with a decent success.

And finally, we have Happy Endings, which is a full book dedicated to Benny's wedding. Braxiatel is a guest in attendance at the wedding, but the most plot-important thing he does is play cricket. (Interestingly, Romana also appears in this book, although she and Braxiatel do not interact.)

At this point, the timeline is very straightforward. Brax was on Gallifrey for a bit, then he left and founded the Braxiatel Collection where he met Benny, and then later came to her wedding.

Current timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings

1997-1999: The New Adventures of Bernice Summerfield

After Virgin Publishing lost the license to make Doctor Who books, they spent a few years making books with characters they could still license. A post-TARDIS-travels Bernice Summerfield was the star of these books, and Braxiatel became one of the most important recurring characters. The primary setting for these books is St. Oscar's University on the planet Dellah in the 2590s.

Braxiatel is introduced in the second book starring Benny, Dragons' Wrath, where he was was presented as the head of St Oscar's Department of Theatrology. Notably, Brax has no idea who Benny is. This makes sense though, because Theatre of War is set in 3985, and Dragons' Wrath is set in 2593. And indeed, throughout the Benny VNAs, we see Brax planning set up his namesake collection (including purchasing the asteroid it resides on). So from a timeline perspective, this is after he left Gallifrey but well before Theatre of War. Fair enough.

One other thing that showed up in the Benny VNAs were connections to the War in Heaven plot the BBC-published books were currently getting into - specifically, the Benny VNAs showed Braxiatel's people (not named as the Time Lords, but them being the Time Lords had already been established) as gearing up for war. This will be relevant to some things I do much later.

(Btw, I am separating Dragons' Wrath from the rest of the Benny VNAs from the timeline to make some things I'm gonna have to do later easier. For now, just bear with me.)

Current timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Dragons' Wrath -> Benny VNAs -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings

2000-2002: Big Finish Bernice Summerfield

After Virgin stopped publishing books altogether, the licenses for the Bernice Summerfield characters were grabbed by a group of Doctor Who fans who had been making unofficial Doctor Who audio stories. Calling their new company Big Finish, these fans published some audio adaptions of Bernice Summerfield novels that impressed the BBC enough to give Big Finish the license to make Doctor Who audio stories as well. Big Finish then started making two lines of original stories: one starring the Doctor, and the other starring Benny.

The Big Finish Benny series was basically a continuation of the Virgin New Adventures Benny series. It picks up (in-universe) four years after the last Benny VNA, and transfers the main setting from Dellah to the newly-founded Braxiatel collection. (Which is just as well, as Dellah was effectively destroyed in the finale of the Benny VNAs).

The original Big Finish Benny series ended up running for eleven series (the first series being the previously-mentioned audio adaptions), and while a lot of things happen over the ten series of original stories, it is all presented as "in order" from Braxiatel's perspective, meaning we can just slot it in after the Benny VNAs without issue.

Current timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Dragons' Wrath -> Benny VNAs -> Benny Big Finish series 2-11 -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings

2003-2006: Gallifrey series 1-3

Knowing who reads my essays, you probably are familiar with the Gallifrey series. But if you aren't...

In 2003, Big Finish wanted to do a celebration for Doctor Who's 40th anniversary, and so they created the story Zagreus. Zagreus has... a lot of moving parts, but it also featured former companions Romana and Leela, who were both living on Gallifrey at the time. The episode also featured a brief appearance of Braxiatel, also on Gallifrey.

The next year, Big Finish would release a new series called Gallifrey, set on Gallifrey, with Braxiatel as one of the main characters. The series establishes that Braxiatel has lived his whole life on Gallifrey so far, but he is in contact with his future self, who is strongly implied to be the version of Braxiatel from the Bernice Summerfield series.

Halfway through the second season of Gallifrey, Brax is infected by a... let's just call her an evil mind virus, called Pandora. If Braxiatel remains on Gallifrey, Pandora will escape, but if he leaves Gallifrey, he can keep it contained within his mind. So he takes a Tardis and leaves.

Meanwhile, the in Bernice Summerfield series, Braxiatel had been acting increasingly shady and malicious, and one audio (The Crystal of Cantus) very strongly implies the reason for this is that Pandora is still in his mind and his defenses against her are slowly wearing down.

One month after the release of The Crystal of Cantus, Braxiatel returns to the Gallifrey in the episode Mindbomb. There, he uses Pandora as the titular mindbomb, and releases most of Pandora into Darkel, who promptly dies. However, he still has some amount of Pandora in his head, so he has to leave Gallifrey once more. It's a little unclear if Mindbomb is supposed to be before or after the Bernice Summerfield series, but the first two series of Gallifrey are presented as recent for him - he has not been gone from Gallifrey long.

Brax returns to the Gallifrey series again in the series 3 finale, Panacea. This time it is implied to be much later for him - he timescoops the rest of the main cast into the ruins of the Braxiatel collection, he refers to the events of Mindbomb as one would for something that happened far in the past, and he is also using the name Irving for the first time in Gallifrey. (For the record, had been using it consistently in the Benny series). And finally, no mention is made of Pandora being in his head. All of this make me believe that Panacea was originally intended to take place long after the Gallifrey series from Braxiatel's perspective, with the Pandora thing presumably being planned to be resolved in the Benny audios.

(also on my little timeline, I'm treating Zagreus as episode zero of Gallifrey for point of convenience).

Current timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Gallifrey series 1-2 -> Mindbomb -> Dragons' Wrath -> Benny VNAs -> Benny Big Finish series 2-11 -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings -> Panacea

2007-2010: More Big Finish Bernice Summerfield

Gallifrey's third series was originally planned to be it's last, and indeed, the series ceased production at that point. However, Brax continued to appear in the Bernice Summerfeild series, where he descends into the closest thing the series has to a main villain. Brax is ultimately fatally shot in the 2010 audio Escaping the Future, but the timeline in which that happened is destroyed shortly afterwards, leaving his fate in the Benny series unknown.

None of this changes our current timeline, as the default assumption is that he survives and goes on to appear in the stories taking place afterwards.

Current timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Gallifrey series 1-2 -> Mindbomb -> Dragons' Wrath -> Benny VNAs -> Benny Big Finish series 2-11 -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings -> Panacea

2011: Gallifrey IV (and the giant retcon)

In 2011, the Gallifrey series made a glorious return, picking up straight from where it had left off in 2006 in Panacea. In the first story of Gallifrey IV, Reborn, the ruins of the Braxiatel Collection as seen in Panacea are retconned into being an unrelated place called the Axis.

In it's second story, Disassembled, Braxiatel is thrown through a time window, with his destination left unknown to the rest of the Gallifrey cast. However, Disassembled ends with the conversation between Braxiatel and Benny that happens at the start of Dragons' Wrath, showing that he landed in Dellah, and nicely leading into the start of the Big Finish Benny series.

For the timeline, this means that Panacea needs to be moved to before any of the Bernice Summerfield stuff. This doesn't break anything else though.

(Oh and if anyone is feeling pedantic, I am including 2024's The Questing Beast as part of Gallifrey IV since despite being released over a decade later it is set directly amongst the Gallifrey IV stories)

Current timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Gallifrey series 1-2 -> Mindbomb -> Panacea -> Gallifrey IV -> Dragons' Wrath -> Benny VNAs -> Benny Big Finish series 2-11 -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings

2012-2013: Bernice Summerfield boxsets

(where this all goes to hell)

Ohhhhhhhhhh boy.

Following the conclusion of series 11 of Bernice Summerfeild, the series did a soft retool and switched to a boxset format. The first boxset (Epoch) forshadowed that Brax would return to the series, which he finally does in the finale of the second boxset, Road Trip. Brax proceeds to be a main character in the next three boxsets of Benny's series (Legion, New Frontiers, and Missing Persons)

Over the course of his appearances in these box sets, Braxiatel also claims the following things.

He believes himself to be from a different reality then the Braxiatel Benny knows, but is not certain about this.

He's been in this universe for a bit.

He knows what the Braxiatel of Benny's reality did secondhand from other people

He has met Benny once, in the scene we saw at the end of Disassembled (i.e., the start of Dragons' Wrath), but has not seen her since then

He does not know if the Braxiatel of Benny's reality is alive or dead

So let's break that down. I'm gonna refer to the Gallifrey Brax and the Dellah Brax here for the depictions of the characters from those two series (with Gallifrey Brax being the Brax from the Gallifrey series and the Benny boxsets, and the Dellah Brax being from the Benny VNAs and Big Finish Benny series 2-11).

What they were trying to do at the time was say that Gallifrey Brax and Dellah Brax were Braxiatels from different universes, and transplant Gallifrey Brax into the Bernice Summerfield series.

First things first, Gallifrey Brax is lying about at least one of those. There is a short story (Wurm Nior) that depicts him having contact with the Dellah Brax. He successfully hides this from Benny, suspecting she would kill them both if she found out. This also shows us that Gallifrey Brax isn't just a continuation from the Dellah Brax, since the Dellah Brax is still around. I also believe that Gallifrey Brax's assumption that he is not in his native universe is incorrect, as there are multiple other ways in which the Gallifrey series and the Benny series indirectly connect. So Gallifrey Brax and Dellah Brax are the same person. (and incidentally Brax being mistaken about that makes a lot of sense given some of the events of Gallifrey IV)

With those out of the way, I see no reason to assume that he is wrong or lying about having met Benny only once before, since Disassembled explicitly leads into Dragons' Wrath. This just leaves the problem of Dragons' Wrath being in both Braxiatel's stories.

I think my solution to this is pretty simple (and the fact that I think this is simple probably says a lot about me and my approach to Doctor Who continuity). Gallifrey Brax landed on Dellah, after Disassembled. He saw that his future self (Dellah Brax) was as a professor at St Oscar's, but was off-planet for some reason. So he takes the place of Brax for that book, then leaves the Dellah Brax a note saying "you've met Benny now!" Much later, Gallifey Brax goes back in time to become Dellah Brax, and sees the note and plays along.

Still with me?

So this means that after Disassembled, we have Dragons' Wrath, and then Brax just hangs out until the time of the boxsets.

Oh and since I know we're following Pandora as well, there is a story that confirms a Soul Sucker named Avril Fenman took Pandora out of the Gallifrey Brax and put her in Dellah Brax.

The last box set, Missing Persons, ends with Benny and her friends defeating the time-active creatures/group called the Epoch, giving them access to temporal technology. It's worth noting that Benny's next appearance has her travelling alone, without any of the supporting cast from these box sets, so I think a reasonable supposition could be that Gallifrey Brax took his share of the time tech to the Braxiatel collection (which Dellah Brax had abandoned by this point) and running the collection, before (much later) going back in time to found the thing to become what Dellah Brax. At this point, I have no evidence for if Theatre of War or the VNAs and Big Finish series should come first, so this decision is arbitrary, but I will get evidence for that in the next section.

Current timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Gallifrey series 1-2 -> Mindbomb -> Panacea -> Gallifrey IV -> Dragons' Wrath -> Road Trip -> Legion -> New Frontiers -> Missing Persons -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings -> Benny VNAs -> Benny Big Finish series 2-11

2015-2021: Gallifrey: Time War

Braxiatel returned, again, to the Gallifrey series in the story Intervention Earth / Enemy Lines (which in retrospect act as a lead-in to the Time War), and then proceeds to be a part of the Gallifrey: Time War series. Braxiatel shows up at the end of Intervention Earth, having apparently been off-planet this whole time. He then goes back in Gallifrey's recent history in order to change it in Enemy Lines.

Enemy Lines also features open acknowledgement of how broken Braxiatel's timeline had gotten, with it ending with him going to go try to fix that with the help of the temporal entity known as the watchmaker. I'm not gonna get into Brax's role in Gallifrey: Time War because of spoilers, and also because I don't need to. Every other story he has been in is pre-Time War, so his appearances in Gallifrey: Time War take place after everything else.

Intervention Earth / Enemy Lines's proximity to the Time War is why I place the Benny VNAs and the Big Finish Benny series after Theatre of War and Happy Endings, for the record. The Benny VNAs delt with the lead up to the War in Heaven, and if you have read my other essays you may know that I consider the War in Heaven to be the same conflict as the Last Great Time War. And so it makes sense to me that following the Bernice Summerfield series, he returns to Gallifrey right in the middle of the events of Intervention Earth.

So basically we stick his actual return to Gallifrey on the end of the timeline and call it a day.

Final timeline: The Empire of Glass -> Gallifrey series 1-2 -> Mindbomb -> Panacea -> Gallifrey IV -> Dragons' Wrath -> Road Trip -> Legion -> New Frontiers -> Missing Persons -> Theatre of War -> Happy Endings -> Benny VNAs -> Benny Big Finish series 2-11 -> Intervention Earth/Enemy Lines -> Gallifrey: Time War

Okay, so what about Pandora?

Okay so I do need to answer Lucero's original question, which was "What happened to Pandora after Mindbomb?"

My take on that is that even though Panacea was retconned to being before the Bernice Summerfield series, it still feels like some time has passed for Brax between Mindbomb and Panacea. I believe that in that time, Braxiatel has found a way to safely contain Pandora in his mind to a point where he believes she is no longer an issue, and can interact with Time Lords and visit the alternate Gallifreys on the Axis without issue. However, when he gets thrown out of the Axis and onto Dellah in Dissassembled, he is disoriented enough

I kinda blipped past this plot point earlier, but the audio story The Curse of Fenman explicitly says that the Soul Sucker Avril Fenman (herself something of a mind virus) took Pandora from Gallifrey Brax's mind and put it in Dellah Brax's. With the understanding of my timeline, this means from Brax's perspective, shortly after he arrived on Dellah Pandora was yoinked out of his mind.

Then, several hundred years in his future, once he had become Dellah Brax, Fenman returned Pandora to his mind. His skills had decayed after centuries of not interacting with the Time Lords, so his ability to contain her was much less consistent. However, when he died in the destructing timeline in Escaping the Future, he was able to leave Pandora behind in his dying body in the version of history that was destroyed, meaning that Pandora was destroyed. And once he felt confident enough in Pandora's destruction, he set course for Gallifrey and returned home for Intervention Earth / Enemy Lines.

Okay I think that's it! Follow-up questions and requests for clarification are always welcome, and I hope this was interesting and made sense!

[cultkinkcoven]

Difficult things that Lord Lucifer has genuinely helped me work through

NSFW

Lord Lucifer is the damn therapist. Shadow work with him involves working through A LOT of unconscious biases and past trauma. He makes me realize things about myself that I’d never thought about.

Addiction

A big one. Lucifer has helped me not only accept my addiction but navigate it in a way that is not harmful or reductive. He’s helped me go on tolerance breaks, helped me substitute harmful habits and substances with more positive ones, and has generally just helped me be more honest with myself

Dysphoria specifically around dominance

For a long time I’ve struggled a lot with carrying myself as a man especially in the bedroom, and Lucifer has played a huge role in dismantling my internal fears and doubts during intimacy.

Childhood trauma- acknowledging and accepting that it happened

Lord Lucifer has helped me realize that many of the behaviours I have grown to accept as normal were actually very abusive and harmful. Every now and then he’ll drop a line like “by the way, it was your father who was selfish for leaving you. There is nothing you could have done about it and you need to stop blaming yourself for that.” And I’ll be like damn dude I didn’t even know I was still blaming myself for that. He tracks down the origins of very subtle and unconscious lines of thinking and makes you very aware that they are the results of trauma, not just something wrong or weird about you.

Forgiveness

Related to the last one. I would have never thought Lord Lucifer would encourage me to rebuild my relationship with my mom who I have a long and tense history with. After years of living on my own and establishing my own independence, Lucifer encouraged me to try and make amends in my own time, not out of obligation but for my own mental peace. I didn’t just accept my mom and all the things she did, I had to remain very firm on new boundaries that Lucifer helped me establish. But through this, I have actually been able to have somewhat of a relationship with those who have harmed me in the past.

World related anxiety

Lucifer and I are both constantly watching the world to stay in the know. That at times can be extremely exhausting and anxiety inducing with all the terrible things constantly happening. Lucifer has helped me out a lot in not spiralling into nihilism or depression in wake of recent events. He has always encouraged me to take that pain or anxiety and turn it into something positive that may help the situation. And even if there is nothing I can do, he assures me that the act of caring in itself is meaningful.

Body image

Also dysphoria related. Lucifer has helped me just appreciate and love my body so much more. He helped me stop self harming completely, and has made me genuinely enjoy parts of myself I used to despise. I am no longer all that concerned with feeling ugly or fat etc. for one- being desired by Lucifer and my bf simultaneously is a huge confidence booster, but I know that I just look unique, my body is unique, and no one else is like me. That in itself is worthy of celebration. And with the introduction of possession and vesselhood, I now see my body as a holy object/tool/possession of his. So I like to take good care of it for him.

Ancestral history and connection

I’m a black man with little to no relationship with my biological family, so I have never felt a strong connection to my own bloodline or ancestors. I live in a country that my parents immigrated to, I have no memory of my home island. Lucifer has, through various spiritual work, helped me reestablish a strong cultural connection to my ancestors. I always feared that they would think poorly of me due to my being queer and atypical, but I was pleased to find that my identity was cherished and protected by my spiritual ancestors.

Mental health and fear of being crazy

A HUGE one. Lucifer helped me completely dismantle my backwards views on “craziness” and things like psychosis and hallucinations. He helped me understand that having hallucinations isn’t the end of the world, that people can manage mental health and spirituality, and that the neurodiverse can absolutely have relationships with the divine. He’s helped me generally regulate my mental health and be vigilant of red flags. He’s also helped me learn how to navigate my unique psychology rather than working against it.

Dismantling colonial ideas in my mind

Lucifer almost immediately went to work on dismantling my understanding of money, value, community, and discipline. We’ve had countless conversations about the prison industry, the exploitation and genocide of indigenous peoples carried out by my government, lies taught to me during school that made me think negatively towards addicts and users. The incorrect and misleading history I was told about the formation of the United States. The lie of eternal capitalism, the concept of racial or sex superiority. Unquestioned authorities implemented into our minds since kindergarten, Lucifer dismantles all of it. Any line of thinking that originates in colonialism, he will challenge.

The fear of death

This is also a big one. There is no way for me to explain this simply but the tldr is, through Lucifer and my work with psychopomps like Hermes and Cerberus, I have come to understand that death is nothing to be afraid of, it isn’t painful. It is deeply soothing and relaxing, and every impression I’ve had of it was peaceful. I no longer fear the inevitable, I actually welcome it when the time is right. It makes life a lot more enjoyable and less stressful knowing that at the end of it all, something very nice is waiting for me. Not a stereotypical Heaven or holy place, but a very primal and complete sense of holding, of soothing. Being cradled by the universe, the mother herself. I do not know if there is life after death or any of those shenanigans, but I’m excited to find out in due time.

Accepting softness and care

Yeah sure, I’m a grown man, a sovereign individual, a god and king in my own right. But I am also his baby. I also not only deserve but should be pampered and shown sweetness often. I’m allowed to get upset and cry, and when I do I should have someone there to hold me. I am strong and capable, but I am also allowed to be weak sometimes and ask for help. There is nothing diminishing or embarrassing about being loved.

[ghouljams]

Oh my gosh I'm so so sorry that my ask came off as 'this isn't badass enough for me' because that wasn't it at all. I word things terribly sometimes, I was not suggesting to change the way you're writing it at all and I'm so sorry it came off that way DX I love the hades and demeter au because of the way you write it and how everything has played out, it's wonderfully thought out and I feel like I'll fumble my words again if I try to verbalize how much I love it *because* of the exact things you laid out in your post describing the thoughts of Kore and reader. They don't need to be girlboss or anything (ik you said it was a joke but I do feel bad it came off as that at all) I love it the way it is, as I love all your writing I'm just absolutely terrible with words mb

no need to apologize! like i said the "#girlboss" thing was a joke because i totally get where you're coming from. there are a lot of stories that i have read/watched that make me so angry because if that were me i would have done things completely different.

i think there is this common fantasy of being able to expedite problem solving through the use of violence. it's a fantasy i have had and it's one that we see often in television and movies. but violence has consequences: you kill Price and suddenly your daughter hates you, suddenly you realize you can't actually kill him because he's a god, suddenly you are in the path of a violent man and you can't save anyone but yourself, especially when i am writing it. everything must have an equal and opposite reaction (though equality will be determined by those enacting the opposite reaction)

my intention behind laying out the thought processes of both Kore and Demeter!reader was mostly that i had been thinking about Kore's journey underground, but also because i suspected many people were confused as to why we didn't just go scorched earth on Price. from our perspective he is the villain, but has he actually done anything to hurt our child or be creepy towards her? No, I would say he's actively nurtured her and worked to keep us in her good graces (which he was manipulating her but manipulating a 3 year old is just like... buying them a barbie, i wouldn't call it any sort of grand scheme).

maybe this is too woke idk but so much of the violence towards women in greek mythology is them being positioned as less than male gods. i mourn for Hestia because adding another throne was never even considered as an option when a new man came into the fray. i hate that Hera is portrayed as vindictive and irrational about her husband routinely cheating on her. i hate that Demeter is not the one to save her daughter, that she is denied the ability to see her little girl up until the very end because a man took a liking to her. i hate that in order to retain any semblance of respect goddesses must remain virginal (unmarried but also sexually pure). and tbh i think it sucks that aphrodite is constantly portrayed as vapid and self-serving when love should be something more than a skin deep thing.

ultimately i don't think hades!price is even close to being the villain of this story, he's positioned as an antagonist but in my mind the true villains are the gods on olympus who would have let one of their own rot in the underworld if it meant they kept getting offerings from Demeter's hard work.

all of this to say, i really wanted an outlet to explain myself because i knew people would likely be upset about the way i was re-writing the myth. but my counter is: people read lore olympus so idk maybe give me a shot because i think my shit is more interesting?

[profounddefendorcrusade-blog]

Wander might have such an exceptional memory that he remembers almost every good and bad thing that's ever happened to him. It's a rare but possible condition called hyperthymesia, where people can remember most of their life experiences in detail; Wander's already a genius (and also ambidextrous according to "The Egg"), so if he has this too, it wouldn't come off as a surprise to me. Meditating, living in the present, helping, playing instruments etc. all help Wander not think about these memories (especially the bad ones, but being overwhelmed with good memories is tough, too this poor man can't catch a break. no wonder he's so hyper and learned so many skills, he constantly has to do things to keep his thoughts & feelings at bay)

What keeps Wander from dwelling on the bad things around him is not just his naturally lighthearted, feel-first-think-second personality "The Black Cube" implies he's once felt angry and like the world is unfair, but in "The Wanders," we see how Wander is shown to have been naturally charismatic BEFORE the tragedy happened, so that means being lighthearted is his default except that he used to be more arrogant but also those hyperfixations with an idea (usually tied to helping others) that we see in the show (finding the sock's owner, getting Hater and Dominator together, opening the box, delivering Hater's letter to Dominator...)

Whenever a bad thing happened to him, Wander would replace it with something positive and/or new information about others until the bad was forgotten. That's why he always seems happy (the thing is, he DID learn to find happiness in the little things, but deep down, Wander doesn't deal with his own darkness and past because he buried/pushed them aside in favor of good vibes) what he didn't forget tho is his origin story and name, he can't forget that even if he'd want to Wander is proof you can really hide so many things behind a smile

In "My Fair Hatey," we see Wander being a badass again, not only because he handled weapons (swords, a spike) with ease, but also bc he threw Hater right towards HUGE knives and axes, then zapped him in a electric chair SO CASUALLY, more than once what even is going on with this dude. he obv got used to dodging weapons ("the gift" comes to mind) and danger overall. but there's just no way he learned to DO all this himself during his "nice guy" era. also, wander learns stuff from experience , so... i think this further supports the idea that he used to be a "regular" hero

I love how, after everything he put Hater through in this single song, Wan has no problem showing he's annoyed with him. Amazing not to mention pumping hater up (literally)

Speaking of their dynamic (again), Sylvia first soothed Child Wander, and only then did she put it back into Wander (that's why, after CW became a part of him again, Wander felt grateful instead of terrified like he was seconds earlier). If Wander's parts were to ever split again somehow, Sylvia would help him. As flawed as their friendship is (from both sides), this is so important to me

Wander could one day decide to trust Sylvia enough to reveal his deeper side because he HAS one, he just seems shallow, just like this entire show and not just give basic information like his age and how he got his hat, but he's so private that I don't think he ever will. What's heartwarming tho is how Sylvia would actually listen If Wander ever decided to open up to her. Maybe she doesn't understand his ways but she would definitely try to

We know Wander loves attention, but also feels worthless, so this could be yet another reason why he won't open up to others; everyone else always comes first to him and his own pain isn't as important in his eyes, if at all. He can (superficially, impersonally) deal with others' darkness, like the Black Cube's, and in "The Bad Hatter" he says about his hat:

which means Wander learned how to handle challenges and improvise (so you'd think he has it all figured out even if he's not happy-go-lucky all the time)

It's also not that a part of him doesn't know or accept that he's been through so much pain (Wander is very self-aware after all),

but he doesn't seem to be able to OR want to sit with others' deep negative feelings (he always quickly helps people except w/ hater bc he sees himself in him then moves on, gives pep talks that seem like borderline toxic positivity, tries to lighten the mood with a song etc.), and especially his own (avoids truly opening up about himself, what his real name is and who he is, never sobs out of pain, tries to shoo away the memory of his real name, is shown to deal with fear by avoiding it/using toxic positivty/running away, flinches/looks traumatized whenever he is in the presence of Child Wander i really think the reason why wander smiled gratefully at syl and wasn't in emotional pain when she put that part of him back inside him is bc she had previously soothed (but not healed) it)

In "The Night" we learn that Wander can't sit in silence for long without something to do or someone to talk to

It could just be ADHD-coding/him feeling bored by himself, but looking at the bigger picture I think this also has to do with Wander's mind constantly having to wander off somewhere because if it doesn't, the deep stuff he pushed aside might resurface

I don't think I've said this when I talked about Wander in "The Void"/"Inside Your Mind", but the faces he makes in that episode while in his imaginary world don't give me the vibe of someone who is having fun in there. It feels creepy/unsettling + the manipulation of Sylvia hints at Wander wanting her to be a part of his world (since he only imagined himself in there) by forcing her to also develop borderline toxic positivity like him so he doesn't feel alone in how he copes

Everyone treats Wander as a young man and he doesn't seem to mind (yeah, he looks younger than he is and would look even younger without the beard, but Wander might actually be a younger man if we go by Star Nomad years).

The times where he's been called 'son':

This guy called Wander 'son' 6 time in total

There's also Stella Starbella calling him 'sweetie'...

...and Hater, Wander and Sylvia teaching an old man how to use a phone (which means that, no matter how old Hater & Wander are chronologically, they're treated as a part of the younger generation i guess mental age is what counts in woy, bc mentally, wan DOES act like a young man in his 20s or early 30s, while hater's like a teenager)

(Don't know why but-) I decided to determine Wander's personality based on the way he holds a pen, and found out he's described like THIS

Loves learning new things and meeting new people, observant, will not bother talking to some people or annoying/reforming them (troll, Ryder, Screwball Jones), but will keep trying to annoy/reform others (Hater, Major Threat), mysterious, emotionally guarded, life of the party, prefers to show a brave/happy face... HOW IS THIS SO ACCURATE this character is writing himself, i swear

I also love how one of Wander's socks is sometimes pulled up slightly more than the other. Them being uneven gives him a "hippie," carefree feel.

Just look at him in the pilot, he looks like he's in his own world

In "The End Of The Galaxy," he looks so scared and feels so small

Wan adores loud parties ("The Party Animal"), but when a loud enivornment is also violent, he gets sensory overload

[cchickennn]

I NEED TO UNPACK ALL THIS AAHH

OKAY OKAY

so first of all, those were the words i actually said to my little sister!! she's only 9 but already having those thoughts of hating herself, and i legit thought this would never happen to me, but i saw myself in her for once (we are actually so different)

since she's only 9, she didn't know how to fully express herself, so eventually my mother figured out. my mother does not react good with the sort of mental stuff, and my sister kept crying and crying.

eventually, when we got time alone, i asked her about her mind. she says that her mind says mean things to her, and even curses at her.

i had to think of something do to, otherwise, she'd end up more and more like me. i have a very difficult time thinking anything good of myself, and i didn't want her to get to that point, no matter how annoyed or irritated i might be at her.

so i told her that if her mind was ever mean to her, she should come to me instead.

i felt like that did something for me too honestly.

then i try to make more of an effort to play with her (she loves playing genshin with me, we even played today!!)

so yeah, that's the story, sorry for the little rant, haha

OKAY MOVING ON

FICLET!! i totally forgot the mention of it, so maybe the little rant might actually be useful to contextualize it!! haha. and if you do actually write it, please please PLEASE let me know, knowing that i inspired someone means the world to me :D

AND YEAH THAT'S WHY I ASKED ONE TIME IF YOU EVER PLAYED AN INSTRUMENT, I WAS CURIOUS!!! then i kinda forgot to say that i can play piano, whoops :P

BUT YEAH YOU CAN REALLY FEEL EMOTION FROM PIANO, AND ALSO YOU GOT EMOTIONAL FROM IT?!??! I'M SO SHOCKED IN A POSITIVE WAY WAAAAAHH I CAN'T BELIEVE MY PIANO PLAYING CAN MAKE PEOPLE EMOTIONAL LIKE THAT!!!

AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE BIRTHDAY WISH AND PRESENT!!! i will get the character i want in honor of you (Flins)

AGAIN THANK YOUUU I TRULY DO APPRECIATE YOU SO SO SO SO MUCH!!!!!!!!

Drawing one Fire Emblem character each day until my summer vacation ends

Birthday special! Paired up with my piano cover of Lyon!

Day 47 - Lyon, Fire Emblem Sacred Stones (Request by @lyonfe8 and @cchickennn, Lyon text by @luce-speaks)

[cacw]

I think online mutual culture is killing some of you

[hanzajesthanza]

just wanna say, im rewatching your the witcher video essay for like the 5th time lol and it’s truly such an infallible piece of work for when one is bored and wants to enrich themselves somehow. on top of being such a thorough and competent examination of the story as well ofc. so thanks i guess lmaoo

i'm so happy to hear that! i'm already honored that people watch, and a rewatch is a double honor. so this is like a quintuple honor!

[cold-neon-ocean]

2, 9 for LOK?

✨ love your fandom ask game ✨ 

2. A headcanon you weren't sure about at first but have come to like!

Ooh this one is kinda tough~ I'm generally rather removed from the fandom at large so I actually don't really know of a lot of popular headcanons out there, let alone ones I initially didn't like and came to like~ I really only ever consumed content about Baatar and Kuvira as they're my favorites, and with them I'd either like a headcanon outright, or dislike it outright. I will say, at least in the limited fan content I've consumed, there is a common idea of Baatar having gone to university in Ba Sing Se for a period of time. I've seen at least 3 folks use that in their writings for him, and while it was never something I was "unsure" about, I didn't initially include the idea in my version of him. I don't know who penned that headcanon first but I was always hesitant about being seen as "copying" anyone lol. I do like the idea though, especially with my very codependent versions of Baatar and Kuvira, some time apart like that during their "good years" would be rather interesting, since they have been in each other's lives for most of their lives, Baatar choosing to go where Kuvira can't follow- even for a short period of time, I can see her holding against him for a little while. Especially with her preexisting abandonment issues.

9. A ship that isn't your OTP but you enjoy

Once again I'm pretty singularly invested in Baatar and Kuvira but there are definitely some canon and fan ships that I like! Canon wise I'll always have a soft spot for Bolin and Opal, just because they're cute and I like the potential dynamic it creates with Baatar specifically. A lot of it is pretty contingent on my rewrite versions, but what can I say, I'm a bit of a sucker for puppy love. Lyn and Kya was an early ship I'd see in the fandom that I always was like *Kermit nodding gif* ooh yeah I like that, and I've also seen Lyn and Bumi which I also really like, but I never really delved into fan works of either admittedly. I'll confess that lately the crack ship of Baatar and Zhu Li has been on my mind, but definitely not as a positive ship in any way, more like a mutually waged psychological warfare that they aren't even trying to hide from each other kind. I don't remember what sparked the idea- I'm not usually one for crack ships as I tend to be pretty single-ship through and through, but it's been a fun dynamic to think about, especially the kinds of conversations they'd have.

[arolesbianism]

Oh and to be clear with my beastieball team building I have gone into the game basically completely blind so I am just working off of what I've seen within the game for hypothetical team building

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 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 shots. 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)

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 says, 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 it, 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.

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. Warmth 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 humid 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.

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 followin’ me. Had been doin’ 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. 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 struggle to 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.

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 all 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 swell 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, sweetheart. 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. 

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. 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, and 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?” he asks 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.

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.

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 somethin’. 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 surround 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 cheek, 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.” He trails 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 laughin’?”

“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. Just thinkin’ 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.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[nadvs]

the power play (part one)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

tags college au. fake dating. grumpy athlete/sunshine tutor. reader is bubbly, talkative, and passionate about literature. very slowburn. he falls first. alcohol use. suggestive moments, but no smut.

power play (noun)

an offensive tactic in a team sport; a deliberate attempt to manipulate someone.

════════

You hoped it wouldn’t feel the way it used to, but as you sit in the stands behind the home bench next to Lyla, it’s all the same.

You’re watching Beck zip across the ice with a painfully familiar sense of longing hammering into your chest. Falling for him always felt inevitable; you just didn’t expect that he wouldn’t be there to catch you.

When you and Lyla became friends in the ninth grade, you quickly grew close to her family, spending more time at their house than your own, tagging along to watch her twin brother’s hockey games.

The more you got to know Beck, the more you fell under his spell, charmed by his warmth, by every part of him that made him the most captivating person you’d ever met.

He stole your heart. Considering the way he treated you, you were sure you’d stolen his, too.

You spent most of last semester helping him with a class, even though you were in the same overwhelming throws of being a college freshman. Every study session in his dorm room drifted by with an undercurrent of certainty that he felt something, too.

It crushed you to realize that it’d all been in your head. A few weeks ago, you’d met him after his final exam, which he said he knew he nailed thanks to you.

You thought he was finally going to make the move that felt like it’d been hanging over you for years. But all he did was pull you into a side-hug and say, “You’re more of a friend to me than my own sister.”

Thinking about it still makes you cringe. You hate how weak you feel ruminating over this, trying to get over someone you were never even with.

It’s a Wednesday night two weeks into the spring semester, and you’re at the first home game you’ve been to in a while. Although you’ve always loved the loud, buzzing atmosphere of a hockey game, you’ve been staying far away from the campus arena and the man who hurt you.

You haven’t spoken to Beck. And he hasn’t reached out. What he did was an indirect rejection, his way of saying, It’s obvious that you like me and I need you to know once and for all that I don’t like you back.

Since then, every time your best friend has asked you to come to games or parties, you’ve told her you’ve been too busy, using your new position in a tutoring program as your excuse.

You prefer a distraction from Beck, and helping other students with a subject you’re passionate about has done the job.

But you can’t blow Lyla off forever, so now, you’re sitting with her in the stands among a small crowd of spectators.

The championship season begins in a month. Every seat will be full then. But you wish more people were around now. You welcome any noise to drown out your thoughts.

Everyone else cheers when Beck smashes the puck against the back of the net, securing the team’s first goal. You find it hard to join the celebration. Even though you’ve always thought of him as kind, you wonder if he could tell how much you liked him. If he consciously led you on.

For years, you’d watched him date other girls, hoping he’d finally realize you were the right one for him all along. You daydreamed far too much about him, imagining that he’d become your first boyfriend and take you on your first date and give you your first kiss.

The alarm blares to signal the end of the second period, pulling you out the haze you’ve fallen into a thousand times since that day in front of his exam room.

“You want to get some snacks?” Lyla asks.

“Sure,” you reply, doing your best impression of a girl with nothing weighing on her.

Once you walk up to the end of one of the arena’s concession stand lines, Lyla recognizes the people standing in front of you, greeting both girls with smiles and hugs.

Through introductions, you learn that Emma and Gabby are friends Lyla made at a party last semester. After some small talk as the line shuffles forward, Lyla points back to the rink.

“The seats next to us are empty if you want to sit with us,” she offers.

Emma and Gabby happily join you as you settle back in your seats soon after. You gaze ahead at the empty rink as they chat, the 3-1 score glaring above the ice in red neon numbers.

“No way the coach isn’t chewing them out right now,” Lyla says with a shake of her head.

“Why do you know on the team again?” Emma asks.

“My brother, Beck,” Lyla says. “You?”

Emma’s mouth twists into a tense smile.

“My ex,” she says, her voice lowering. “I wish he didn’t play, because I actually really love coming to these games.”

“Bad breakup?” you surmise.

“Brutal,” Gabby chimes in. You can tell by her expression that she’d supported her friend through the fallout.

“I just don’t want him to see me here and think it means something,” Emma sighs. “If he thinks that I want to get back together, it’ll be a disaster. We broke up a month ago and he’s still bothering me.”

You hardly know this girl, and you know her ex even less, but your reflex is to feel bad for him. You’re well acquainted with the pain that comes with caring about somebody who doesn’t want you.

“Oh, yeah,” Lyla remembers. “Rafe, right?”

Emma nods.

“Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Emma laughs.

The three girls share a knowing look, something unsaid passing through them.

You don’t know much about Rafe. On the rink, he’s a strong, aggressive defenseman, a sophomore who spends more time in the penalty box than any other player. You’ve seen him at a couple of parties, too, but never exchanged any words.

You don't understand the girls’ tense reactions to the mention of his name.

“What am I missing?” you half-whisper.

“You’d be missing nothing if you actually came to the parties I invite you to,” Lyla teases.

You can count on one hand how many parties you’ve been to since you started college. But it works for you. A party every few weeks is enough.

“I come when I can,” you reply, nudging her playfully. “Fill me in.”

“He’s a trainwreck,” Emma explains to you. “He has a million red flags that I ignored because I thought he was hot. Literally all we ever did was fight.”

“Yeah,” Lyla huffs, raising her brows. She looks at you. “Maybe it’s actually a good thing you don’t come to every party.”

You consider their words. They must have had a penchant for making a scene, shamelessly arguing in front of a crowd.

“I couldn’t take how mean and moody he was anymore. I dumped him and he won’t let it go.” Emma breathes a laugh. “It’s pathetic. He even called me crying the other night.”

Again, a confusing pang of sympathy for him hits you. It has to be your own heartbreak influencing you. You can’t imagine you’d normally feel bad for a guy described as having a million red flags.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“I’m over it,” Emma says carelessly.

“He’s not,” Gabby murmurs.

The players storm out on the rink again moments later, blades slicing the ice. They’re all so fast and powerful, and knowing that Rafe, the most forceful one of the group, is going through a version of the pain you are is oddly comforting.

A couple of minutes in, he gets thrown into the penalty box for charging an opponent. He skates to the opposite side of the rink, Cameron stitched across the black polyester of his jersey.

He stares at the floor as he waits out his penalty, tense, still. You think that if someone who looks so big and strong can hurt just like you, maybe you’re not as weak as you think.

════════

Rafe swings open the library entrance door with a scowl, irritated as hell that he has to be here. It’s annoying that the athletic department gives this much of a shit about players’ grades. Rafe knows he’s one of the best on the hockey team. He wishes that were enough.

Freshman year was fine, but he barely made it through last semester. He just failed his first assignment in a half-term literature course that was supposed to be an easy A.

Coach wasn’t pleased, saying it could screw up his GPA and deem him ineligible to play. Rafe tried to convince him that he’d do better on the next one, but Coach set him up with a tutor, unwilling to hear him out.

He’s already hardwired into a constant state of anger. Life has always been a storm, and now more than ever, there's no refuge in sight.

He's dealing with a coach who has no hope in him, on top of a painful breakup, on top of a shitty loss last night, on top of the fact that now he’s being forced to talk to a stranger about some boring book.

He can’t catch a break.

He looks at the email on his phone again. Study Room 205. He eventually finds the open door and taps his knuckles on it to get your attention.

You lock eyes with the person you’ve been waiting on for the last ten minutes. You had no idea who was coming up to meet you – just that the athletic department set it up.

But you know him. Or of him, at least.

A second ago, you were thinking about how you’ll have to ask whoever you’re meeting to be on time for future sessions. Now, your mind is consumed by the harsh words you heard about him last night.

“Hi,” you say politely. “Are you here for Lit Arts?”

He nods tersely in confirmation, stepping in. He drops his bag onto one of the empty chairs surrounding the square desk in the middle of the small room. You introduce yourself and when he sits down diagonally opposite to you, he murmurs, “Rafe.”

Discomfort swirls in your stomach. You’d heard something so personal about him at the rink, gazed at him in the penalty box from a distance, feeling like he’s a kindred spirit, and now you have to pretend like none of it happened.

“You’re on the hockey team, right?” you ask.

He realizes he’s seen you before. He can’t figure out where.

“Yeah.”

“I was at the game last night. Tough loss.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically. You clear your throat, figuring it’s best to skip the small talk.

“I took this class last semester. I know exactly how the prof grades, so you’re lucky to have me in your corner.”

Rafe is many things right now. Lucky isn’t one of them.

“Do you have your laptop?” you ask.

He unzips his bag and pulls out his computer.

“You can go to the course portal,” you tell him. He lets out an exhale as he navigates to the webpage. You lean closer to make sure that the class is currently on the book you brought with you.

You pull out your copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, page edges littered with different colored sticky tabs.

“Did you get a chance to start the book?” you ask.

He shakes his head. He’s not hiding that he really doesn’t want to be here. Nonetheless, you’re determined to crack him.

“Do you have a copy of it?”

“No.”

You nod slowly, picking up that he planned to coast through the class, not even bothering to buy and read any of the books.

“Do you like reading?” you ask.

“Nah,” he says with a grimace, as if he’s offended you’d assume that.

“You might like some of the books on the syllabus. This class is a lot of fun.”

“Fun,” he echoes with a stare that makes him look like he wants to bolt out of the door he just came through.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you reply with a smile. “Your idea of fun is skating around and getting slammed into walls. I should be the one judging you.”

He gazes at you like you’re from another planet, blue eyes hard on you. It’s nothing short of amusing.

You pull his laptop closer, hovering the cursor over the ‘My Grades’ tab, and ask, “Do you mind if I check how you did on your last assignment?”

“I bombed it,” he says.

As you gaze at the screen, Rafe clues in on where he’s seen you before. With one of the team’s freshmen.

Varsity athletes who live on campus are lumped together in the same dormitory block, and he’s seen you hanging around with Beck, going in and out of his room.

He wouldn’t consider Beck a friend. He’s a teammate and at best, an acquaintance. The guy’s a kiss-ass to Coach, and does everything by the book, skipping most parties and never drinking.

It makes complete sense that a rule-follower like Beck would date a good girl like you. Who the fuck calls a class fun?

You click to see his failing grade percentage for the first assignment of the semester in bolded red.

“Did you get any feedback on where you went wrong?” you ask. You know he’s going to shake his head before he does it. He doesn’t seem to care at all. “You have a whole semester to get your grade up. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” he replies stiffly.

“Well… maybe you should worry a little bit,” you say lightheartedly. “I know your coach is serious about grades.”

Rafe figures you must have heard that from your boyfriend. Maybe Beck took this class, too. It’s popular among busy student athletes because it’s supposed to be an easy way to fulfill a humanities credit.

He could just convince Beck to give him copies of his assignments. He’d have to change stuff around, but at least he’d get out of tutoring.

“Did you help Beck with this class?” he asks.

You’re taken aback by the sudden reminder of him, brows knitting together, a shift in your breezy demeanor.

“You’re his girl, right?” he says, as if it’s obvious.

“No. We’re– we’re friends.” You chew on your bottom lip. Tutoring is supposed to be a distraction from Beck, not the topic of conversation. But your curiosity burns in you and there’s no chance of putting it out. “Did he talk about me or something?”

“No,” he says, a bit too harshly for your liking. “I just figured ‘cause you’re with him all the time.”

“Right,” you say. All the time. Like a lost puppy, no doubt. Embarrassment pricks at your skin. “I helped him with another class. We’re friends.”

Rafe cracks his first smirk since he walked into this stuffy little room. You said friends twice, both times with uncertainty.

“You sure?” he chides.

“What?” you say stiffly. “Yes. I am.”

You crack open the book.

“So, A Portrait is about a man named Stephen who navigates the idea of identity,” you say quickly, trying to shake off your nerves. “We should look at the discussion question.”

You shut the book abruptly, then turn your attention to the laptop.

“You need to write a 1,500-word reflection for each book,” you ramble. “You’ll do better if you find a personal connection to the text. Maybe we start there.”

Rafe watches the nervous way your eyes dart around the screen as you scroll. His joke threw you into a tense, awkward panic that he has no interest in being around.

“You can relax,” he says. “I don’t care if you like him.”

You don’t look at him. You thought you were relaxed.

“Well, I don’t.”

You scroll to the question, one word in particular striking you.

What role does Emma play in Stephen’s growth and how he defines himself?

Of course. As if you needed another reason for this to be even more awkward.

Seeing Rafe’s ex’s name makes what she’d told you about him echo through your head again. Despite his teasing, the sympathy you felt for him comes back tenfold.

You know things about him that you shouldn’t. You feel a responsibility to balance the scales, but the air is too tense, the unfamiliarity too uncomfortable.

“Did you take a look at the question?” you ask.

He shakes his head, still slouched back. At this point, his apathy is starting to get to you.

“Listen, I can tell you don’t want to be here, but could you please try to meet me in the middle?” you say.

Rafe’s lips pull into a firm line, but he relents and leans closer to look at the screen. His body goes cold when he sees her name. He’d rather not be reminded of the girl who broke his heart right now.

“Emma is Stephen’s love interest,” you begin, trying to act like you don’t know a thing about his past relationship. “He sees her as something she’s not.”

You leaf through the book, finding a note you’d written in the margin.

“She represents idealization,” you read. You look up at him again. “Stephen sees by the end that she’s just a normal person, not this perfect girl he thought she was for so many years.”

You open a blank document on his laptop.

“We can write up some notes to start us off,” you say. “This prof grades high when you relate to the text. He likes the sentimental stuff, so until you read the book, that’s what we’ll have to work on.”

You chew on your lip again, unsure if you should bring up what you heard in the stands. It feels unethical either way.

“It doesn’t have to be a person,” you say. “It could be a place or an experience. Have you ever thought something was great and then realized it wasn’t?”

Rafe’s stomach is in a knot. The thought of being tutored and having his hand held through a class was bad enough. Now he has to get into his feelings with you?

“I don’t know,” he says.

You look at the blinking cursor, your head cocked in thought.

“Maybe relating it to a person would be easier, then?” you ask.

Nothing can make this easier. Rafe rakes his hair back, gazing down at your hands stalled over his keyboard.

“I get that this is awkward,” you say. “But it doesn’t have to be anything super personal. You could even make something up if you want.”

He only purses his lips, eyes fixed on your hands, as if he hopes you’ll give in and just do his work for him.

You take a deep breath and interlace your fingers on the desk. You figure that if you’re a little vulnerable, he might be, too.

He’s unknowingly feeling the same pain you are and saying the truth out loud to someone who gets it might even be a relief. There’s a risk of it getting back to Beck, but something tells you Rafe’s not much of a gossiper anyway.

“To be honest, yes, I like Beck. I thought he felt the same, but he doesn’t. Between you and me, sometimes I think he took me for granted and led me on. I idealized a friendship and it ended up hurting me. If this were my assignment, I’d relate to the book with that.”

Rafe is thrown off by your sudden honesty. It’s actually refreshing, considering all the bullshit he’s been dealing with lately.

He looks at you wordlessly.

“It’s just an example,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I did well in this class because I found pieces of myself in every book. All you need to do is read the material, find something you can relate to, write a decent report, and you’ll get a good grade. Well, that and prepare for the midterm and the final.”

“This class was supposed to be easy,” he finally says under his breath.

“Can you let me know when you’re going to be done complaining?” you ask playfully, looking up at the clock. “It’s been five minutes and you’re still going.”

Rafe huffs an almost-laugh. He adjusts his posture again, pulling at the collar of his hoodie.

“You really don’t have to be specific,” you reassure him. You tap your fingers over the keyboard again, just light enough to not press any buttons. “If you can relate the character of Emma to someone, you don’t have to say their name.”

Your eyes stay glued to the screen, your shoulders stiff as you wait. You’re acting weird again. The way you said Emma’s name looked like it pained you.

And it dawns on him.

“Should’ve known she’d talk shit,” he realizes. “What’d she tell you?”

“What?” you say, meeting his gaze.

“What did Emma say about me?” Rafe drawls, his deep voice reverberating through you.

Your lips part, but words refuse to form. For a guy that doesn’t like to read, he’s very good at doing it to you.

Rafe leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. You can now see what makes him so intimidating on the ice. Every edge of his face is sharp now, apathy replaced with intensity.

“Nothing,” you reply. “It’s not my business.”

How did he not clue in before? If you run in the hockey team’s social circle, of course you heard about their breakup.

Emma never cared to keep things private. And you’re so willing to share your own personal stuff because you know more about him than you’re letting on. Because you pity him.

“Come on,” he scoffs, frustrated.

“I met her at the rink last night. She just mentioned you used to date.”

He shrugs impatiently, a silent request that you keep talking. You sigh.

“She said she likes coming to games, but it’s hard to because her ex is on the team.” You grimace. There’s no way you’d actually tell him all of it, all of the insults she muttered. “It’s not worth repeating, but… basically, she told me she broke things off and you won’t move on.”

Rafe nods, lips twisting. The way she’s been ignoring his texts and his calls to try to fix things stung enough. Talking to strangers to embarrass him hurts on an entirely different level.

He didn’t know Emma could be this cruel. This is mortifying. He’s done trying to make things work with her. No matter how hard the loneliness is hitting him.

You slide the book across the desk towards him, desperate to move past the tension.

“You can start reading,” you say. “And you don’t have to buy any of the books. I’ll just lend you mine. I’ll get some notes down for you to work from and you can do the personal connection part on your own.”

You start to type and immediately wonder if he’ll drop the class. You’ve never had that happen with someone you tutored before, but you wouldn’t blame him.

It must feel crappy to hear from a girl you don’t even know that your ex is saying bad things about you. A girl that you have to see every Thursday afternoon for the next three months.

Rafe cracks open the book in the middle to fan through the pages, a weight sitting on his chest. The pages are worn, words underlined, notes scribbled in the margins.

“You put this through the washing machine or something?” he murmurs.

“I’ve read it a few times,” you say simply. You keep typing.

Emma said he’d called her crying. It’s hard to imagine the man sitting next to you crying. It’s weird knowing something about someone that they wouldn't want you to know.

Rafe’s already bored with the first sentence. It’s long and confusing and completely uninteresting. His eyes drift up, absorbing the way your face softly creases in concentration as you type.

Now that you’re not talking at a thousand words a second, he can actually take you in.

You’re the type of girl he’d approach at a party. There’s no doubt about that. But once you’d start yapping about reading like you just did, about finding pieces of yourself in a book, he’d find a way out of the conversation.

Playing hockey at the college level is demanding; he likes the other things in his life to be fun and easy. Keeping up with a girl like you and pretending he’s interested in whatever you’re rambling about would be neither.

As he studies you, he doesn’t get why Beck friendzoned you. You’re pretty. And you’re the same type of person as Beck: straight-edge and so cheerful it’s annoying.

Rafe is typically one to outright say what he’s thinking, but he has the restraint to keep the idea he just had to himself. He needs to sleep on it. He’s done some crazy shit since Emma broke his heart and he’d rather not add to the tally.

You notice him looking at you in your peripheral vision.

“You’re not thinking of dropping the class, are you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. His eyes stay on you for another beat, then find the words on the page again.

════════

You thought Rafe came to your first session in a bad mood. Compared to how you feel right now, he was peachy.

Lyla called you on your way to the library and mentioned in passing that her brother asked about you last night. She said Beck seemed like he missed you, all sympathetic when he asked, is she doing okay?

She’s oblivious to the real reason he brought it up. And it’s irritating. Because he doesn’t even ask you himself. Because he’s right. He knows that his passive rejection left a wound.

“You’re on time,” you say in surprise when Rafe saunters into the study room.

“You talk a lot,” he mumbles. “I’m not interested in a lecture after you told me not to be late.”

Despite your bad mood, you crack an amused smile. You’d ended last week’s session telling him that tardiness was not only disrespectful to you, but to his own academic success. He rolled his eyes, but he clearly listened.

Rafe settles in the same chair as last time, holding your copy of the book he was supposed to read.

“Did you read it?”

“Mostly.”

“What’d you think?” you say with hope.

“Boring.”

“Fair,” you say. You gesture for his laptop. “Let’s see how far you got on the report.”

Your brows drop in disappointment when you see how much he added to the file. It’s a bunch of pasted summaries and disorganized thoughts, taking up only half the page.

You eventually reach the end of your hour-long session and have him read over the assignment one last time before submitting it. You check the syllabus to confirm what the next book is, then shut his computer.

“Try to have more for us to work with next time,” you tell him. “And you should have the next book totally read by then, too, okay?”

You hand him your copy of Pride and Prejudice and push your seat back, ignoring his frustrated sigh.

“You talk to Beck lately?” he asks after a beat.

“What?” you say, face screwing up. You’re reminded all over again of what Lyla said. “No. Why?”

“You’re still pissed at him,” he says. He’s confident, coming to the conclusion himself instead of waiting for you to admit it.

“Why are you talking about this? We had a perfectly nice hour together,” you try to joke.

Rafe finally gives a voice to what’s been swirling in his mind since last week. He’s used to being mad, to feeling spiteful, but the way his ex broke his heart has never made him want revenge more. He wants to hurt her as badly as she hurt him. He wants to make her regret leaving him.

“We should get back at them,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” you say, your chin dipping as you stare at him.

“Hear me out,” he tells you. “We’re going to keep seeing Beck and Emma around, right? We could make it look like we’re better off without them. Make them jealous.”

You squint, waiting for the details. Rafe draws in a sharp inhale.

“She said I’m not over her, right? And you said he took you for granted. If they think we moved on, I bet at least one of ‘em will realize they fucked up.”

You consider it. Admittedly, making Beck think you’re perfectly fine – no, thriving – after his rejection is enticing.

“Okay, how do we get back at them exactly?” you ask.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck. It’s the first time he seems kind of nervous to you.

“We pretend we’re together,” he says.

“You and…” You look over your shoulder, because he must be talking to somebody else who snuck into the room at some point. “You and me? Together together?”

“I know. It wouldn’t ever happen.”

You can’t even be offended. He’s right. He’s a skilled hockey player and undeniably good-looking, but that’s where the compliments end.

Two afternoons of working together and making small talk have shown you that you have nothing in common. And frankly, while you do laugh off his bad attitude, it gets on your nerves.

A relationship would never work, let alone even begin.

“But they don’t know that,” he continues. “All they’ll see is that someone they lost is happy without them.”

Your mind starts racing. The years of pining over Beck, the pain of his rejection, the frustration over him asking his sister how you’re holding up. They’ve all left cracks in your heart.

The more Rafe thinks about rubbing his happiness into Emma’s face, even if it’s bullshit, the more he hopes you’ll be on board. But you’re not saying a word.

“If you’re not in, fine,” he sighs, pushing his chair back to start to leave. He should have figured you’d be too uptight to do it. “I’m just saying I bet you wouldn’t hate making Beck sweat.”

He stands up, but you hear yourself say, “Wait.”

Then you hold out your hand.

Rafe breathes an amused chuckle, flashing the first sincere smile you’ve seen on his face, when he realizes what you’re doing.

Your hand slips into his, touching for the first time to seal the deal and shake on it.

“This is insane,” you say. “Count me in.”

next >

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[ohnoitstbskyen]

Ok so I’ve had this question for a while and I feel like you’ll be able to give me a good answer. I understand that we’re absolutely not supposed to support anything JKR does monetarily and I never intend to do so. However is engaging with Harry Potter media *at all* also something I should not do or is it only things that give her money?

Like, would there be anything wrong with me playing Hogwarts Legacy if I pirated it? Is fanfiction and fan art ok to consume? Or is engaging with the IP at all going to be harmful in a way that I don’t see atm?

Thank you for your time!

I don't really think a cis person is the right person to ask about this, but I also know that trans people are sick to death of having to field these questions so I'll do my best to answer this, if everyone who reads my answer will promise me that you will NOT use anything I say in this post as an annoying argument against a trans person who has a different opinion on the matter. Remember whose opinions are actually important here.

And look, number one, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Nobody can stop you. If you, in yourself, in your soul, feel morally comfortable consuming Harry Potter by some convoluted method of Ethical Consumption™, then go and do that, and own it, and have the strength to be judged for your decisions.

Trans people might not trust you - hell, I'll probably not trust you either. They might get angry at you, and criticize you, or roll their eyes and call you a fucking loser. If you have the moral conviction that what you are doing is right, and that you are acting in accordance with your beliefs and you are not doing harm, then stand by that conviction and face the consequences. Have that strength of character.

But if you feel the need to go around posting and arguing that it's unfair, that you shouldn't be judged, that you should get to be a special exception and people are unreasonable when they get mad at you... then that is evidence, proof positive, that you are a fucking loser. That you are cowardly, and you don't actually believe that what you are doing is right, you just want the world to affirm your fragile ego while you enjoy your little treats.

To be clear, I am not accusing you of doing this (you seem to just earnestly be asking for guidance), but there's a hell of a lot of people who do do this, and you don't want to be one of them.

So that's number one. Do whatever the fuck you want, and face the consequences with a spine.

Number two is... just fucking drop it. That is my earnest advice to you. Just fucking drop Harry Potter. They are children's books from the early 2000s, they just are not that fucking good or important. The Hogwarts Legacy game is live service slop; the movies are passable at best and their quality comes from the actors being better than the source material. Just drop it. Harry Potter has nothing to offer that you can't get elsewhere from better media with better authors, or problematic authors who have good grace to at least be dead.

Don't waste your life thinking about complicated ways to circumvent the moral problem of JK Rowling's rancid transphobic hate-aura at the center of the franchise, don't waste your finite time on Earth trying to thread that stupid needle. Harry Potter isn't worth this. Rowling is old, and shriveling from hate and mold fumes, at the very least just wait for her to fucking die, and for her political project to fail, before you pick that world back up again.

I speak as someone who read the first book at age 11, hyperfixated on relating to Harry, and whose entire cultural life was consumed by the franchise for over a decade. It is not worth it. You don't need it, you don't need the stress of trying to navigate how or whether to engage with it ethically. You almost certainly have an enormous backlog of other books, games, movies and TV shows you've been meaning to get around to, so just go do that instead. I promise you it will be infinitely more rewarding, and infinitely less compromised by stress and guilt and cognitive dissonance.

And while you're at it, send some money to a trans charity and go scream invectives at a transphobic politician some time.

[applejade]

Secretary

warnings: smut, spanking with a belt, aggressive language, strap licking, boss and secretary relationship, strap sex art of Sevika is by Ochakka_b on twitter

After months of searching for a job, your friend from college had finally been able to pull some strings and land you a secretary position in her workplace.

It had started out so well. Your friend helped you settle in, you started to make friends with your coworkers and it seemed as if your boss had already taken a liking to you. 

But as time went on at your new job, the relationship between you and your boss started to change.

The squeezes on your shoulder after you successfully did what she asked began to linger longer than one would consider professional. Every time she'd call you to her office to give you another task, she'd gently grip your chin and force you to make eye contact as she spoke. 

And while she got noticeably more touchy, she also got more mean. She would find random small things to criticize you for, find ways to humiliate you in front of your coworkers, and then would call you into her office to have a “talk” once you finally stood up for yourself.

Of course, these “talks” included no talking. She only used it as an excuse to punish you the way she truly wanted to. 

But you didn't want to leave. You needed this job and with every cruel act, you became more desperate for her approval. Aching to feel her warm hand cupping your cheek again when she praises you for a job well done.

That doesn't mean you couldn't try to get back at her though.

Since she loves to insult your “prudish” fashion choices, you decided you'd wear something a bit more revealing today to get her attention.

You wore a tight black skirt that hugged your figure and threatened to show your panties at the slightest bend. Coily hair pulled into a high puff and black stockings.

You sensed her presence before you heard her dress shoes clacking up behind you. A sudden hand gripping the back of your thigh just below your ass almost caused you to spill the coffee you were making for her. 

“Meet me in my office when you're done. I need to speak to you”

Her lips grazed your ear as she whispered. Your breath hitched and you leaned into her.

You replied with a “Yes ma'am” and she stalked away to her office.

You dropped off the coffees you made for the team and gulped down a few swigs of your own in an attempt to prepare for another ‘scolding’ from your boss.

You opened the door to Sevika's office and she glanced at you from her seat behind her desk

She gestures for you to come to her and you hesitantly walk over and stand in front of her spread legs.

She gives you a sharp glare and whips your body around. Your ass faces her and you know she can see the glimpse of underwear peeking from underneath your skirt. 

You hear a scoff from behind you “What made you think this was appropriate?”

“I don't understand. I thought you wanted me to dress like this?”

Her grip on your hips becomes tighter and you wince a bit.

She pauses for a while like she's considering whether she wants to hurt you or fuck you.

“Bend over” She orders. You hesitate and look back at her. 

“Why? You're gonna punish me for nothing? I'm not breaking the dress code.” 

She stands and presses her body flush against your back. Her mechanical arm grips your cheeks and your face is pulled to face hers. 

“Keep playing with me and see what happens.” 

You try to stand your ground even as her grip starts to hurt your jaw.

“I ain't scared of you." you whisper

Her brows raise and her eye twitches. You can see her visibly trying to hold back her scowl as her grip tightens.

“Fine” is all she says before she releases your face and bends you over her desk.

You gasp as she roughly lifts your skirt out the way to reveal a pair of lacy black panties underneath. You attempt to block her hands and pull your skirt back down, only to have them gripped and held behind your back.

“Uh uh. Don't try to back out now. This is what you wanted.”

She switches your wrists to her mechanical hand so she can rub circles into your clothed pussy.

“Prancing around with this skimpy ass skirt on. You thought I wouldn't notice you coming to work dressed like a hooker?” 

Her flesh hand leaves your pussy and you hear the sound of a belt unbuckling. 

Your breath quickens in fear and anticipation. You can handle a couple spanks but this is a punishment she'd never done before. You start to squirm, trying to free your hands from her grasp but she doesn't budge.

She huffs out a husky laugh “Acting like you don't want it. Where'd all that attitude go, huh?”

“Wait Sevika, please!”

She lands a slap on your pussy and your eyes start to water.

“What do you call me?" She says.

You sniffle in reluctance and stay silent. 

She slaps your pussy again, this time harsher and directly on your clit.

“Say my name, bitch”

you cry out “Ms. Sevika!”

You can hear her smirk when she praises you

 “Good girl” she says as she finally takes off her belt completely and snaps it against your ass without warning. 

You let out a squeal and she whips you harder the second time.

“Shut up” she says firmly “You want them to hear you?”

“No, ma'am” You whimper and bite your lip to muffle your screams.

She gives hit after hit until you're sobbing and begging for her forgiveness and eventually - she accepts it.

She pulls you upright by your puff and squeezes your cheeks together with her flesh hand. Your head is shaken gently as she coos at your tear soaked face.

“aww poor baby. You've never been punished like that before, have you?”

“uh uh” is all you can mewl through your smushed lips.

She mocks your pout and wipes the tears from your face.

“Please” you whisper

“Please what, baby?”

“Please touch me”

A smirk spreads across her ebony lips while she slowly moves your hand down to her pants.

You feel a bulge beneath her clothes and make eye contact with her. 

Was she planning for this?

“Take it out for me” she orders

You slowly turn around to pull her pants down and pull her strap out.

She tells you to get on your knees and you do so without hesitation.

Her flesh hand strokes her strap like she can feel it and you try not to salivate. She taps the thick purple plastic on your lips. “Get it wet”

You lick her strap all over until there’s saliva dripping to the floor. Her hums and slight moans make you dizzy and you attempt to fit it in your throat until a sharp hand tugs your head back.

“That’s enough” she says before she pulls you to your feet by your puff. You don’t even have enough time to wipe the spit from your mouth before she bends you over the desk again and shoves her fingers inside you. 

It only takes a couple minutes for her to finish prepping you. The ‘punishment’ had your pussy leaking enough for the prep to not even be necessary.

She lines her strap up to your hole and you feel her push into you. 

By the time her thrusts start picking up speed, your mind is already deep in the clouds. All you can think of is the push and pull of Sevika’s strap and her degrading encouragements

“Yeah, take this dick, slut” 

“This is all your little mind can think of, huh? Poor baby just wants to be fucked”

It doesn't matter what she says, everything is answered with whines and a mewled “uh huh” 

Her thrusts get harder the louder you moan. She slaps your ass as you start to fuck yourself back on her dick, coaxing you into going faster.

Your pussy clenches the closer you get to your climax and Sevika swears she can feel it.

“Cum on this dick, baby.”

Her permission makes your pussy gush and you shudder through your climax.

She continues fucking into you while your body goes limp. You put your hand on her rocking hips, attempting to stop her movement. 

“M-miss, please. No more-”

She shushes you almost instantly, putting a hand around your mouth, making your back arch in the process.

The squelching of her strap pounding your pussy and the friction on her clit tips her over the edge. She grunts out a moan and slows to a subtle grind until she eventually stills.

Heavy pants and the smell of sex fills the room. She slowly pulls out of you and gently pulls you up to her chest.

She kisses your cheek down to your shoulder and pulls your lacy panties back up. She grabs a long cardigan from the back of her chair and wraps it around you.

Your mind is completely emptied as her husky voice whispers in your ear to go back to your desk.

You sit through the rest of the work day in cum soaked panties until she comes up behind your chair and grips the back of your neck. As you ride in her car, on the way to her apartment - you plot your next act of defiance, hoping she’ll put you in your place again.

[gladiatorcunt]

oooh art would be lowkey freaky. i feel like he’s also a super munch. he’ll let you sit on his face for hours!!

cw: 18+ mdni, cunnilingus, ambiguous era, afab reader, slight brat!reader, teasing, like two spanks (+ one instance of ass play + very slight anal fingering)

Art devours you like no one else ever could, burying his tongue into your pussy for hours on end. If he could, he’d do it 24/7. He does it enough as it is away. As a wake up call, a way to say goodnight, in the shower, on your period, from behind while you’re cooking, in a pool chair, you get the gist. If you asked what he favorite sexual act to do with you was, there’s not a single doubt in your mind that it would be slurping up your pussy.

You’ve never sat on his face before though, too scared to break his neck after reading a story on your phone about that happening to someone else. It’d be a real mood killer to come down from you high to see your boyfriend dead to the world, literally. You didn’t talk about it again after the initial awkward discussion that ended with you dismissing it. But he just looks so hot in the early morning sun, a rare sleepy day in where you actually get to marvel at what Art looks like when he’s relaxed.

You bite your lip and shake him gently, trying not to shy away and curl up into a ball when he eventually groans and rubs his eyes open.

“Morning, baby.” He grunts in his husky morning voice.

He immediately puckers his lips for a kiss that you provide with less casual confidence than usual. His brow furrows, and he caresses the inside of your wrist with his thumb.

“What’s up? Are you hungry?” He asks you, thinking that you’re needing him to run and get you coffee or something.

You say no and play with your hands, the ache you’ve been feeling between your thighs only grows the more you look into his eyes.

“I just…. I need you.” You whisper.

Art squints his eyes, not sure what you mean. Then he recalls how he usually wakes you up in the morning, “Oh. You need me, huh?”

You nod and spread your legs, giving a view of your bare pussy. You took your underwear off earlier when the feeling got to be too much.

“Can you say it for me, angel? Tell me what you need and i’ll give it you.” He grins, teasing you. “If you woke me up, you must need whatever it is really bad.”

You roll your eyes and straddle him, sighing in bliss when he latches onto your hips. You’d put up more of a fight if you weren’t so horny, but you’ll let Art have his fun this time.

“I need you to eat me out.” You hold back the ‘obviously’ that you want to tack onto the end of your sentence.

Art’s grin widens and he makes you rock back and forth on his clothed bulge. He waist until you’re juices are wetting the fabric of his underwear before he pats your thigh, telling you to get off. You don’t budge and allow him to get into the typical position. Instead you lift your hips and shuffle up the bed until you’re hovering over his face.

“I want you to eat me out like this.”

Art’s grin falters as his eyes widen in shock for a second, you must really be pent up if you’re being this bold. He’s not complaining, he’d been waiting patiently for you to get comfortable enough to use him like a chair. You’re enough of a brat to change your mind if he acts too smug about getting what he wants even if you want it too though, so he tones it down.

“Get to it then, angel.” He smirks, his words trailing off into a satisfied sigh. “Give me a taste of this pretty pussy, don’t hold back.”

He flattens his tongue expectantly and leans his head back against the pillows.

Before you can even hesitate, Art snakes his arms under your legs and yanks your body down, making you drop your weight on him. You yelp but he doesn’t let you squirm away from his mouth. The sensation of his tongue lying still beneath you feels strange for a second, but a slap to your ass snaps you out of it enough to start moving your hips.

You shout and grab onto the headboard, getting yourself off on your boyfriend’s face. You play with one of your tits as you start to bounce on him, craving more of his tongue.

You reach down and tug on his hair, suddenly feeling too shy to make eye contact. He hasn’t looked away from you this entire time, and your cheeks warm in embarrassment at the thought of how messy you already look.

He winks at you, not moving at all and letting you take your fill. Well that’s not what you want anymore, so you tug his hair harder and beg.

“Please, baby, just tongue fuck me already. Don’t you want to? ‘m getting tired…” You whine, pouting down at him.

You stop your hips when you don’t get an answer. Art’s eyes crinkle in delight at your predicament, but he gives in to you. He always does, you just don’t like when he puts you on the spot and makes you wait like this. Secretly you kinda enjoy how he acts in bed, but you like putting up a fight way more.

Art curls his tongue around your clit and you throw your head back. He gives the throbbing bud a few customary sucks and then he jabs his tongue into your wet hole. You moan and grab onto his hair, bouncing on him in time with his tongue’s short thrusts. You roll your hips down against the slick appendage and cry out when it hits the right spot, grasping onto the headboard for dear life.

“Oh my god, feels so good! Wanted you in my pussy, need you there, sucking me dry-what the fuck, yes!” You squeal, firmly keeping his face nuzzled into your pussy and your thighs around his head.

His hands are playing with your ass while he eats you out. You’re mid bounce when you feel one of his thumbs prod at your ass hole, and the barest hint of having two of your wholes filled gets you moving faster on him. He spread your cheeks wider and kneads the flesh, jiggling them in his hands.

Art responds in kind and slides his tongue around whatever parts of your juicy pussy he can, scooping up your juices and guzzling them down as he stabs his tongue through your sopping folds.

You’d normally pull him back by his hair when you got close, not wanting to get him too dirty with your cum. But now you’re tightening your thighs over his ears and and stuffing his nose into your trimmed pubic hair, bouncing like your life depends on it.

Art spanks you again when your walls spasm around his tongue thirty seconds later. He gulps your orgasm down with love in his eyes and a heartbeat in his dick. He coos at your soft sniffles and massages your trembling thighs when you get up and collapse beside him.

“Thanks for breakfast, angel, I’d rate it 5 stars”. He laughs, half jokingly and half seriously.

“Whatever, perv.” You weakly smack him on the chest and groan, trying to keep your soul in your body. “Go get coffee… please.”