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hidden-poet · 3 months ago

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Animal

Synopsis: After visiting a bathhouse Logan meets you, and the animal within him starts clawing out.

Warnings: not canon, dark!, non-con, a little bit of romantisation of things that should not be romanticized, kidnapping, Dark!logan(jimmy? james?), dom/sub vibes, spanking, female reader who is described quite a bit, rough sex, graphic sex, basically born with little plot, unedited and written in a couple of hours, dead dove to not eat.

AN: Something awoken within me. I never really cared for Wolverine, but suddenly I am binging all the movies. I don't really understand them so this will definitely not make sense to those who follow the fandom.

Word count: 12, 418

Logan walks through the city. People part as he storms through the path. Hearing the sound of his heavy boots as they thud against the concrete.

If his large frame wasn’t enough to warn off people, his scowl was. He didn’t even know what city he was in. Xavier sends him off to eliminate out of control mutants. Given the urgency, he is often sent without a goodbye, let alone a debrief.

He knew he was somewhere foreign. All the signs were in a different language with the english translation printed small underneath.

One of them read ‘bathhouse’ in bright red neon sign. He looks at the dirt caked under his nails. The final battle with the latest mutant took place in the forest.

He could feel small leaves in his hair, and dried mud clinging to his body.

A nice, hot, relaxing bath may elevate some of the tension he always carried with him, so he walks up the steps into the large stone building.

A lady in a robe greets him. The place is dark, only lit by a few strategically placed lamps. The front counter is placed in the entryway to the baths, and is sectioned by a large maroon colored wall that offers the men bathing privacy.

“How can I help you?” the woman asks.

“I’d like a bath”, he responds. His eyes go to view the bath that beckons him.

“Communal or private?”.

Logan looks around at the men in towels, lounging by the large pool. An elderly man takes off his towel to reveal nothing underneath, and steps into the steaming water.

“Private”, Logan answers, “please”.

She gives him a sly smile, asking him to follow her.

He is brought along the pool where men swam nude, and women who wore thick robes served them drinks, and cigars.

At the back of the communal bathing area there was a long stretch of red doors that were numbered in large golden letters. He follows her to door seven

The woman knocks on the door once before turning back to logan.

“Just through this door when you are ready”. With a sly smile she looks him up and down before returning to her hosting station.

“Ah-yeah, thanks”, he comments.

Muttering under his breath, he twists the door knob and takes a step inside, wanting nothing more than to wash away his adventure.

His hand clinches the door knob, his claws begging to come out upon hearing someone on the other side.

Had someone been following him? Another mutant, buddies with the one he had killed?

He lunges through the door, ready to face anyone willing. It startles him when he sees a young girl.

Your hair was blown out to give it volume, and styled in an effortlessly curled way. Your dress was short and black. The halter neck tied together behind your long neck, and was cut down to the middle of your chest. The thin material only reached your upper thigh. Your lipstick was a dark red, matching your pointed shoes. You looked ready for a club, not a bath.

You push yourself back into a chest of draws, surprised at his entrance.

“shit”, Logan turns from you, training his eyes to the ground. It felt wrong to look at you. “Sorry, i was told to come in here”.

“You were told correctly”, you state, “I am ready for you”.

Your voice was low and seductive, making Logan hard under his jeans.

“Ready for me?” Logan questions. He feels his brows furrow, the sweat that he had accumulated started to run down his forehead.

“This is a bathhouse”,you state, “You got a private room. You get bathed in private rooms”.

You seemed as confused as he was.

He looks at you stunned. His cock ached in his jeans to think of you bathing him. But you were young. Young, pretty, and naive. What were you doing here, giving baths to dirty old men like him. He couldn’t have it. Couldn’t be a part of it.

His other side begged him to have a bath, and enjoy your touch, but he didn’t want to do anything that he would regret. The animal side of him was hard to contain. He was sure you would pull the wrong string, and the restraint he had built would come undone.

He couldn’t even bring himself to bid you goodbye. All his will power went to turning back to the door.

“Wait” you call out. He freezes immediately, and looks over his shoulder at you.

“Is there something wrong with me?” you ask. His heart sunk at your question. He didn’t mean to offend you.

“Am I not desirable enough for you?”, you continue.

“God, no” he states, shutting the door firmly behind him as he turns. He didn’t want anyone passing to see you through the door. “No, you’re anything but undesirable”.

You blush but remain in your seductive composure. Your hand waves him forward, and his feet shuffle to your command.

“Well then stay. If they see you walk out, i’ll get in trouble. Men start walking out of my bathhouse, and they might turf me”, you state.

“Look, baby, I am just looking for a bath,” you eye the water so he continues to explain, “a bath alone. Without the help of a young woman, no matter how they look”.

“You don’t seem the nervous kind”, you provoke.

“I ain’t” he defends.

“How about this, I won’t look”. You spin around and face the wall, covering your eyes with your hand. “You can take a bath without my help, and I won’t get fired. Win, win”.

He thinks about it. With you facing away, and not touching him, what harm could be done? He would be doing you a favor.

“You sure you can restrain yourself?” he flirts.

Your giggle echoes off the wall to his ear.

“I am sure”.

Logan strips, leaving his clothes on the tiled floor, and entering the marble tub centered in the room. The water is steaming, and works to unknot his mussels.

He moans as he sinks into the water.

“Feel good?”, you ask.

His cock twitches at your words. He struggles to keep his voice even as he answers.

“Yeah”.

“I am y/n”, you comment, bringing your hand down to face the red wall.

“Is that your real name?”, he asks. He shouldn’t care what your real name was, but he did.

“Yeah”, you respond. He listens for your heart beat as you answer. It never falters so it was the truth, or a lie that had become the truth. Either way it was good enough for him.

“Logan”, he gives.

“In town for business or pleasure, Logan?”, you ask.

Your butt was three inches from the bottom of your dress. It curved around the material. Logan wanted to jump up from the water, and bite into it.

“Business” he answered absentmindedly. He forces himself to look away and up to the ceiling.

Your heartbeat was even. You weren’t scared of him. It comforted him to know.

“What do you do?”. The question irked him.

“Nothing good”, he spat.

You let out a breathy laugh as if he had told a bad joke.

“Men who do ‘nothing good’ aren’t afraid of young women in bathhouses”, you jest.

“Well I suppose I do bad things for a good cause”, he admits.

Although it never felt like a good cause. Only some of the mutants he killed deserved it. Most of them were only confused and scared. They were too dangerous to be allowed a second chance at reasoning. Like a wild dog, they had to be put down.

It would have made Logan feel better if he didn’t enjoy the fight.

“What bad things for a good cause?”.

Logan slides further into the water, trying to shield himself from your questioning.

‘Is this a bathhouse or a police station?” he bit. His voice was hard, and carried a commanding tone that made your heart skip.

He wanted to apologize, but you beat him to it.

“I am sorry. I am not used to talking to the clients. I overstepped”, you confess.

“Have you worked here long?”.

He wanted to turn the attention back on you, but he chose the wrong path. The last thing he wanted to hear was you admitting to washing men.

The image of you bathing other old men angered him. His claws dug through the bones in his hand, itching to come to the surface.

“A year”. It seemed like you were content in your workplace, but Logan fights to keep his claws under his skin. He splashed his hands under the water, worried that you would turn and see him in his mutated state.

You shuffle slightly, angling yourself so you were always turned to him. You move off the wall, back over to the door. Logan watches you, his body shifting to hide himself if you decide to look. His member was hard under the clear water. He didn’t want you to think he was some sort of pervert.

“Hey”, he calls, watching you move to pick up his clothes. Your hand shielded your eyes to him in the tub, “What are you doing?”.

You separate his room key, wallet from his jean pocket and place them next to his shoes before picking up his clothes, and turning your back once more. Moving to the far wall where a washer and dryer were stored under a sink.

“It’s part of the service. I wash your clothes for you”, you state.

“Just leave them” he commands, “they are fine”.

You ignore him, throwing the clothes in the machine, and starting the cycle.

“You’re paying for it”.

You crouch in your high heels as you dispense the detergent into the washing machine on the floor before rising back up, but you don’t turn. Talking to him through the shared space rather than at him.

“Do you mind if I sit at the vanity?”, you ask him.

“No. Sit where you are comfortable”.

Your eyes train at the walls of the room as you slide along to the vanity set in the corner. You stop just before you get to the mirror, and kick off your heels so you could drag the seat with your foot over to you. You sat facing the wall like a child on time-out.

He notices without your shoes, you were quite small. A small, pretty thing in a house of old men who wouldn’t need to be twice your size to overpower you. It didn’t sit right with logan.

“So, how did you end up here?” he asks.

“What this, a bath house or a police station”, you joke.

He stifles a laugh. He didn’t mind a bit of cheek.

“Fair enough’’, he relents, “Just tell me if any of these old guys ever caused you any trouble?”.

Just as he claws retreat, they shoot back again. If your answer was yes, he was going to find out who, and where after his bath.

But you shake your head no.

“We have a button that calls for help. As soon as I get a bad feeling I press the button and they are thrown out”.

You were intuitive like him. He wondered if it was a survival technique you were forced to pick up. He wanted to know why, but knew it was none of his business.

Instead, he picks up a cloth and runs the cooling water over his skin. He was right, mud stuck to his chest hairs, along with dried blood.

“You, uh, press that button a lot?” he pries.

“Enough times to know when I should”. Your voice had lost its seductive tone as it hardened.

“Maybe you should quit. Do something else”, he suggests.

He would love for you to do something else. Something outside of harm's way. You were a grown woman who could decide what she wanted. He had no right to tell you what to do, but he wanted you to listen to him.

“Only one of us hates their job”.

“You like this?”, his voice came out too angry. Your heart skipped another beat as he raised his voice at you.

“You like touching dirty old men? Help them get off?”, he bites his tongue to the point of blood to stop himself talking to you this way.

“No one gets off. I bathe them and send them on their way. Most of them are just lonely”.

“Lonely”, Logan scoffs, pushing the water away from him. But you were right. Logan was lonely. A dirty, old, lonely man wanting to taste your young flesh.

How many other dirty, old, lonely men wanted to do the same? How many times would you be able to get to the button to press for help before it was too late?

He wanted to protect you. To have his place in protecting you. Something about you drew him in. The animal called for him to throw you over his shoulder, and take you from his place in all his stark naked glory. But you were no one to him. He had only met you by mistake five minutes ago.

Your heart rate was too fast. He had succeeded in scaring you. If his clothes weren’t washing, he was sure you would have kicked him out.

He sighs, bringing his hands to the side of the tub.

“Darl, I am sorry. I just hate to think of a pretty young thing like you here without anyone looking out for you”.

“I look out for me, Logan”, you declare.

He nods his head, almost in disbelief. He rests the back of his head against the hard marble, causing the water to swish as he moves.

“There’s shampoo on the caddy. You should wash your hair. I noticed that some of it was stuck together”, you comment.

He was thrown across the forest floor just last night. He must have taken a harder hit than he realized.

“I can do it if you want?”, you offer.

“No. No. You stay right there” he demands. His hands itched to pull you in the bathtub with him. He wanted you to stay as far away as possible.

As he squirts the small bottle of shampoo into his hands, the washing machine rings out a tune to signal it was done.

“I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer” you declare.

He watches as you move again over to the machine, and kneel to transfer the clothes into the dryer.

Your bare feet make a nice sound against the tiles. Logan notices that your little toes were painted a dark red, and your fingers were perfectly shaped and painted the same color.

He supposed a woman of your profession, maintenance was important. He pretended for a second that wasn’t the case. That instead, you were his little woman.

He had come home after a long day of lumberjacking like he used to do, and you were fussing over him. The thought remained only for a second before he shook it off.

Everyone he loved died. A little thing like you didn’t stand a chance in his life.

“I hope you like the scent of vanilla”, you remark.

He grunts in response, dipping under the water to wash the shampoo out of his hair. It felt lighter as a rose from the water. It was due for a good wash.

He begins with a conditioner while he watches you lean against the counter of the sink instead of returning to your seat. His fingers dug into his scalp, pushing the liquid into his hair.

“Do you have a girlfriend? Is that why you don’t want me to look?”, you ask.

“No girlfriend. No wife. No dog”, he washes the soap from his hands, “I honestly didn’t know what I was signing up for”.

“Are you glad you signed up for it?”, your seductive tone returned from its disappearance.

“The view has been nice”, he returns.

“If you like my back, you should my front”.

His hands curled into fists. If anything had been in his hands, it would have been snapped in two.

“If i see your front, you might not see the light of day again”.

His eyes shut in rhythm with your heart skipping.

“Fuck. no. I didn’t mean” he began to justify but had nowhere to go. He had meant what he said, the way he said it.

“All this talk of protection from dirty, old men. Did you mean you?”.

Your voice didn’t sound scared, but your heart beat faster than it had all night.

Logan rises from the tub with conditioner still weighing down his hair.

“Look, how long until my clothes are ready?”.

“Ten minutes”, you answer.

He couldn’t wait ten minutes. He had to leave now.

“Just give them to me”, he demands.

“There's still ten minutes”, you complain.

“Give them to me, now!” his voice rose at you once more.

You jump as he yelled at you, quickly moving to pull the wet clothes from the machine and throw them backwards towards him.

They don’t go far enough from you and Logan is forced to get too close for his liking to dress himself.

He pulls his wet shirt on himself, the long sleeves stick to his skin as he yanks it on.

“Keep facing forward. Don’t turn around”, he orders.

“But” you begin. He can see you slow movement to turn around so he gently shoves you in the right direction.

“Listen to me. Face the wall”. His voice was angry again, commanding you to stay still.

The jeans didn’t want to go on wet. With his harsh, and quick movements it felt like he was in a fight. He does eventually get them on, only bothering to do up his button and not his zip.

He doesn’t bother putting on his socks. Keeping them in his hand while he picks up his wallet, shoes, and keys from the floor.

The jiggling of the keys gives way to his plan of escape.

“You still have fifteen minutes”, you state not moving from your position on the wall.

He wondered why you cared that he was leaving early. Did you not want him to get away from you? Or where you wondered about his reaction if he found out he was cut short?

“It doesn’t matter”, he barks as he makes a quick bee line to the door.

He pauses once he reaches it. The water pools at his feet as he turns to look at you once more.

“I am sorry” he comments.

He races back down towards the door he came in through. Everybody stares at his dripping state. Some men laugh quietly among themselves. He could still hear your elevated heart beat in room seven.

“Hey! Hey!” a voice calls behind him.

In his agitated state he was ready to rip their head off. He turns to do it to see the lady who greeted him.

“You still pay full price”, she demands.

“Huh? Yeah”. He steamrolled over her to the counter, pulling out his wallet.

His focus turns to the hallway expecting you to appear, but from what he could see your door never opened.

He taps his bank card without looking at the price. Xavier kept him comfortable for his work.

He leaves without approval, bumping back into the crowd of people as he makes his way back on the path.

Soaking wet, and barefoot, he makes his way back to his small apartment.

His claws dig underneath his skin, wanting to come out despite there being no threat. He fails to make it to the bed, laying on the carpet floor instead.

Your name repeats in his mind.

—---------------------------

He tries to forget you for the next three days. He was supposed to be back by now, but he couldn't bring himself to leave.

Xavier called him every hour to be sent straight to voicemail.

Logan walked the city, often finding himself walking along the front of the bathhouse. He never goes in, but listens for your voice, and breathes deep to smell your faint scent.

You didn’t talk much to your clients. A few flirty comments when they first arrived, but then silence as you completed your work.

You didn’t talk to them like you talked to him, and that had to mean something.

The worst part was not knowing exactly what you were doing. He loved to hear the beeping of the machine as you pressed the buttons, because at least that meant you weren’t touching them.

Even in his best efforts he couldn’t manage to walk away. He knows he should. There were plenty of other mutants that needed to be put down.

He should continue with his life, and you yours.

He couldn’t keep you. He could barely keep the kids at the mansion alive, and they all had powers to protect themselves.

He would be throwing you in the line of fire. A fire that he might not be able to protect you from.

You would grow old too. Unless he could figure out a way to keep you young. Could Xavier know of a way? He was sure that he could protect you from everything but time. He would need some help. A connection to someone who could slow down time in adjacent to him.

He grunts as he drives his claw into his right thigh. He lets out a painful laugh as he pounds his fist into the brink building he was hiding behind.

The brick crumbled under his fist. A reminder of what he could do to you without even intending it. He would only need to make a mistake once.

He was worried about protecting you from others, when he should have been worried about protecting you from him.

He was no good for you, even if you would be very good for him. He was destined to live out his life alone. A punishment for his ability.

Maybe a goodbye would help him. If he could leave you with a nice impression instead of an old, dirty man, maybe he could leave.

He crosses the sea of people to the steps of the building. He could hear you as you said goodbye to your client, and drained the water from the tub.

He waits by the bottom of the step until the man came down and passed him before entering.

Was this a place where you made appointments? How long would he have to wait to see you again? He wondered.

It was a different lady at the counter which alleviated some of Logan's anxiety.

She greets him in the same manner as the other lady.

“I was after a private bath with y/n. Would she be available?”.

The woman looks at her computer before smiling up at him.

“You’re in luck. She just finished up. Follow me”.

Logan wished he dressed nicer. Put on some cologne, brushed his hair.

Your scent became stronger the closer he got, it seemed to ease his nerves.

The women knocks three times on the door, and Logan's hand goes to reach for the knob prematurely.

“Just a second”, you call out.

“She won’t be long”, the woman addresses Logan, who drops his hand away.

With a nod and a smile the woman returns to her desk, and Logan waits by the door for you. He ran over what he was going to say, but when you swung the door open he had forgotten his opening line.

“I never expected to see you again” you state.

“Me either”, he responds.

To his surprise you step back from the door to allow him in. He quickly takes the invite, shutting the door behind him.

You were dressed in another black dress. This one had thick straps and an appropriate neckline but an open back that scooped down as far as possible.

“I wanted to apologize”, he expresses.

You tested the running water with your hand as you listened to him.

“You are far from my worst customer”, you revel.

You don’t look at him as you add bubbles to the bath.

“Still, what I said” Logan pauses under your stare before continuing, “What i did was uncalled for”.

You smile a pretty smile at him almost as if you were laughing at him.

“Well, you’re forgiven. Now did you want me to face the wall again?”, you ask.

Logan twists on his spot. “I ain’t looking for a bath. Just to apologize”.

“Have one” you insist.

You walk over to him, taking his belt into your hands. He catches your wrist to stop you from taking it off.

“You got me in trouble last time”, you tell him, “You’re not supposed to walk out scared and wet. If you walk out now in less than a minute they’ll wonder what I did”.

“Well I owe you two apologies”, he states.

“If you're looking to apologize, get in the tub”.

He feels you pull out of his hold, and he lets you make distance so you could spin around.

His self-restraint wasn’t that strong so he rids himself of his clothes and hides under the bubbles in the tub.

Hearing the water splash, you turn to him.

With the weight of his adamantium bones the water rises to the top and you quickly go to turn off the tap.

You kick off your shoes, leaving them at the faucet and walk back up to the top of the tub.

“I can’t see anything”, you console as you kneel down beside him.

He reaches his hand out to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re a world of hurt for me, bub”.

“Your world only lasts fifty minutes”, you tease.

You move out of his touch to go behind him. Your small fingers squeeze his big shoulders. He relaxes under your touch as you work your way along his shoulders to his neck and back.

“Feels good, bub” he praises.

“Feels good?” you repeat.

Your hands trail down his chest, reaching for the top of the water. His hands catch yours before they could immerse under.

“Don’t” he warns.

“Okay. I am sorry” you apologize, tugging your hands free and back up to his neck, “I’ll stay above water”.

He found it hard to relax again. He felt vulnerable, naked under your touch. It would be better if you too were naked. It would make it less embarrassing when you realized he was hard under the water.

“I’ll put your clothes in the wash” you say.

He reaches out behind him for you to stop you moving away.

“No. Keep going”, he protests.

You don’t go to move again. Your fingers continue to massage him until he relaxes once more.

Only then do you stop to reach for the shampoo bottle in front of him. You squirt it into your hands, and then massage it into his head.

He falls back against the tub, loving the feeling of your hands twisting in his hair.

You do it for longer than necessary seeing that he liked it.

Your fingers roll in a circle on the side of his head, causing him to groan at the feeling.

His claws push up, moving the bones of his hands. It was painful every time but Logan had gotten used to the feeling. He flexes his fingers in an attempt to dissuade them from coming through.

You must have noticed the grimace on his face as he forces the metal back into his hand because you stop massaging and reach for the cup to rinse his hair.

You’re careful not to get it into his eyes, smoothing back the hair as the water and soap runs off. He could see why men pay for this.

He takes your hand not holding the cup and forces it against his cheek as he lays back. With his eyes closed he breathes softly against your skin.

“Are you okay?” you ask him.

“I am worried I’ll never be okay again”, he admits.

“You’re tough. I can see it” you flip your hand so your palm is pressed against his cheek, “You’ll be okay”.

You drop the cup next to him, and reach for the conditioner. He is grateful that you allow him to rest against your hand as you massage it into his head.

You try your best to get his whole head but his position made it difficult.

"You know you don’t have a scar over you”, you mention.

“Soft living’”, he jokes, although it was only funny to him.

As you leave the conditioner to soak, you pick up a clean rag and begin to scrub his skin.

Disappointment fills him when he feels you trying to release your hand from under him. He could have kept it stuck there but chooses to raise his head.

You lift up his arm and scrub under his armpit, and along his side. Carefully not to scrub any skin under the water.

You move onto the next and he laughs at you.

“The full treatment here”.

You smile back as you continue to work.

“$300 should get you the full treatment”, you utter.

“$300? Christ, that’s a year's worth of cigars”, he remarks.

“You smoke?” you ask him. He feels your hands push him forward so he leans for you to wash his back.

“Like a chimney” he honestly admits, “You get $300 an hour?”.

You were done with his back so he leans against the tub again.

“No” you state as you reach for the cup that had sunken under the water. You stop yourself before your hand goes under. “Would you mind passing me the cup?”.

“Oh yeah”, he remarks, reaching down into the water and bringing up your cup.

You take it from him and begin to rinse his hair.

“No, I make $150 an hour. The house makes half”.

“Still pretty good. Maybe I am in the wrong line of business”, Logan quips playfully.

“Maybe you are” you jest back, “You never did tell me what you did”.

“I told you. Bad things”, he pulls up out of your hold. He didn’t want to tell you what he did. What he was.

“Are you always this tense?” you ask him.

“Yes” was the short, curt reply.

With a final squeeze of your fingers against his neck, you move down to the bottom of the bath. Slowly you reach for his soapy feet that were propped up against the end of the tub. When he doesn’t object, you take it as permission and begin to massage his feet.

His head makes a heavy thud as it falls back into the marble. It had been a long time since he had ever felt this good.

When he hears you begin to speak, he lifts his head back up to have eye contact with you.

“What made you come back?”, you question.

He feels you apply more pressure to his foot as you ask. Something about the question made you nervous.

“You”, he answers honestly, “i didn’t want you to think I was a prick”.

Your lips curve into a smile at him, and Logan feels his heart twist.

“I didn’t think you were a prick”, you say.

“You’d be the first”, he huffs.

Relief floods him. He wanted to ask if you thought he was a dirty, old man but he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

No more conversation interrupts the peace. Logan allows himself to relax into the water while you dig your fingers into his flesh. He lets out soft groans to let you know that he appreciated what you were doing.

All too soon, your strong fingers stop pushing into the soft flesh of his foot. His head shoots back up automatically out of his relaxed composure.

His wet hair sticks to his forehead, and the steam from the bath had begun to sweat his skin. He looked like a wild animal, while you looked put together as always.

With your make-up perfectly placed and not a hair out of place. He would love to see you disheveled. A whining mess underneath him as he teased another orgasim from you. But tonight would be the last night he would ever see you.

You would go on, find a nice man to marry and have children to. Die of old age when your time comes.

Logan would go his separate way. Keep living well past what he desired. With no purpose, and dying friends.

You rise from your knees, and he watches you as you retrieve a towel from a warming rack and bring it back over.

With your body half turned to him, you hold out his towel.

“Get out and I’ll dry your hair”, you offer.

He takes the towel, and you walk over to your vanity as he rises from the water and wraps the towel around his waist.

He follows you, taking a seat when you tell him to.

You look at him in the mirror as you plug your hairdryer in. Once you began to maneuver the device around his head, your eyes followed but his remained staring at you in the mirror.

Sitting directly in front of you, he could see the actual size difference. You were half of him if that.

You said you looked out for you, but how would that be possible? You weren’t anything special. Were you a mutant too? Or just a naive little girl who had never faced any real danger.

Maybe it would be best if he were to take you. Danger lurks everywhere. He could take you home. Make sure nothing bad ever happened to you.

The bones in his knuckles separated and the metal began to break skin but as the sound of the hairdryer cut, his claws retracted back in.

He couldn’t take you. He was old enough to be your great grandfather. What had happened to him that he was thinking these thoughts? Has loneliness finally caught up with him after a century of being alive?

Your fingers snake up through his hair again, itching his scalp and the thoughts of taking you returned.

“There, all dry” you state.

The sound of a timer goes off, startling Logan who was expecting something wrong from the sudden noise.

“That’s our five minute warning” you tell him.

The forty-five minutes went too quickly. He would never see you again, or at least he had promised himself he would never see you again.

You gather his clothes for him and throw them over a blind.

“You can get dressed behind that”.

He nods his head. Moving quickly to cover himself again.

These thoughts were relentless telling him not to go. She couldn’t stop you from staying, no one could. His conscience told him. But he needed to leave your presence before he did something he couldn’t just apologize for.

Maybe some distance would help. He had been away from home too long. He just needed to return home and live comfortably for a while. Focus on the kids at school.

He makes sure his jeans were properly done up, and that his shirt and jacket were the right way before returning from behind the blind.

You were by the vanity chair, back on your knees with his shoes next to you.

You smile at him and pat the chair. Telling him without words to come to you.

He follows your request sitting down in front of you. You came up to his thigh in height.

“I can do it” he states.

“Full service” you reply.

He feels the wood of the chair cracking under his hands so he moves it to the top of his thigh in a tight ball.

You’re gentle as you place the socks on his feet, followed by his shoes. You even do up the laces for him despite the end timer going off two minutes prior.

You rise from the floor, taking his hand to lead him to the door.

“Will I see you again?” you ask him.

“No” he promises but taking another look at you, he wonders if he can follow through.

“Well, goodbye then, Logan”, you gently say.

“Goodbye, y/n” he returns.

He tears himself away from your door, walking the same quick pace back to the front counter where he throws his card on the desk and pushes his way back into the busy street.

His instinct told him to go back, he had to fight against it the whole way home.

—--------------------

He thought distance was the answer, but his heart ached to go get you. No amount of alcohol or pills satisfied it.

Everyone knew something was wrong. He got sick of everyone asking him what happened on his trip. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.

He had gotten more aggressive than usual. Things that he could normally brush off, now end with someone pinned against the wall by their throat.

Xavier tried his best to get into Logan's head but his resolve would not soften. No one would understand how he felt. No one would justify the measures he was willing to go.

He booked a flight only a month later. Every day was spent thinking of you until he broke. He was a hero. Saved people daily. What was one life if it meant he was able to save countless others.

He books a room, the closest and cheapest to the bathhouse. He could smell you from here now that he had locked onto your scent.

The old bed creaked under his weight as he struggled with himself. With his head in his hands, he grumbled to himself.

He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be thinking these things to himself. It wasn’t too late to turn around. Nothing had been done that couldn’t be undone.

But then he heard it. Your sweet voice welcoming a man into your door. His feet took off before he could stop them. It was only a short distance of a block to the bathhouse.

The street was busy no matter the time of day, but much like when he first walked down it people parted to let him through.

When he grips the door knob it shatters underneath his hand. So he is more gentle when he pushes the door open.

A new woman greets him cautiously but he ignores her going straight to your room. The woman yells at him as he walks. One brave man tried to stop him and ended up thrown half a meter into the pool.

No one bothers him after that. He could hear the water move as you washed the man.

Knowing he will break the door knob, he instead pushes the door open, snapping the lock.

You gasp hearing the impact, and look at him startled. The position was compromising. You were sitting back on your heels scrubbing the man's back wearing the same halter neck slut dress that you wore when he first met you.

“Logan?” you question, “What are you doing?”.

The man rises from the tub, unashamed by his naked state.

“Get out”, Logan growls.

“Listen buddy, I paid the full-” the man stops his sentence when the claws emerge from logans hands.

You shrink back to the floor, using your hand to keep you upright.

“Get out”, he repeats.

This time the man scrambles to the door, running past Logan without his clothes.

You try to follow suit but Logan's long claws block you from your exit.

You stare at the shiny metal, your face reflecting back at you.

“You’re coming with me”, Logan states, putting away his claws so he could take you by the arm.

“Let go of me” you beg, trying to pull your arm from his grip.

He leads you to the chaos of the bathhouse. Word had spread that a mutant had entered the building and now people ran for cover.

“Let go. No!”, you scream.

You pull your arm too harshly in his hold, he could hear the muscles in your arm straining under the pressure. He loosens his grip so not to hurt you, but brings you closer to his chest.

“Stop it, kid” he demands, “You’re going to hurt yourself”.

“Stop, logan. Please, just let me go”. Your heart was fast, and your eyes dripped with tears.

He reaches up to touch your face but a gunshot pierces his body before it lands. An annoyed groan rubbles from his throat, and he pushes you away from the line of fire.

Another bullet lands in his chest when he turns to see a man in a robe holding a shaking gun.

He dodges the next shot, stalking forward to the frozen man, he grabs the gun out of his weak hold and sends him to the floor with a headbutt.

Tossing the gun aside, he turns to see you no longer in your spot. You couldn’t have made it to the door in that short of time, and your scent was still strong in the room.

He follows it behind the bar to where he saw you squeezed into a tight corner.

“Hey, bub” he tries his best to use a soft voice, “we gotta go. Come on”.

He reaches for you, but you push his hands away.

“Come on” he says more forcefully. He reaches for your waist and not your arm to avoid hurting you.

You thrash against him, begging him to let you go.

He allows it until you reach the front door then he extracts a single claw from his hand that crossed your stomach.

“Walk” he demands.

He manoovers himself so he was behind you with a hand on your stomach and his claw pressed into your side.

You allow him to walk you down the steps and through the crowd, back to his apartment. You were too scared to say anything. Some people gave you a strange look as you passed them crying but no one stopped to help.

“You’re alright. I ain't going to hurt you”, he promises.

He would never hurt you. As soon as you had managed to make your way through the crowd, Logan retracts his claw completely, instead placing both his strong hands on your hips to keep you moving forward.

“Almost there. Atta girl, just keep moving”. He encourages.

The dim lights of his hotel came into view. The vacancy sign buzzed allowing small flashes of light in an otherwise dark street.

He could see fine given his heightened ability, but knew that your lack of senses must be adding to your anxiety.

“Alright, this way”, he takes your wrist into his hand, trusting that you would follow him up the metal stairs.

Your heel snagged on the step. Without Logan's hold you would have been sent flying forward.

“Sorry” you gasp, trying to let him know that it was an honest stumble and not a deliberate act on your part.

“Are you hurt?”, he steps down to your level, throwing your arm over his shoulder while he bends down to take off your shoes, “Let's take these off”.

He holds them in his hand, and your waist in the other and continues to lead you up.

“Come on, we are almost there. Just down the end”.

You reach the top of the stairs and he leads you to the end of the corridor. Stopping at the door that peeled with paint while he digs in his pockets for his key.

He opens the door, quickly pushing you inside and shutting it again.

“Here sit” he suggests.

With his hands off you, he turns on the bedside lamp so you could see.

You do take a seat on the bed, and Logan stands in front of you.

“You’re a mutant?” you finally say.

“Yeah” he admits with a hard tone.

“Are you going to kill me?”, you whisper.

“Christ, no”, he kneels down in front of you so he could be in your eyesight, his hands caged around your legs on the mattress.

“Y/n, I am one of the good guys”, his own words froze him. His eyes cast down to where your dress has risen dangerously high up your thigh. His finger traces up from your knee to your dress hemline.

“Not that you are going to believe that after I am done with you” he says more to himself than you.

“What are you going to do?”, you quake.

He rises himself enough to place a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Whatever I want”, he whispers against your lips.

He pushes you as gently as he can into the mattress. Using his body weight to cement your place under him.

“Get off”, you complain the second his lips are off you.

“I can’t” Logan protests. His lips go to your neck, biting down harshly. He intended to leave a mark. A claim of sorts for the world to see.

He may have bitten down too harshly, as you push against his face with your hands.

He can hear your heartbeat as it thumps in your chest. It stills him in the crook of your neck.

He didn’t want to scare you.

“I am sorry”, he admits softly into your skin.

He places a soft kiss on the sore he had just created, and reaches to untie the knot of fabric around your neck.

Your hand reaches up to catch the fabric as it falls, holding it over your breasts.

He moves on, hooking his fingers around the elastic of your underwear, and pulling them off onto the floor.

“It’s alright, just breathe”, he concludes.

You keep your eyes shut, and your breaths manic.

In an effort to make you more comfortable, he lifts you up by your armpits and places you in the center of the bed. He changes positions to match yours, straddling you on the bed while he moves the pillows under your head, and by your sides.

You lay there frozen with your eyes squeezed shut, while he removes his clothes on top of you.

You feel his attention return when his lips press down on yours, his hand gently on the side of your face.

“Open your eyes, and look at me”, he commands in a low whisper.

You are met with his face, and bare shoulders peering over you.

“There she is”, he grins a beautiful smile as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

His lips go to yours again before trailing down to your neck, and chest.

His hands met your on the fabric of your chest, and he tugs it down, bunching the dress around your hips.

A kiss is placed at the top of your breast activating your fight.

You tried to push against him but he was too heavy to even shift.

“Easy” he tells you, “take it easy. It’s alright”.

He comes back up to your face, and begins to stroke your face with his finger again.

“Settle down”, he breathes.

“Logan, please just let me go”, you beg.

“I tried to,” he admits, “but I've never been much of a quiter”.

He kneads the flesh of your breast in his hand, and grows darker at the thought of not completing what he wanted to do.

“Now you’re going to relax and let me take care of you, or I'll tie you to the bed”.

You don’t move again as Logan trails down your body to slide the bunched fabric of your dress down.

He nestles between your thighs next, keeping a strong grip as he inserts himself into you.

He groans as you accept him. Despite your protests you were warm, and wet for him.

He places his hands on stomach feeling the skin that had been hidden from him for so long.

“Please keep your hands away from me”, you shudder. You curl into yourself as much as you could, scared that the blades would come out and pierce into you.

He takes his hand off your stomach, per your request.

In an act to show you he had no intention of hurting you, he releases his claws, and drives them into the mattress either side of you. He feels as they push through the fabric to the bed frame.

“I would never hurt you” he promises.

He keeps his weight on his hands as he thrusts into you. Your hand remained on your chest until they sprang out to his shoulder in an attempt to control the pace.

He slows down until he is at a pace where you no longer push on his shoulder.

As he continues you find yourself building, so you turn away and bury your head into your pillow.

You hear as his claw is pulled from the mattress, and feel his tight grip as it latches around your chin. He pulls your face back to his direction, resting his forehead on top of yours.

You feel his quick breaths on your skin, and breathe them in.

His eyes were closed, but one hand now held your face in place, and the other held your hip down.

You gasp when you feel yourself cuming around him. A low growl makes its way to your ear but you were more focused on Logan fucking you through your orgasm.

Your nails become claws when he doesn’t stop. You make weak sounds, but no words as he thrusts into you.

“You can take it” he says, somehow knowing what you were trying to say.

His hold on your chin becomes hurtful as he reaches his end. You yank at his fingers trying to pry them off but your fingers slip from the force you were trying to use and makes no difference to him.

A loud moan tells you he was done before you felt the warm substance drip from you.

With a smaller, satisfied groan he opens his eyes to look at you. The same smile appears on his face preceding a deep kiss to your lips.

He doesn’t remove himself from you but loosens his hand on your chin, and hip.

You feel his body weight as he rests his head back on your forehead. He was conscious to keep his weight off you, yet the skin he pressed against yours, pinned you to the mattress.

“You alright, princess?” he pants.

You don’t answer him, and he kisses you in your silence.

By the third time you are fucked dumb. You have a glazed look in your eye, and your body is weak against his. He uses you like a toy. Kissing you, and fucking you while you lay there with little energy left.

His stamina and quick recovery times meant that once was never enough to satisfy him. You would lay quietly next to him for only a few minutes before he was ready to go again.

You whine as he approaches you again, not ready for yet another round.

He lays on top of you, gently caging your head between his arms as he whispers “I know, I know”.

He did know. When you began to cry from overstimulation, he felt terrible but couldn’t bring himself to stop. He wasn’t anywhere near his peak, and your pussy clenched so nicely around him.

“Don’t cry”, he begs, “sh, don’t cry”.

You wouldn’t listen. He wasn’t sure if you could even hear him in your state, but he continued to talk anyway.

“Sh, its alright. Feel good there?”, he asks as your hips buck against him.

“Feels good there, hey baby”, he targets the spot that makes your hips buck, and you latch on to his strong shoulders with your nails.

“Pretty girl like you should always feel good. Can I be the one to always make you feel good?”.

No more fresh tears sprang from your eyes, but the path was still wet, and a large tear balanced on the outer corner of your eye.

He moves his hands closer, using his thumbs to brush off the water.

“No more crying, hey bub”.

You turn your head away from him, resting your forehead on his bicep. He turns his attention to applying the right amount of force between your legs.

He gives you a bigger rest time between the next one. Despite, him roaring to go again.

You lay pressed against his side, half-asleep. He slung his arm over the top of your pillow, waiting for you to recover.

Your lipstick was worn off from his ferocious kissing, and your hair had come undone around you.

You open your eyes to look up at him, and he takes it as a sign that he could continue.

He takes your chin into his hand to keep it still as he slides down in the bed next to you.

“No. That’s enough”, you demand, trying to wiggle your head from his hold.

“Just one more” he promises, “I just need one more”.

He kisses you as he hooks your leg over his hip. Reaching back to guide himself into your swollen pussy. You fit together like a jigsaw piece, another reason why all of this was meant to be.

He liked the intimacy of the position, pushing against your lower back to force you closer. He holds his hand there as he thrusts into you, keeping you from wiggling away.

You rest your head on his chest, and arm over his neck taking what he gives you.

His pace is gentler than it had been all night. Slow, controlled thrusts that rocked your body rather than shook it.

His arm under your head kept you level with the large man, but also meant that every moan, and whimper went straight into his ear.

It was encouraging for him to hear you reluctantly enjoying yourself. He only wanted to bring you pleasure never pain.

You groan softly as you cum again, and it triggers his own orgasm.

When he was done with you for the final time, you collapse into the mattress without Logan's body scaffolding yours.

He brushes the hair that had fallen over your face away with his large palm, and lays flat on the bed.

“Come here” he requested, opening his arms for you.

With eyes closed you shuffle to his chest where he pulls you just over his heart. You fall asleep almost instantly, but Logan remains awake gently stroking your hair.

He had been called an animal all his life, but tonight was the only time he truly felt like it.

—-------------------

You woke the next morning to the sound of his voice,

“Hey bub, hey, come on, we have to get going”.

You feel him smooth his palm over the side of your face, and you knock it away. It felt like knocking your hand against an immovable metal pole.

Last night ruined you. You weren’t sure you could rise from the bed if you wanted to.

“I am not going anywhere with you”, you state.

He had taken what he wanted. The deal now was to leave you in peace.

The next sound of his claws unsheathing and digging themselves into the mattress next to you made your eyes sprung open in shock.

“Get up, now”, he demands. He was eager to get home and get you settled in.

Xavier would get involved if Logan was absent for too long. A week here and there was nothing unusual but Xavier knew Logan too well to ignore any strange behavior.

He passes you your dress as you rise, and you quickly place it on, looking for your panties next. Watching you put them back on made Logan want to take them back off but the plane was departing soon.

The short, black dress was definitely more night time appropriate. You stand trying to cover your chest with your folded arms.

He takes off his jacket, passing it to you as he speaks.

“How far is your place from the bathhouse?” he asks.

“Not far, a block”, you answer. You take the jacket off him and zip it up over your dress.

It smelt of him, and his cigars.

“Come on”. He says, taking your arm and tugging you behind him as he left the apartment.

“I can get there myself”, you fought.

“Kid, we haven’t got time”. He moves his grip to a harsher one on your upper arm, and half carries you in the direction he wanted you to go in.

Your heels click behind him down the steps. He detours to drop his room key back to reception before continuing on the path back to your work.

He is silent as he backtracks to the bathhouse. The street is much busier during the day. People stare as you pass them looking.

When the Bathhouse comes into clearing he can feel you pull against him trying to get him to stop.

He halts of his own accord, peering down at you in the middle of a busy street.

“I need to get my keys and phone from work”.

“I can get through the door. Don’t worry about that”, he shakes you slightly, getting impatient with the lack of direction, “Which way?”

You point to the left, and take the led back to your house.

The streets thin as you weave your way out of the center of the city, and into the residential block. Everything was old and run down.

Broken, smashed cars lined the streets, graffiti was sprayed on every covering, people kept to themselves not even looking out the window as you passed.

He follows you until you stop at a run down apartment block.

“This is it”, you state.

“Upstairs”, he orders but you don’t move.

“Let me go or I'll scream”, you threaten.

“And I’ll kill anyone that comes. Upstairs”.

You were yet to learn that Logan had reservations about killing needlessly, especially non-mutants, so you admit defeat and wander down three apartment blocks to your actual home.

The bar was low, but your apartment block was the nicest in the street. No graffiti or broken windows. A nice, clean brick that reached three stories and opened to a nice fourier.

There was no elevator but there was only one flight of stairs up to your apartment.

You show him your door labeled 2A, telling him there was no way to get it open unless he took you back to the bathhouse.

He ignores you, placing his hand on the knob and giving it a gentle push that breaks the lock.

Your heart rate picks up faster, which worries Logan as it was already quite high.

He lets go of your arm to allow you to go in first, and shuts the door behind him.

It was a one bedroom apartment, with a small open kitchen that opened to a small space that had to be chosen to be a living room or a dining area.

You had chosen a living room with a green couch sat in front of a small rectangular table.

“You can take what you want. I have some jewelry in the food cupboard”, you state.

“This isn’t a hold-up”, he grumbles, “Come here”.

He goes to your bedroom, listening to your feet following him.

He goes to your closet to see your luggage bag stored up top. He takes it down, and begins throwing items into it.

‘What are you doing?”, you begin to panic seeing him stuff your suitcase with your clothes.

“Do you have a passport?”

“Why?”

The plane was departing within the hour. He had no time to answer obvious questions.

“Do you have one?”. He reiterates.

“No”. Your heart skips a beat as you lie.

“Go get it”, he demands.

“I don’t want to”, your voice was quiet and strained.

He knew he should have taken a softer approach. To be uprooted overnight would be a hard thing for anybody.

Yet still, his claws dig through at your resistance.

“Go get it”, he said in a lower tone.

His blades work to persuade you, and you move quickly to your bedside table to retrieve it.

He zips up your suitcase, holding out his hand for your passport. You pass it to him, taking a step back once it's in his hand.

Checking it’s valid, he puts it in his back pocket alone with his.

“Logan, I can keep a secret” you say, “I would never tell anyone about you”.

“That’s nice, bub. Go change”, he nods to the wardrobe behind him which you take a pair of jeans, and a singlet from.

You were too quick to the bathroom, so he stops you before you enter.

“Ah” he tuts.

He takes a look inside first to check for windows. There was only a small one with a security screen so he allowed you to pass and shut the door on him.

After a frustrating phone call in which he was misunderstood twice, he manages to order a taxi to the airport, and knocks on the door to let you know it was on its way.

You open the door a different person. Your makeup was all wiped off, and your hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

The confident seductive was replaced with this fragile girl-next-door type. He didn’t think it was possible to love you anymore.

You hand out his jacket to him which he takes but opens it to wrap around your shoulders.

“Keep it. It looks good on you”.

“Logan-” you begin but he cuts you off.

“Sh” he dismisses taking your head into his hands, “it’s alright. I know”.

“But-” you try.

He sh’s you again, “Don’t think. Just come with me”, he begs.

Moving his hands from your head to your wrist he takes you back outside the bathroom to where your bag lay waiting by the door.

You don’t know why but you follow his direction to put your sandals on your feet, and follow him down to the street and into a taxi.

Your head reels as the car drives. The taxi is silent, only the sound from the radio plays. Logan holds onto your thigh while he looks out of the window.

You stare at his hands, wondering where the blades went when they were retracted.

You think about telling the driver but one man was no match for Logan.

The man pulls into the drop off station, and gets out to get your luggage.

Logan turns to you in the car, demanding your attention from his eyes alone.

“Are you going to save us both some time and be a good girl, or do we need to go over what will happen if you draw attention?”.

You shake your head ‘no’.

“Good girl, let’s go”.

Logan goes out the same door you do, instantly taking your hand in his in the busy station.

He pays the man, and takes your suitcase for you.

“Where are we going?”, you request.

Logan joins the back of the line for check-in’s

“New York”, he gives.

“What's in New york?” you ask him.

“Home”.

You flex your hands in his, trying to get it free.

“I am going home with you?”, you implore.

He nods, not looking at you.

“You said you were one of the good guys”, you remind him.

“I told you, I am a good guy that does bad things”.

His fingers clench around yours in a painful hold. Your eyes fill up with fresh tears. You knew Logan wouldn’t hurt you, but he was a stranger, a mutant, who had taken you from your home, and planned to place you in his.

“Don’t cry. Not here”, he demands.

He moves his body to shield you from prying eyes, as you try your best to conceal your panic.

A gentle hand rubs your back as you move up in line.

The girl at the counter notices your red eyes, and asks if you are okay.

“She’s a nervous flyer” he lies.

The woman ignores him, asking you the question again.

The hand you held had blades that came out on command so you nod your head in agreement.

“I’ll be fine once we are up in the air” you say.

The woman hands Logan the tickets, and you make your way over to the security screening.

Logan seemed amazed you had lied for him.

He kisses your head, thanking you for not causing a scene.

He lets you go easy when you reach the security point, letting you walk through the metal detector.

You eye the security and their guns, but you watched Logan get shot at point blank. Would their guns even dint him?

The metal detector beeps when Logan walks through. For a second, you think that you will find out if their guns work on him when a security officer closes in.

“Easy there, big guy”, Logan takes a slip of paper out of his pocket to show the man, “I have a metal hip”.

The man takes the pass over to his supervisor. You wonder if they know something is wrong as they talk, but the manger looks relaxed, and with a wave of his hand the pass is given back to Logan, and you get the go ahead.

Logan slings his arm over your shoulder past the security who don’t take a second glance.

“You have metal in your hands?” you whisper the question to him.

“I have adamantium in my entire body” he explains, “It’s a type of metal”.

You feel amazed at the news. A whole body of metal reinforcing him to be the most dangerous man you had ever met.

The most dangerous man you had ever met took you over to a cafe stand. Buying you, and himself a roll and coffee.

You never would have guessed the man you met at the bathhouse harbored such a secret. How many other clients were mutants too, or was he the only one.

“It’s gettin’ cold”, he says noticing you staring at him.

You accept his gift, starving after last night.

The rest of the time until boarding was silent. Only then did the sense of dread kick back in.

“Please”, you beg.

“I am sorry. Get on the plane”. His voice was soft, but you could hear no sound of true sympathy from it.

He keeps you in front of him as the attendant checks the tickets, and you find your seats.

You were the only two on your row, right at the back of the plane.

Logan settles into the seat beside you, doing up his seatbelt, and checking yours.

The cabin crew begin their safety speech. Your eyes were trained out the window, not looking at them. You hoped the plane crashed.

When the plane began moving at a fast pace, Logan checked your seatbelt again, pulling on it to make sure it was tight across your lap.

You look at him. He was tense again, and shut his eyes when the plane took off.

When it stabilized he let out a breath of air, and opened his eyes, falling back into his seat.

“Afraid of flying?” you ask surprised.

“If god wanted us to fly, we’d have wings”, he quips.

“And if god wanted us to have blades in our hands, we would”.

Logan's hands ball into fists. He was a freak in your eyes.

“One day I’ll explain what happened to me”, he promises.

“What else can you do? You’re strong, hard, body full of metal”, you start, “and that man. He shot you”.

“Baby, I can do alot of things”, he dismisses.

“Like what?” you push.

“Maybe now is not the time to be discussing this”. He says looking around at other passengers. Most of whom already had their earphones on.

“What do you want with me?”, you implore.

“Now’s really not the time to be discussing that” He grits.

“One of the good guys” you remind him.

“I'll settle for being an okay guy. Stop talking” he growls.

You turn back to the window away from him the rest of the flight.

You watch as the clouds below you turn orange, and then black. Logan passes you a food tray from the stewardess and you eat it in silence.

It must have looked odd to the stewardess. Neither you or Logan played with the screen in front of you. Just sat there with grim expressions on your faces.

Lights turn off as the cabin goes to sleep. You were nowhere near ready with the adrenaline pumping through your body.

Logan takes his blanket from the wrapper and lays it over your shoulder.

“You should sleep,” he says.

“Is that how it's going to be from now on? You telling me what to do” , you snap.

Logan turns away from you, facing to the front.

“It was just a suggestion”.

You run your hands over your face wondering what sort of keeper he was going to be.

“I need to pee” you say.

He unbuckles his seatbelt to get up out of your way but you couldn’t wait for him. You’re fighting to get past him as he tries to stand.

He grabs your waist to maneuver you but the touch sends rage through your body.

You scream in his face. A loud ear piercing scream that turned everyone’s attention on you.

Logan quickly let go, slumping back into his seat under the stare of other awake passengers.

You rush to the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

The tight space allows you to breathe.

Washing your face with cold water, you decide it is time to return to your seat.

Logan waits for the sound of a turning lock before he jumps from his seat to catch you as you exited and push you back inside.

He is quick to lock the door behind him.

Three, quick, firm smacks are placed on your bottom as he pushes you against the sink.

It stings when he sits you on the counter, and stands between your legs.

“Are you crazy, bub? Acting like that”, he scolds.

You try to move him out between your legs, but he pushes your knee down as you move your leg.

“Don’t you ever misbehave like that again”, he warns.

“Or what?”. He had already taken everything from you, and you trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t really hurt you.

His angry stare didn’t scare you, but when his hands reached for the button of your jeans your heart rate spiked.

“I gotta fuck the stupid out of you?” he spat.

“Get off” you demand.

You scream in his face again when his hand continues to unhook the button.

He is quick to quieten you, clamping a hand over your mouth. Your head hits the mirror from the force.

He secures your hands behind your back with a single hand when you begin to hit him. It caused you more pain than him, it felt as if you were hitting against a brick wall.

The force knocks out his necklace that he had never worn before. A rectangular pendant dangles as he moves. You could see it was inscribed but the writing was too small to make out.

“Is that how it’s going to be from now on? Me telling you what to do. Yeah. I think fucking so”, he grunts.

“Now don’t scream” he orders.

The hand over your mouth is removed as he uses it to tug down your jeans, and then his own.

You know you should scream, make some sort of noise that would alert the others, but desire pooled with him between your legs.

Your emotions were too complicated to unpack so you allowed him to take your pants off your legs.

He throws them to the floor, but keeps your panties in his hands.

You see why when he brings them to your lips, and forces them in your mouth. He clamps his hand back over to keep you from spitting them out.

He sighs as he enters you.

“You know, you don’t need to act stupid to get my attention”, he grunts as he rocks into you.

Your toes curl feeling him inside of you. He fit so completely that you were building from just clenching around him.

“Don’t cum. I’ll tell you when”, he says.

You muffle a protest against his hand, but it was met with no sympathy.

“Don’t you fucking cum or I’ll put you over my knee for ten more”.

Your ass still stung from the three he gave you so you delayed yourself the best you could.

He picks up his pace, slamming into you quickly, and hard. You hear his chain clink as he moves.

“Okay now”, he directs.

Your thighs shake as you clench around him.

His hand drops to allow you to regain your breath, bringing your pants from your mouth as he did.

He pants in unison with you, only he is quicker to regain his resolve. Your head was still reeling while he re-buttons his jeans.

He shakes his head as if he was trying to snap out of the trance he was in.

It seemed to have worked as he was gentle when he slid your underpants back on.

It was as if two people lived inside of him. One was sweet, and gentle, the other impulsive, and violent.

You weren’t sure which one turned you on the way it did.

He looks at you with those remorseful eyes. You should hate him but yourself wanting to comfort him. You knock it down to Stockholm and square your shoulders against his.

“Let me take a look at you”. He turns your face in his hand and smooths back your hair from your face with his other hand.

He checks to make sure you are okay. You didn’t look to be crying or in any pain.

“You right, Bub? You going to be good for me from now on?”, he asks.

You take the necklace out of his shirt. He doesn’t move to stop you, letting you read his dog tags.

‘LOGAN’ in capital letters and Howlett in smaller letters below. A series of numbers trace the bottom.

You flip it, feeling the indents on the other side, and run your finger over the name.

“Wolverine” you read, “like the animal?”.

He takes his tags from your hand and tucks them back under his shirt.

“Yeah, like the animal”.

#Dark!logan #dark!wolverine #logan howlet smut #logan howellt x you #dark logan howlett

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alvfr · 5 months ago

Note

you asked for it! im forcing you!

how about a scenario on that particular AU you have cooking around? between nightwing and a spiderperson that is marooned in the black and white gotham city

we love to see it

posting this like you haven't already read all of it >.< a/n: the funniest jokes are princess-marida's and she is a blessed saint that endures my long ramblings about wips, including this one. i know it says a scenario, but this turned into a longer project (shocker) so here's the first part of chapter 1 (eventual) paring: dick grayson/reader rating: m (swearing)/sfw cw: spider-woman!reader who never stops talking, no use of y/n, superhero violence summary: for years, you have been the one and only Spider-Woman of your world. However, after being recruited to the multiversal Spider-Society, you learn that there's a version of you in every other universe too.At least that's what you thought until something goes wrong and you end up in a world with plenty of superheroes, but no Spider-Man. You're stranded, alone and glitching. You need to find this world's Spider-Man and restore your link to the Spider-Verse before you disintegrate completely - easier said than done with both a local detective and a hot vigilante on your tail.

Out of the Spider-Verse (and into Gotham)

All right, guys. Let’s start at the beginning one last time.

Your name is definitely not Peter Parker, but you were bitten by a radioactive spider, and for the last few years, you’ve been the one and only Spider-Woman. At least, you thought you were until another Spider-Woman showed up to recruit you to the multiversal Spider-Society and you realized you were one of many, many, many Spider-things from all kinds of universes. It was a sweet gig, getting you out and about some, meeting new people, doing team-ups and group work, and your leader was a decent enough guy. A little intense. Borderline scary. Easy on the eyes though. Really easy on the eyes.

And one day, you’re hanging out at the headquarters minding your own business, totally not gossipping about boss-man, when the order comes to capture one of your fellow Spider-Men. Next thing you know, you’re caught up in the whirlwind of Spider-Beings chasing after someone called Miles Morales, and somehow, in the chaos, you slip.

A fluke, really. You never slip. You’re Spider-Woman! You literally stick to walls and ceilings, and somehow, you lost your footing and took a tumble into darkness.

Real darkness. Where bright flashing lights and psychedelic colors had accompanied you all the other times you hopped through dimensions, this time, you fell into a black pit of nothing. Reflexes had you shooting out webs, desperate to get an anchor point. They disappeared into the void with an embarrassing swish, and you did not even have time to scream before you smacked into something undeniably solid.

Concrete, probably, based on the cloud of debris and dust that rained over you as your body dug several feet into it, knocking every cubic inch of air from your lungs with an oof. Yup, you determined as you lifted your now gray arms to study them. Definitely concrete. You dropped your head back into the rubble and made a face under your mask. Concrete dust was a real bitch to get out of the suit, and you would be forced to cosplay as whitewashed Noir Spider-Man until you could get it dry-cleaned.

Read more on AO3

#dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #dick grayson x you #nightwing x you #batman fanfiction #spider verse fanfiction #out of the spider-verse #my writing #asks #requested #requests open #how do i tag this so i can find it later #ao3

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what-even-is-thiss · 1 year ago

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Gender has always been a shaky and loose ever changing category. People asking for a strict definition of a man or woman are always going to be unsatisfied with any answer you give them because their definition of man or woman is the only one they want to be true.

Usually men have beards. But not always. Usually women have breasts. But not always. Often in many cultures “men” are the ones who do the fighting. But not always. There are cultures where women fight as well or even form their own warrior or soldier groups. There are men who can’t grow beards. There are women without breasts.

Usually men have a penis. But not always. Usually women have a labia. But not always. Such as it is for every other characteristic associated with one gender or another. And the necessity of one characteristic or another for being considered a man or woman varies greatly between time, culture, and place. Not to mention the vast variety in presentation in physical primary and secondary sex characteristics.

It’s not a thing that can have a solid definition with no exceptions. There are trends in what we perceive in the cultural moment as being necessities for being this or that gender but those general groups of characteristics always have exceptions to them and are prone to change with evolving cultural attitudes from within a society and influence from other outside cultures.

And generally the characteristics that people associate being a “good man” or “good woman” with overlap a significant amount. Like if you ask someone to just sit down and list things there will be something like a 90% overlap or more. Characteristics like caring for others, resilience, being a good listener, intelligence, etc. tend to be valued in people of any gender. The line between being a good man and a good woman is often more aesthetic than any concrete set of actions or physical characteristics.

Why am I a non binary man? There’s a thousand small things I could point to in order to explain it. But none of those reasons fit into a neat one sentence definition. But if you ask a cisgender man why he’s a man like really actually make him explain it, he will likely have a similar level of complexity to his answer if he really thinks about it. If you really grill cisgender people about their own opinions on this stuff they are often surprised to find how many thoughts they actually have about gender and how much more complicated those opinions are than they thought.

Transgender, intersex, queer, and gender nonconforming people are often forced to actually look at gender in a way that cishet people aren’t. It’s easier to see all of the tiny puzzle pieces when none of the ones you were assigned fit in your life and you’ve got to find your own. Gender isn’t one solid mass. It’s a mosaic made out of a lot of tiny tiles that can be swapped out or removed and still generally look like something you recognize.

What’s a woman? Well, that’s a question with a million answers but if you step back you can get a general idea. Kind of like with pointillism. If you stand too close to it and try to pick out one bit that makes a woman a woman you won’t see much. Just a singular splotch of paint. But if you back up a ways you’ll see something there you recognize. And what you see will likely still be up to your own interpretation.

#roman said a thing #trans stuff

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lumsel · 4 months ago

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question regarding your TME nonbinary addition to the post: wouldn’t someone who is amab, nonbinary, and not particularly fem also count as TME?

The problem is not that the two gender categories being reinvented here align with one's ASAB, it's that you're trying to reinvent two neat and well-defined gender categories in the first place. TME is treated as an inherent status one can have. Like, what the hell does "not particularly fem" even mean? Can you construct a rigorous definition of that? Would you really look me in the eye and tell me I'm just not fem enough to be affected by transmisogyny?

You're trying to construct concrete categories in a world that defies them. Even cis women, cis men can be "affected" by transmisogyny. Imane Khelif would be described as TME, when her life and career have been irrecovably affected by the transmisogyny of others. But oh, does that not count? Does her inherent cis privelige somehow cancel out the leagues of reactionaries currently trying to ruin her life? Most of us on this Earth will never have to deal with a wave of negative attention as serious as what she's going through. Argue all you like that it doesn't "count" for her for some reason, it's a strike against the idea that you can define these categories rigorously at all.

If you find yourself trying to rigorously calculate the degree of femininity of any NB folk to determine which category of TME or TMA they fall into, you should take a step back and consider what the hell it is you're trying to do here. You cannot determine how much transmisogyny someone has experienced by just looking at them. You don't know a damn thing about what they've been through. The only measure of how transmisogyny affected someone is that makes any sense is sitting them down and asking them, "have you ever been the victim of transmisogyny?", be they cis or trans, binary or nonbinary, man or woman or what. Simple as that.

#asks

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 1 year ago

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Whumptober 2023

No. 3 “Make It Stop.” | No. 30 Bridal Carry

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Pre-relationship)

Setting: Prison Era

Warnings: Gunshot wound, mentions of blood

“It… hurts.”

“I gotcha, Y/N. Ya jus’ hang on fer me, girl, y’hear?” Daryl was running as fast as he humanly could with you cradled against his chest in a bridal carry, desperate to get back to the prison. You needed Hershel and you needed him now.

He should have never taken you out with him. You were inexperienced, clumsy. He had really just wanted to spend some time with you away from the prying eyes of your home. Those knowing smiles and giddy whispers were enough to set his nerves on edge.

He couldn’t have known someone else would be hunting the same area. He couldn’t have known they would be tracking the same buck. He couldn’t have known that they would lay claim even though it was his bolt that took down the animal. And he definitely couldn’t have known the man would aim his gun at an innocent woman and pull the trigger before Daryl could even blink. The man went down fast with a bolt to the brain but the damage was done.

“Make it stop. Please, Daryl.”

His heart felt as if it were being crushed in a vice, your strained pleas tearing away at him like a walker on flesh. “Almos’ there. Doc’ll fix ya righ’ up.” He could feel the warm, sticky blood spreading onto his own shirt and knew he was running out of time. His legs were burning, threatening to give out. He could barely manage a full breath. But he couldn’t stop.

When the gates of the prison came into view, he nearly sobbed with relief. It was short lived. “Y’see? We made it.” You didn’t respond. “Y/N?” Your eyes were closed, face pale. “Fuck!” He was stumbling with exhaustion as he rushed past the few walkers shuffling around in the grass. “Open the gate!” He didn’t have to say it twice.

Daryl made sure to stay close enough to the make-shift infirmary to be called if needed but far enough away so he couldn’t hear the urgent demands of the veterinarian as he tried to save your life. The archer sat on the floor, face in his hands, kicking himself for ever putting you in this position. He had been selfish and you were paying the price.

“Daryl.”

The bowman quickly met Carol’s exhausted gaze. The weariness made it hard to read whether she was bringing good news or coming to tell him you were gone.

“She… is she…?”

“She’s alive.”

Daryl let himself fall back against the wall. He felt a familiar sting behind his eyes and did his best to push it back, but the shine of tears was already evident.

“Hershel says any longer and…. Anyway, she’s going to be fine.”

The archer nodded, not trusting his voice. Carol, ever vigilant, noticed his plight and slid down the wall next to him. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Pfft.” He responded too quickly. There was one of those knowing smiles he couldn’t stand. “She ain’t the wors’ person ta be ‘round.” The silver haired woman hummed and nodded.

“She was thrilled you asked her to go with you.” She offered, twisting the bloody cloth in her hands. Daryl looked over at her but quickly looked away when she tried to meet his eyes. “She’s sweet on you. Has been for a while.”

“Stop.”

“She really is, and what’s so terrible about that?”

Daryl’s face burned hot. “She can do a lot better than me.”

Carol reached out to brush his longer hair away from his face. He never flinched from her touch anymore. Hers or yours. “I don’t think so.” And with that, she stood and padded across the concrete to disappear back into the cell where you currently lay resting.

Daryl let his friend’s words tumble around in his head, equal parts hope and fear spreading throughout. There was no way a classy little thing like you could ever be interested in a grumpy old redneck. But…maybe you had said something. Carol seemed so sure of it.

With a shaky breath and trembling hands, the archer climbed to his feet and forced himself forward. He would sit with you until you awoke. And when you were stable enough, he would talk to you. Maybe. No, he would. He would.

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georgiapeach30513 · 11 months ago

Text

Much Too Fast, Part 3

Summary: Curtis is a jealous man

Pairings: Curtis Everett X Reader

Rating: mature

Warnings: explicit language, making out, groping, tension, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 4.6K

Series Masterlist

*dividers by @firefly-graphics

Curtis paces back and forth in his room. He contemplated on letting Poet start her night off in his room because he could use some comfort. And then the thought of relying on his nine month old daughter irritated him. His comfort was not Poet’s responsibility.

You are on a date with Jax. He knew about Curtis’ feelings about you, and he came here to pick you up. He knew, and still chose to drive up to his house while you were holding his daughter, and take you out on a date. His stupid little smirk. Ugh. Curtis is pissed off at his partner and best friend. When he got the address, Jax should have walked away. But no, he wanted to torture Curtis.

Sure, Jax didn’t know. But at some point when you gave the address, he knew. And why were you so eager to go on a date? You had only just moved here. And he knows he gave you the best night of your life. The two of you are still trying to fight off those feelings. Every day trying to deny every move and thrust into you he made.

Well, he wasn’t. You were trying with every part of you to pretend that you didn’t care about the night that you shared. Ignored how Poet is already attached to you because she needed you as much as he did. And that sounds stupid. He’s had you once, and known you for a few days.

Maybe Jax was right, he had a sweet spot and it was Poet, and he is becoming obsessed with this idea, and who is that helping? Definitely not him. But you were with Jax. Jax! You couldn’t handle that man, and he didn’t deserve you. Curtis didn’t even deserve you. He was in a complicated relationship with a woman that didn’t love him and he didn’t love her. And then Poet. Whoever he dated had to contend with that baby being in their life, and you did it easily.

Was it too easy? That’s something that he thought about more often than he cared to admit. He is romanticizing someone he shouldn’t want or have. But what are the odds of you being the one to pick him up? Of having the best night of his life only to see you here the very next day? That sounds a lot like fate to him.

He hears the rumble of Jax’s stupid motorcycle, and his pacing picks up. He had to do something. Jax isn’t going to shut up about tonight. He’s going to get into his ear. Making up shit just to get under his skin. That’s just who Jax is.

”Fuck it,” Curtis growls. Grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt, he yanks it over his head, and bends over to pull off his socks, and finally his pants. He grabs Poet’s baby monitor and a couple of towels before inhaling deeply, he walks out of his bedroom, and directly to the pool in nothing but his boxers.

His bare feet hit the concrete, and he lays down the monitor, making sure the sound is completely up before diving into the pool. Resurfacing as you walk through the gate, and pause staring at him.

You hold his gaze for way too long, before wiggling your shoulders, and walking towards the pool house. Purposely keeping your eyes in front of you. Curtis’ cocky self swims right along with your gait before you stop, and turn towards him. Damn his pretty smile. Damn him. “What do you want?”

“How was the date?” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to think about how you could play this. Would he think less of you if you told him a lie? Why would you want to make him jealous?

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“So all you got was a kiss?” He cocks his brow up, and you have to look away. He’s testing your patience while digging for information. Needing to know exactly how quick you are, and you aren’t sure how to play this. Do you want to make him more jealous? And if so, why? Why do you desire to have him seething because it wasn’t him?

“If I told you he bent me over his motorcycle, and fucked me what would you say?” His jaw tenses, and he stands up fully out of the water, leaning his body over the edge as he stares up at you. “What?”

“Tell me you’re lying,” there’s a bit of anger in his face, but his eyes are telling a different story. You could be dreaming, but you see desperation for what you said to not be true.

“Why? Why do you even care?”

“You didn’t have fun that first night? Don’t we…you enjoy it here with Poet?”

He looks positively downtrodden. No anger is laced in his words, just…pain? But that didn’t even make sense. You had one night with him, and the other days were trying to fight the urge to sneak into his bedroom. “But you lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the whole truth. If I had told you I had a daughter and was married to a woman that I respect, but don’t love, what would you have said? Told you that we sometimes lived together, and the only reason we do is because I don’t want Tati to resent my daughter more than she does when she has to wake up in the middle of the night to deal with our child. Meanwhile she goes flying around on ‘business trips’ with her…” Curtis shakes his head no as he stares off into the distance. He almost went too far.

“That isn’t my story to tell.”

“Then what story is yours to tell?” You didn’t understand, and at this rate, you doubt you would. “I’ve only been around you without Tati, I’ve never even seen the two of you together,” his sinful fingers coast up your leg, and he gives you a wicked grin.

“Get in the pool.”

“Number one I don’t have a suit. Number two tell me the story that is yours to tell.”

“First, you don’t need a suit. I’ll even turn around for you to get undressed. Two, Tati isn’t on a business trip, she’s on another vacation with her partner. Her sexual partner. Now get in this pool with me,” you sigh, but start to shimmy out of your dress. You didn’t think Tati having sex with another man was the opening you wanted to be with Curtis, but knowing she was with someone else set you at ease a tiny tiny bit.

Standing there in nothing but your barely there but coordinated lingerie, you give a bite to your lip. “You, in the pool,” Curtis points between you and the pool. Becoming impatient at you not being closer to him.

“This bra is expensive.”

“Take it off then,” that fucking smirk. He is such an asshole. “Fine, I’ll turn around,” he twists his body in the opposite direction, and you throw it on a chair, and jump in right beside him. Surfacing the water, and amazingly Curtis keeps his eyes up. But did you want him to look. It isn’t anything he hasn’t seen, but…is that going too far. My god, you want him. And very little separated the two of you. This is a dangerous bad idea.

“So how long has Tati had another partner?”

“I answered your question, now you answer mine,” it is only fair. He did answer a difficult question. “Did you let Jax touch you?” He is almost too dominant for his own good. Feeling like you owed him your loyalty because he had you first. “I’m just trying to understand where I stand.”

“Explain, please.”

“Oh, she got her manners back. I like that,” cocky little asshole. “I just don’t think you,” he stops, really trying to think and to choose his words carefully. “I don’t like the idea with you and him,” you tilt your head to the side, your lips pursing, and he starts moving closer to you. Keeping your arms crossed over your chest, he backs you up against the side of the pool.

Placing his hands on either side of your body. Looking up at you through his lashes, he is a walking wet dream, “The thought of his hands on you…I don’t like it.”

”Did it make you jealous?” You taunt. Not realizing just how much you have been driving him mad until now. “Does it bother you to think of his lips on mine? For him to say filthy things in my ear?”

He takes a deep breath, his mouth spreading out into a sinful grin. His eyes flick down to your mouth, and then back to your eyes, “If he touched you, you wouldn’t be standing here acting like an arrogant little bitch. Let me guess, you got a peck just beside your mouth?”

“Shut up,” he is right. It was just a simple little kiss, and a thank you. No, promises of calling you later. A peck and a thanks.

”Do you enjoy teasing, Grace?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s working,” you gulp as you stare up at him, starting to shake your head no when his hand presses lightly against your cheek. “I don’t have a right to, but I want to ask you to not see Jax again.”

“We have no future, Curtis.”

“Because why?” You don’t have a clear reason. But there is that looming factor of his marriage, and he’s your employer. Sort of.

“You know why. I won’t be the other woman. And you…”

“Tati pays you. And I’m already the other man,” you shake your head no as you look up at him, only because you don’t know what else to do. He has this weird ability to make you dumb and wordless. Barely able to shake your head no because your body is quaking for his touch. But not the touch on your cheek. You wanted him all over you. “And if you continue with Jax, I’ll still be the other man,” he closes the gap between the two of you as he slots his lips against yours.

Overcome with pent up tension, you melt in his embrace. Ignoring the simple legal fact that is keeping you away from him. Refusing to acknowledge where you had been this evening, and how oddly uneventful it was. A peck on the cheek was all you got, and you didn’t want more, only just wanted Curtis to see it.

Wanted him to feel as shocked and jealous as you did when you learned he was married. All that passion from that first night doesn’t fizzle up to the surface it burns. The unmistakable heat of lava flows through every part of your body as you jump into his embrace. His hands scoop to the bottom of your ass cheeks, and pulls you even closer to him. The only thing separating you was lace and cotton. Your bodies heating up with unadulterated need for the other. Tilting your head to the side allowing him every bit of access to own you again.

Morals be damned. This is everything. The worst kind of sin. The kind that you know could kill your current self and be reborn as a new woman. It’s how he always makes you feel. Fighting the tension these past couple of days had been agonizing. This feels so wrong that it’s right.

His mouth nips down your neck, following a trail right down to your chest. Curtis lifts you up a bit, his right hand cups your tit and sucks your nipple into his mouth. Looking up at you with a smirk before he gives you a bit of a nibble on your hardened bud, and you decide you’re going to throw all caution to the wind. He just feels so good.

His length trembles right where you need him. You whimper out his name right before his head presses up against your chest, and he shushes you. “She’ll go back to sleep.”

You hold still for a moment. Your pulses throbbing together, and you will Poet to go back to sleep, “Dada,” it’s a cry. She wants him. “Dada?” You hear the rustling of her blankets. Almost see her standing up in her bed. Slamming her fists on the railing. “Dada.”

“We can make this quick. She’s not even crying,” you push his face back to look at him, scolding him with your eyes. “What?”

“She wants you.”

“And she’s not even crying,” you giggle because he spoke too soon. Her little cry of distress proving that it wasn’t just her talking. “Cockblocker.”

“What are you going to do with your little problem?” You tease, trying to get out of his embrace. There is no way he needs to tend to the baby. “Curtis, let me go.”

“Why? We were just getting started. I promise she’ll be okay. Where are you going?” He is such a whiner. “Grace? Don’t leave me.”

“Stop. Let me go tend to Poet,” he gives your hand a pull, and gives you an odd look, “Do you want to put your baby back to sleep with a hard on?” He doesn’t answer, just looks down into the water, and shakes his head. “Didn’t think so.”

Swimming over to the stairs, you grab a towel, to dry your top off as much as possible before slipping your shirt back on, and jogging into the house through his bedroom. Poet’s cries are getting louder. Poor baby. Her cries bringing you back to reality and just how fucked up this situation is.

Stepping into her bedroom, she smiles up at you through her crib. “You drama queen. Where are your tears, sweet girl?” She gives you a bit of a giggle, making grabby hands at you until you pick her up, holding her close to your chest, and she snuggles even closer. She loved touch. Craved to be held tightly to someone.

Curtis did say that if Poet woke up, she went back to sleep in his room, so you walk back. Rocking and walking her back and forth in his bedroom, and trying to avoid looking at him. Pacing back and forth, while you hum, and run your hand up and down her back. You shouldn’t get too attached, but who wouldn’t get attached to this angel?

Curtis goes from trying to will his hard cock away, to looking at you. You are a natural with her. Tati would never hold Poet with such tenderness. Tati seemed more like a friend of Curtis’ or the aunt that wasn’t the biggest fan of babies. Each passing day with Tati showed Curtis just how much she wasn’t invested in Poet as her baby. He wondered if there would come a day when he would wake up, and she would be gone.

But not with you. You. You hold her so close to you. Giving her little kisses to her forehead, and brushing those sweet curls that Curtis loved so much. You aren’t even noticing how Curtis’ lust from earlier is pure…love? No, not that serious. But he could see himself falling for you. He can envision a life where you are Poet’s mother, and you are just spending time with your baby.

Why is something so sweet making him so feral and hard? “Ugh,” he looks down at his quaking cock. He wants you to be her mom, and make you a mom again, “No,” he is losing his mind in this never ending cycle of having to play house. Having to go through the motions of you being Poet’s mom because Tati was off fucking someone else.

He could feel sorry for himself, but he knew in asking Tati to keep the baby, no he begged her to keep Poet, that he would be the one most responsible for her. Tati told him she didn’t want a child, so he shouldn’t be surprised. But the care that you give the baby, looking ridiculously hot with your glimmering legs, and wet bottoms, your shirt presses up against your damp skin, and you look like a goddess.

Like a siren singing an addictive song, and calling out to him. He is listening, and he can’t stop. You are gorgeous every day, but right now you’re immaculate. Angelic. Perfect. And he hates himself for wanting to keep you for him and Poet. He didn’t even know if you wanted kids, and she and him were a package deal. But he needed you. Beyond just the sex. Because what he sees right now is the most beautiful and sexy thing he’s ever laid his eyes on.

He closes his eyes and imagines to the sweet song you’re singing to her, and he’s a goner. This is a need for you to stay with him and his daughter. He wouldn’t make you, but he wasn’t going to stop trying. You are perfect. This is what Poet deserved her whole life, even if it’s been less than a year. She deserved this type of mom.

How is his cock harder? “Fuck me,” he growls, wrapping his fist around the base of his length. He’s never hurt this hard in his life. He presses his head against the side of the pool, trying to breathe, but all he can think about is what all the various positions he turned you in. How he had you begging for him. He’d never met someone that was just so perfect for him.

“Curtis, are you okay?”

“No,” he answers truthfully. His mind a jumbled mess of sexual fantasy, and lifelong dreams with you. He didn’t even know you!

“What are you…” now you know that man didn’t take his cock out and grip it like that. All while you were tending to his daughter, he was tending to himself. He takes a glimpse up at you and wishes that he didn’t.

That white shirt is leaving nothing to the imagination with your nipples still hard and pressing against it. The material wet and showing everything in such a teasing and delightful way. Why did he look up? “You’re dripping,” he mumbles, hoping it’s in more ways than one. “Thank you for that, now get back in the pool?”

“I really shouldn’t,” you respond. If you get back in the pool you would let him fuck you in every which way. You couldn’t allow that. The break away from him is what you needed to center yourself, and make you think about what was really going on. He pumps himself in his fist a few times, and you groan, “Curtis!”

“Say it again, but this time whimper it,” that dumb cocky little smile is back on his mouth. He creates a steady pace, and chuckles when you look down at him. “Like what you see, Grace?”

“No,” you’re such a liar. You have thought about the way his cock made your walls stretch out every night since that first time. You forgot the tender feeling of it all. Couldn't remember the sting that you craved. Had looked on the internet for a toy that resembled his cock because you need to feel it again.

“Because you have a boyfriend?” He prods. He’s such an asshole.

”He’s not my boyfriend,” crossing your arms over your chest, you cock your hip to the side as you look down at him. He’s always been such a dominant demanding man, but right now, he’s below you, “Are you jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous,” lies. Curtis stewed the entire time that you were gone. He texted Jax every fifteen minutes with a threat. He is very jealous that you had your pretty thighs around Jax’s body, and the thoughts of Jax touching you made him furious.

”Tell your dick you’re not jealous then.”

“I can let my dick do the talking as I stab into you.”

“You’re so romantic. Did you forget your daughter is just in there sleeping in her bed. In your room?” He didn’t forget, he could almost hear Poet’s snores. He also couldn’t forget the way your brows moved as he entered you for the first time. The way your fingers clung to him just as much as your cunt.

”And you looked so pretty soothing her, and putting her to bed. It’s like you’re…her mom,” he shouldn’t have let that slip out, but he did, and he can’t take it back.

”But I’m not,” you answer flatly, starting to walk back to your room. You couldn’t see him, and hear him like that right now. You need a cold shower. You need to meditate. To breathe. To do anything but think about him.

”Grace!”

“Goodnight, Curtis!” He swears you’re walking in a way to entice him more. Your fucking lace panties cover up nothing. Your ass cheeks bounce with every step you take.

“Tease!” He yells out after you, that dumb smile back on his face.

“Whore!” You scream right back, giving him your own smile before you close the door behind you. Leaning up against your door you take a few calming breaths. He is going to be the death of you.

“Oh, she’s such a feisty one,” he grunts as he jerks himself even harder. Visions of you spread out in that stupid large kitchen. You are covered in various bits of batter from baking for the family dinner. Something tells him you’d love to be a free use little cum dump.

He pretends you’ve got a breeding kink just like him, “Curtis!” You’d scream as he grips you so tight. “Fuck a baby in me. I need another. Fuck I need to feel you growing in me. It’s my favorite thing. Daddy!”

He could work out the details later. But you’d look so pretty bent over the counter. Everyone outside by the pool, but you need to be filled up with his cum. Keeping your eyes on the door as he presses you into the counter. Your cunt squeezing him so tight. No drop of cum would ever go to waste. He is going to fill you to the brim.

”Fuckfuckfuckfuck!” He lets out a scream as he releases in the pool. His eyes look longingly at the space that separates the two of you. You are trouble for him. He just hopes he’s trouble for you, too.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jax asks as he walks into the garage, and Curtis throws a tool at him. “You missed me, daddy.”

”I hate you.”

“If that wrench is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck,” he takes a seat in a stool, and leans back on the wall staring. Just staring. Nothing else. “So…how was your weekend?”

Curtis turns back to the car in front of him. Ignoring his best friend that is trying to get him riled up. It isn’t going to work. The two of you kissed again. And you even came over to the main house on your day off. Made him and Poet breakfast. But that kiss…it wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything.

“I took this sweet little honey on a date. There’s something about having a girl on the back of a bike. The rumble of the engine roaring right at her pussy. You can feel the heat coming off her, knowing how much she needs to be bent over the motorcycle and fucked so hard. And she leaves a trail of your cum on the seat.”

”SHUT UP!”

“Oh oh!” Jax starts cackling, standing up to walk over to Curtis, leaning right in his ear, “Giving it to her so good that she starts going crossed eyed and dumb, can barely mumble out your name, so it just comes out as ‘fuck me harder, daddy.’”

Jax is trying to get to him, and it’s almost working, except he didn’t touch you. “It was a tight little pussy. She said she never had anything bigger.”

“Bigger than your lips on her cheek?”

“What?”

“Believe it or not, but Grace and I do talk. You just want to piss me off. How did her cheek taste?” He gives Jax a knowing smile as he turns back to the engine in front of him.

“Man, do you actually think I would have touched her? Even if I wanted to, your incessant texting and voice notes that are all of you telling me how my body was going to go missing, or it was Poet. Using the baby. Just who are you?”

Curtis hates that Jax is right, he had to stop using Poet to get to you. But she adored you. Is it the same thing? “So, do I call her and take her on a date or not?”

“No.”

“One syllable. I love when you turn into a cave man. Anything else to add? Maybe the fact that you’re going to ask her?”

“I can’t,” Jax shrugs his shoulders, asking why as Curtis stands up. Reaching for a grease rag, he wipes his filthy hands off, and walks to grab a bottle of water. “She’s hung up on the fact I’m married. I’m hung up on the fact I’m obsessed with the girl. We live together, and we don’t. We’re playing the roles of mom and dad, but we’re not. Poet loves her, but not her mom. You see the complications?”

“Divorce Tati. Put her in your apartment, and then let her be the babysitter instead of the nanny,” it isn’t the worst idea. But could it ever be that simple?

“You are acting like this is easy. She came home from her date with you, and we…”

“Fucked.”

“NO! We…we heavily made out, and I got to touch her, and then Poet woke up. And…Jax, she looked beautiful with my daughter. It’s like she belongs there, and I could see her in this smaller, but nice home with our kids, and I don’t really know her, and things got more complicated than they ever should have been. I keep seeing her with our kids, and it sounds dumb,” Jax nods his head, but doesn’t laugh. Curtis is too good of a friend to make light of this situation.

“I hate it for you buddy. All the while, you’re getting blue balls.”

“Sex with her was amazing as strangers. The best I ever had, and I keep thinking sex with her as someone I know is going to blow us both away and that’s why we keep getting interrupted,” the idea of not just fucking you, but actually making love with you with nothing separating the two of you. Just wet skin on wet skin. When desire meets something deeper, closer to love. The idea terrifies him in a way.

“Then can I offer some advice?” Curtis nods his head quickly. He needed any advice he could get. “Keep taking cold showers, and ride this out slowly. If you hurt her, she’ll leave. Poet is getting attached, so if you want someone, she’s already in big time with your baby. Tati needs to be pushed for the divorce. It’s time she quits using you and her child as a reason to show her parents she’s not a raging slut.”

“She’s not a slut,” Tati is a lot of things, but a slut isn’t one of them. But why did she get to have a life outside of the marriage, and he didn’t? Why is her life able to move on without complications, while his is a mess?

“Fine, but enough with the excuses. Real people are involved. And the longer you and Tati stay married, the longer your Grace is going to have a reason to not trust you. Lose the wife. Make the nanny fall in love with you by just being your charming brooding self. No sex.”

Curtis hates when Jax makes sense, but in this case, he does. Too much sense. Ugh…he didn’t want to wait. But some things are worth the wait.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @sstan-hoe @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @slowdownbeforeyouregretit

#much too fast #curtis everett #curtis everett x reader #curtis everett x fem!reader #curtis everett x female reader #curtis everett x y/n #curtis everett x you #curtis everett fic #curtis everett fics #curtis everett fanfiction #curtis everett fanfic #chris evans #chris evans character #jax teller #curtis everett tease #snowpiercer #mechanic au #mechanic

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parasiticstars · 6 months ago

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To Teach an Old Dog: #1

re re re re re re uploaded bc tumblr keeps fucking it up

TW: BBU/pet whump, casual mentions of dehumanization, institutionalized slavery, and suicide idealization, and me being very pretentious

Kavan’s back hurts. Of the numerous things wrong with his situation, this is what he decided to focus on in an attempt to stave off the impeding sensory overload— and this is the only familiar, non-Pet-fuckery problem he has.

The bit was fastened too tight and digs in the corners of his mouth. He can feel drool starting to crust his beard. He’s disused to the shoddy buzzcut his masters captors gave him in an attempt to make him presentable before auction; he'll certainly never take the feeling of hair on his ears for granted again. The ear tag is pulling on already mutilated earlobes, adding to a budding headache just behind his eyes. The concrete floors look and feel like they haven’t been cleaned ever. The auctioneer’s voice is solidly the fourth most irritating sound he’s ever heard in his life.

Alas, nothing Kavan attempts to focus on staves off the visceral, skin-crawling feeling of too much. No matter how many times the man gets shuttled in and out of auctions and captors like a head of livestock, he’ll never truly get used to the non-personhood, the sheer objectification of it all. Nor will he get used to an audience leering and inspecting him and the other Pets people around him like the products they’re advertised and sold as.

Nobody seems to be interested in him, thank god. Kavan’s getting too old for most people’s tastes— even as a labor Pet, being above thirty is automatically considered a liability, as if he’d crumple into dust the second he set foot onto a construction site or a plantation or wherever the hell else. Has he felt close to it? Definitely. But that didn’t mean he would; even though some places, water and breaks weren’t a given.

(Why would they be? Employers and contractors who use Pets rather than workers don’t need to abide by silly things such as OSHA and basic human decency.)

But regardless.

With the slowly increasing amount of times he’s talked about like his expiry date has run out, Kavan wonders when he’s going to just be taken out behind the shed.

He wonders if he’ll do it himself one of these days.

A prod to the small of his back forces him to straighten, making him nearly drop his sign in the process. His attention snaps back to the crowd, all crammed together in this dingy-ass building in those dingy-ass folding chairs betting on dingy-ass people.

Long had Kavan lost the naïvety that Pet owners were this special type of evil, so impossibly cruel and uncaring that they simply couldn’t be human. Regardless, the fact that everyone here is so unassuming still screws with him. He could hypothetically see any one of them, say, at a Starbucks bitching at the barista about their overpriced order, or shopping at Trader Joe’s, or working in their cubicle, or at a PTA meeting. That in particular jars him.

Nobody around them would know that said person was willingly participating in legalized slavery, lacking even the flimsy pretense of “rescuing” their aunt’s-grandma’s-brother’s-husband’s-neighbor’s-girlfriend’s-niece’s Pet or whatever else they’d want to virtue signal on their Facebook wall or status or whatever else.

(Are Facebook statuses still a thing? God, Kavan’s been out of the loop too long. He doesn’t even know how long.)

One woman in particular has set sights on him. Judging by the fine cut yet plain color of her coat, the disgusted-holier-than-thou glances she’d occasionally give whoever she was seated near whenever they did anything particular crude, the brand name Ceilos, she’s probably fuck-off rich trying not to look fuck-off rich. What would someone like her want at a low scale labor pet auction like this? Why is she eyeing him in particular? Why are her irises barely darker than #FFFFF?

Catastrophizing is, it seems, a very time consuming activity. It muffles the rest of the auction, the auctioneer’s droning that would soon settle the man’s fate, the assistant taking away the sign Kavan was holding and tugging at the rope attached to his collar.

He stumbles as he’s led off the platform and into the pen for inspection. Through the buzzing of his ears, the sound of heels clicking follows.

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xxsp3llb0undxx · 5 months ago

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Barely Breathing

Tommy Miller x Reader [726 Words]

Request from the lovely @pancake-lovy so sorry it has taken me this long to post this, I really hope you enjoy :)

Disclaimer: Please do not repost my work to other sites or claim as your own, this is purely written from my imagination and from the help of the series. All rights of the main storyline goes to the writers and producers of The Last Of Us.

Summary: Reader is known to have really bad anxiety, so when Joel and Ellie come knocking on the gates of Jackson looking for Tommy; it kicks off an anxiety attack. Tommy helps guide reader through it, comforting her through the whole thing.

WARNING: DESCRIPTIVE ANXIETY ATTACK // TOMMY BEING WHIPPED FOR READER // FLUFF // SWEARING // TLOU AU // UNEDITED

Jackson, Wyoming 2014 - Their first encounter

Y/n and Tommy had met 8 years ago when she was stumbling around the forest surrounding his settlement. Snowflakes tucked themselves into her hair, like glitter you could never get rid of; her gloved hands holding onto a rifle too big for her to carry. Tommy was shocked that the random woman had made it this close to the settlement without anyone seeing her or at least the dogs barking to let them know someone was near by. Tommy stood there, watching her walk through the snow, slowly nearing his position. When she had finally stumbled upon him, her once carefree demeanour turned into one that could only be described as perturbed - in simpler terms, Y/n was freaking the fuck out.

The young woman preferred the comfort of being alone, sure it got lonely sometimes but it saved her the hassle of her anxiety attacks creeping up on her at any given chance. She stared at the man in front of her, trying to ignore the nagging feeling of her chest tightening. Her breathing had become laboured as she clutched at her chest, the organ encased in her ribs was hammering at an unusual pace. Tears stung Y/n's eyes as she tried to control her breathing the best to her ability, the lack of oxygen had started to get to her; black dots pooled her vision as she fell to her knees. With a thump, the young woman's smaller figure had slumped to the ground, snow blanketing her body. Tommy stood there in shock, he didn't know what to do or how to handle this situation. He slung his rifle over his shoulder as he bent down to pick up the now unconscious woman, she was as light as a feather - no surprise to him though, food was hard to come by and by the looks of her, she hadn't eaten a proper meal in a good while.

He had carefully got on the horse, still holding the stranger close to his chest, as he headed back to Jackson. He knew Maria would definitely question him about picking up another stray this week but he just knew she had to be apart of his community - she was special.

------

Jackson, Wyoming 2023 - The other Miller

Tommy and Y/n have now been together for 5 years, they happily resided in a small house hidden behind the walls of Jackson. Tommy would be on patrol most days and if he wasn't, he could be found fixing up one of the of random buildings in the centre of the community. Today was one of those days. Tommy was on a scaffold as he continued to fix a few loose bricks on the side of one of the buildings, Y/n was hidden away in a small library Tommy had renovated for her; she didn't like being out in the town amongst everyone, just thinking about the crowds made her heart slam against her ribs. She was inside sorting out the kids reading area, making sure it was nice and tidy when they were dropped off by their parents in the afternoon. The sound of hooves hitting the concrete floor drew the attention of the towns people, their heads looking over to the group that had went out a couple hours ago. There were two newcomers, an older man in his mid fifties and a young girl, no older than 15.

The older man had shouted Tommy's name, his head snapped up to look at who was calling him. He looked around before his eyes locked onto his brother, a grin spread across his face as he jogged over to the older Miller. "What the hell are you doing here?" Joel brought his younger brother into a hug, small tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. The pair broke away when the younger girl coughed, making the older Miller turn around and scowl at her slightly. Tommy had led Ellie and Joel to the mess hall, along side Maria, when the group had bumped into Y/n along the way.

The young woman practically slamming into Joel as soon as she exited the big oak doors of the library. Joel's big, calloused hands reaching for her arm to steady her as she stumbled over her feet. "Careful there, darling." Joel chuckled, it was light-hearted but Y/n could already feel the warmth enveloping her skin as embarrassment sunk in. She gently pushed herself away from Joel, trying to create as much distance as possible as she felt that all familiar constricting feeling pull at her chest. Joel tried to reach for her again, only for Tommy to stop him. Telling Maria to take Ellie and Joel to the mess hall while he sorted this little problem out.

Y/n's form was slumped against the side of the library, arms hugging the side of her head as she tried oh so desperately to breathe but it seemed like wishful thinking. Her skin grew clammy, cold sweats causing her body to shiver. Tommy softly pulled her arms down from her head, gently cupping her face in his hands.

"Hey.. Hey.. its okay, just focus on me." His voice was barely above a whisper, it was filled with care as he spoke to her. His thumbs rubbing her cheeks as he stared into her eyes, searching for any sign that she was okay but he knew, he knew she wasn't. Gently picking her up, Tommy carried her back into the library and set her down in the reading corner she had made for the children in the community. Grabbing one of the softest blankets there, he wrapped it around her and pulled her snug against his side.

"You're okay, doll.. We're just gonna sit here until you feel better." Y/n burrowed further into Tommy's side, muffling her panicked cries with the check shirt that clung to the love of her life. The pair were sat in the library for the rest of the day, snuggled up to one another even after Y/n's panic attack calmed down. Tommy stayed with her through every last second of it, holding her close as he ran his finger's through her hair, kissing the crown of her head tenderly as she drifted off to sleep. He continued to stay by her side, only leaving to go grab some food for the pair of them, even going to the extent of begging Maria for her hidden stash of chocolate because he knew it would brighten Y/n's day. His love for her goes beyond anything he has ever felt for another person, beyond his love for life itself.

#the last of us #the last of us series #the last of us hbo #the last of us fic #tlou #tlou hbo #tlou series #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou x reader #tommy miller #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x y/n #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy the last of us #joel miller #ellie williams

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theanxiousghostartist · 4 months ago

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TMAGP 30 Spoilers

(Reactions and Theories for S2)

Man, this one was a wild ride...

Sam and Celia:

Sam, pick up the damn phone!!

Alice doesn't understand, Celia? What doesn't Alice understand? That you are from another world? That you need Sam to manipulate so you can figure out what happened? Sam's trauma with the Institute and his need to figure out what happened to him?

Celia is definitely pushing Sam towards Hilltop Road. There has to be something important there...

Celia, what's your plan? What are you going to use Sam for?

How does Celia know that they are safe on the train? I assume she is just saying it to Sam to calm him down but still. It's true that [Error] was on the train, but they never attacked them. Maybe they aren't after Sam and Celia but something on Hilltop Road? The rift perhaps?

Alice and Colin:

I get why Alice chose to go after Sam and Celia, after all, she knew that they were in immediate danger. Plus, to everyone else, Colin seems to be "overreacting." He kept mixing up "I" with "Freddy," I wonder if he is Becoming? Maybe he is Becoming a part of Freddy? Or maybe a vessel for Freddy, like how Jonah used Elias to body-hop?

The ticket officer isn't paid enough for this. I love the transcript lol

Lena and Gwen:

Lena was FIRED???? Lena, what did you have to do for the OIAR? Who did you have to kill? What did you have to cover up?

Lena noooo, come back please!!

Theory for S2: Lena is going to appear as a mentor character and explain things, like Gerry did for Jon. I think she is going to distance herself from the OIAR, and eventually, send them snippets of information to help them figure out what is going on. She is probably going to send things to Alice, since Alice has been there the longest and didn't actively try to steal her job. I also think she might go in a vigilante - style to destroy the Externals, since she isn't restrained by the OIAR anymore.

Sam and Celia:

Ok, so Sam did eventually read some of Alice's messages.

17, I wonder if that number is a reference to something. I might have to more digging on this one.

"We want your teeth!" Dentist -> Stranger, probably. Maybe the Flesh or Web?

Knocking from the Gray's Appliances? Maybe the Buried or Spiral. I'm leaning more towards the Buried since the coffin had knocking while the Distortion's Doors were more settle and luring.

Someone works here???

Celia got that reflex during the apocalypse.

His bit seems like he's had to tell a good amount of people to stay away. I wonder how many people he's saved.

It's not supposed to be reassuring Sam )):

Alice: Yeah! Go save Celia and Sam!! :D I get that the Taxi Driver didn't want to get involved with anything. Glad that they stayed behind.

Statement:

[Error]!!!! The Custodian was able to resist the Compulsion more than Sam. I wonder if it's because they have been in a close proximity to the Fears.

So, there was a lot of dried blood on Hilltop Road, makes sense, especially if they were hunting for people to mark.

The owner had a wide smile, and didn't like questions being asked, so probably an Avatar?

1997- A drunk guy went into buy a lighter and was marked by the Desolation by a "haggard yet eager old woman," so probably not Agnes.

The store Patience had mannequins that were alive. Definitely the Stranger.

And then the Owner basically threatened him to not look into things anymore. Interesting.

The Owner died in his office, with all his blood vessels strung around. Maybe the Web?

At the end of his statement, the Custodian begins to turn into concrete, and Transform, saying that Hilltop and he are one. Maybe [Error] is triggering a Becoming-like Transformation and he is becoming a vessel for Hilltop Road. The transcript says, "he is gone." not that he died, so maybe his identity is gone? Maybe this is what happened to [Error]?

Sam and Celia:

Celia's tone here is very scary tbh.

Stairs, to a basement... Isn't this how Sam and Alice released [Error]? Even when she's joking with Sam, her tone is just not right?

It's the rift!!

I don't blame Sam for snapping. He's under a lot of stress, with a headache, and this is something really big to keep from him. CELIA FINALLY SAID THAT SHE'S FROM ANOTHER UNIVERSE!!

So, the worlds are out of balance and the rift is trying to force Celia back while she sleeps, and she wanted to sacrifice Sam to the rift, so she could stay with Jack, but for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to do it before [Error] came in. Is it because she likes Sam, she would feel bad sacrificing him? Why couldn't she find someone else? Like pretend to go on a date with a random person and take them here and push them in. Why did it have to be Sam?

Oh, maybe it's because Sam was involved with the Institute? But she was originally going to go to Hilltop Road with Sam AND Alice; Alice would stop Celia from hurting Sam, and Celia knows this, so maybe she was going to sacrifice both of them? But then the world would still be off-balance.

Maybe because Sam gave his statement to [Error] it connected him with the Institute more so that it would work?

[Error]!! And Celia's giving a statement about the Stranger! "AT LAST. IT IS MINE." Do they mean Celia's statement from another world or the rift? What do they want to do?

Sam is going to fight the [Error]. Go Sam!

Alice: GO ALICE!!!

Oh, so maybe I'm right about the Custodian, since they are still talking.

Gwen: I have a feeling Lena keeps alcohol in her office to cope...

Gwen, did you not realize that you got the job??

Gwen, you need to think this stuff through. You don't even know what your new job is. 😭 She has your full support to do WHAT Trevor??? Theory: I think that Trevor is alluding to killing Lena here and telling Gwen that he'll help her if needed. But because Gwen doesn't know wtf she's doing, Lena is going to live and go into hiding, which will come back to bite Gwen later.

Alice and Celia:

Sam and [Error] feel into the rift??? So, are they going to show up at Hilltop Road in TMA!Verse?

But the universes will be off-balance again, won't they? So maybe someone from TMA!Verse will be pulled through to maintain balance?

If someone does come, I think it will either be Melonie King or Annabelle Cane.

Melonie -> She is one of the only TMA!Verse characters that don't have a counterpart that we have met in TMAPG!Verse, so this would be a way to bring her in.

Annabelle Cane -> Annabelle was at Hilltop Road, and we have not heard anything about/from her, so I like to think, especially since Hilltop Road is a place of huge Web activity, like the Institute is for the Eye.

Overall thoughts: Great episode! 10/10! Did not expect half the things that happened! The only thing that could have made it better was another cameo lol.

Old Predictions:

I was basically completely wrong. The only thing I might be right about is that 'someone will Become', but that is not confirmed yet.

Predictions for Season 2:

Colin is going to Become a vessel for Fr3D1 and become something like [Error].

Lena is going into hiding and is going to observe the OIAR from afar for a while. She might try to send some information to Alice.

Teddy is starting to Become and get involved with the Externals, he will probably die.

Gwen is going to struggle with her new job and start relying on Fr3d1 for help. She will be manipulated by Augustus. She might become a vessel for him.

Alice and Celia are going to go back to one of their places after having an argument about what happened to Sam. Celia will explain everything to Alice and the two will continue working together at the OIAR. They will also start investigating the Insitute deeply and try to get more information out of Helen and Gertrude. Alice is going to resent Celia, but she will still work with her for Sam's sake.

Sam and [Error] are going to arrive at Hilltop Road in TMA!Verse, and [Error] is going to grow significantly weaker because of their distance from the Fears. They might start giving their own statement and we will get clues to their past identity, but we will not have a definite conformation of their past. Sam is going to find the ruins of the Institute and find someone, probably Barisa, Melonie, or Georgie, and rope them into helping him get back to TMAGP!Verse.

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mad-fem-lesbian · 2 years ago

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We All Know What a Woman is Essay

This is the essay I wrote for an assignment where we were assigned to write an argument of definition. I defended that "woman" "female" and "lesbian" all have clear definitions and that it's offensive to try to change them.

I had to be “civil” in my arguments, so I had to rein myself in a little bit on certain parts.

But I was still able to show a backbone and make my stances very clear.

My professor was extremely impressed. He even said it was one of the best essays he’s read. 💪🏾

I’m new(ish) to the community, so I look forward to interacting with you all!

We are living in a time where the words “women” and “female” have become almost taboo and devoid of meaning. The definitions of these two words, which have always been clear historically, are now up for debate. No longer are the dictionary/medical/historical definitions universally accepted. There is a push for a change in language that’s more “inclusive” or “gender neutral.” The push for this change is mostly due to wanting to legitimize transgender identities. Some examples include no longer referring to pregnancy or menstruation as being female or women’s issues. The point of language, however, isn’t to be inclusive. The point is to be able to describe and categorize things accurately. We need language to explain the similarities and differences between things. In the case of female and male and with woman and man, these words need to be clear because they have historical significance, medical necessity, social implications, and legal ramifications.

The differences between the sexes and how we refer to each group have always been clear. Man has referred to an adult human male and woman has referred to as an adult human female. Biology has always been a part of the definitions and distinctions. Not accounting for disorders of sexual development (DSDs), the sexes are usually accurately observed and categorized in terms of chromosomes and primary sex characteristics. Sex and gender were intrinsically linked terms and concepts in the past. As the Merriam-Webster website explains, the terms sex and gender have been linked since the 14th century (Merriam-Webster, n.d.). Meanwhile, the terms gender identity and transgender didn’t have known uses until 1964 (Merriam-Webster, n.d.) and 1974 (Merriam-Webster, n.d.). So, it’s a relatively newer concept that gender exists separately from sex. Sex has a definition based on biology; it’s based on something that’s tangible, measurable, and concrete.

Comparatively, gender identity is based on someone’s internal sense of themself and therefore it is “unverifiable and unfalsifiable” (Griffin L, et al., 2021, p. 292). There are large enough parts of society who support the idea that women are a social category made up of “feminine” traits and characteristics. They want to redefine woman/female based on transgender people’s view of themselves. Even this side of the argument has to admit that since their gender definitions, such as the belief that “gender can be fluid” or that someone is non-binary or agender that it’s not solid enough of a concept to start changing definitions and laws based on an unprovable concept. As Dahlen (2020), explains, “No genetic marker, biochemical test, brain imaging, or objective measurement exists in medical practice for gender identity . . . ” (p. 42).

Historically, women were discriminated against medically and legally. Of course, we still see this practiced in current times by things such as Roe v. Wade being overturned by the United States Supreme Court on June 22, 2022. As a black woman, one of the first things that comes to mind when I think about the medical horrors against women is Dr. J. Marion Simms and his “medical experiments” on enslaved women (Ojanuga, 1993). Dr. J. Marion Simms was considered by many to be the “Father of modern Gynecology.” Ojanuga goes on to explain how during that time period, gynecology didn’t even exist as a medical field yet (Ojanuga, 1993). To make these atrocities against my ancestors even worse, the enslaved women weren’t able to give consent to the medical treatments (Ojanuga, 1993). Unfortunately, black women are still facing problems related to maternal health (Cuénant, 2023). Women have never been able to separate our “gender” from our sex. Our female bodies have always been a target when it comes to medical and political attacks. Male bodies aren’t policed in this same manner and they’re often the ones in charge of women’s autonomy. That’s why the idea that any male (regardless of how feminine he may feel or how he presents himself) can “identify” as a female or as a woman personally offends me.

Our sex is fixed and anything related to undergoing hormone therapy or surgically altering one’s genitalia doesn’t actually change anyone’s sex (Dahlen, 2020). I don’t object to feminine men, only to the fact that they want to shoehorn themselves into womanhood. We are not a nebulous concept that can be erased or redefined. We are not the ‘former planet’ Pluto. Culture is different globally and the gender roles associated with different cultures such as style of dress or responsibilities may differ, but we all have one thing in common that unites us, and that’s our biology. Being the sex that’s capable of giving birth, menstruating, and going through menopause are universal female traits. As such, we deserve our own language and descriptions.

When women weren’t able to vote until the Women’s Suffrage movement successfully fought for those rights in 1920, everyone knew who counted as women. When women needed restrooms in the workplace, when it came to creating women’s schools/colleges, and when it came to owning property, everyone knew who the women were. When women needed their husband’s permission to use birth control and when they were being discriminated against when it came to getting credit cards in the 1970s, it was very clear what segment of the population was being targeted (Eveleth, 2014). It’s always women that have had to fight uphill battles to get our rights and our cries recognized.

Another way that this debate personally affects me is because I’m a lesbian. If one argues that trans women can be women, that means that they can also be lesbians by that same logic. (Merriam-Webster, n.d.). The history of the concept of lesbianism goes back even further when considering the term lesbian dates back to Sappho of Lesbos (c. 610-c. 580 b.c.) (Merriam-Webster, n.d.). The concept has always been focused on women loving other women. It still means that, even though there’s a push to make “lesbian” a more inclusive term as well. There was a feminist/lesbian music festival called Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival or Michfest for short that was held from 1976-2015 on private property in the woods of Michigan (Welcome to Michfest, n.d.).

Controversy found the festival when its founder, Lisa Vogel reiterated that the festival’s focus was for “womyn-born-womyn” (Macdonald, 2018). Despite reports that the festival didn’t allow trans women to attend, the owner did know that there were trans women attendees. Other than the incident in 1991 when a trans woman was requested to leave, the festival didn’t ban them (Macdonald, 2018). However, Lisa Vogel never backed down from her vision or mission of the festival which is that it was always focused on women and that it was a female-centric space. There was a group called Camp Trans that picketed the festival for their “exclusionary” practices (Camp Trans, n.d.). The festival being held on private property is the equivalent of if I had a meeting for lesbians in my home and then there were people organizing on my front yard in protest. The spaces for lesbians (or women in general) to meet and connect with each other in-person and online are dwindling because of the idea that female-only or single-sex spaces are exclusionary.

As far as legal situations, Title IX is a hot button issue right now. Title IX is part of the Education Amendments of 1972. It prohibits discrimination “on the basis of sex” in educational programs and activities that receive financial assistance from the federal government (Title IX of the Education Amendments Act of 1972). There are different interpretations about if gender identity is/should be protected under Title IX. It varies from issues about what bathrooms transgender students should use and if they should be allowed into locker rooms or play on sports teams in relation to their sex or gender identity. Outside of Title IX, different sporting bodies are also considering the same issues (Brito, 2023). The issue of fairness is often the argument about if males can safely and fairly compete with females in sports regardless of their gender identity. The science generally supports that transgender women have a physical advantage over women (Roberts, et al., 2020). Beyond the physical advantages is the psychological warfare on women that are forced to share locker rooms with males, especially in-tact ones. Former University of Kentucky swimmer, Riley Gaines, and her experiences should be considered. She was uncomfortable having to share a dressing room with and compete against Lia Thomas, a male swimmer who spent his first three years competing against other males (Schlott, 2023).

The radical feminist or gender critical stance is not one that objects to feminine males or masculine females; historically most radical feminists have been gender non-conforming lesbians. We generally don’t shave or wear makeup. So, no, we’re not the pearl-clutching religious or conservative group that believes each sex has to prescribe to a specific gender role. That’s not my argument here at all.

We’re all for believing that people can dress and present themselves exactly as they’d like. We just don’t believe that someone’s inner sense of themself (their gender identity) is the same thing as them actually being the thing they want to be.

Making legislation changes and conceding our language to appeal to someone’s inner sense of self, something that’s not concrete, is not practical. What happens if they change their gender identity again or continuously? What happens if in 10 years the medical community admits that the science behind this movement is flawed and that it should fall out of favor in the same way that lobotomies have? How will all of the female athletes who got injured or lost scholarships/games/medals be compensated? How will they correct official documents like the sex recorded on birth certificates and passports? These are not small, easy things to reverse. These things have to be considered when talking about policies, rules, and laws.

We are not asking for the eradication of trans women despite what a lot from the pro-transgender side are arguing. We are simply asking them to create their own identity and spaces because woman and female are already taken. Asking us to call trans women women isn’t just going against the dictionary/medical/historical definition of the word, but it’s also asking us to erase ourselves in significant ways.

If we don’t have language to describe ourselves, our experiences, our needs, and our rights as a defined and marginalized group, then what do we have? The words man and male are not facing the same kind of scrutiny. Phrases like “menstruator” “bleeders” “uterus haver” “people with vaginas” don’t have male equivalents that medical institutions or well-respected media outlets regularly use (Steinbuch, 2021).

In conclusion, my stance is not one against transgender women, it’s a stance that’s pro-woman. I’m for women not being erased or redefined due to a small group of males that want to “identify” as us. Misogynist attitudes, language, policies, and laws worldwide make it clear that everyone knows exactly what a woman is.

#Radical Feminism #radical feminists do touch #radblr #radical feminists please interact #gender critical

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collaredattachment · 2 years ago

Text

Feast

Character: Nadja of Antipaxos Word Count: 6,079 Warnings: Blood, Vampire-typical violence, death Rating: M (for violence -- no smut today) Description: Watching the dying woman’s slowly rising chest with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like you’ve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind – the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead man’s flesh on her tongue. -- There's no worse (or better) day to work a night shift than when Nadja of Antipaxos arrives in London. She is bound to be angry, and very, very hungry. A/N: Happy season 5 countdown!! Here’s a bit of Nadja to ease the wait.

The cigarette tastes bitter and stale as you take a drag and blow out a puff of smoke. You quit a year ago. And then again, two months later. One more time, at the end of June. It never did quite stick.

“You alright, mate?”

One of your co-workers, a man in his late fifties dressed in grimy company overalls and a worn blue cap comes to stand beside you. He seems to be enjoying his smoke significantly more than you.

You never did remember his name. Cal? Cap? Cam? It definitely started with a C.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just savoring it.” You gesture at the dirty midnight streets of Hackney. Nothing quite like working the nights to figure a new place out, to find the heart of it.

Someone pukes a few corners down, and you throw out the remaining half of your cigarette, no longer interested.

Cam laughs. “Nice night for sure. You been here long?”

“Arrived a month back.” You breathe in the stinging air, savoring the bite of Cam’s cigarette smoke.

“London’s all right.” Cam leans his hand over the paint can acting as an ashtray and flicks his cigarette. The burnt remains fall like little snowflakes. “It’s not like films or nothing, but it’s all right. Could be worse.”

“Oh, yeah?” you ask him just as a man, presumably the same one who emptied his stomach just moments ago, stumbles into view and passes you by, careening first towards you, and then back into the opposing wall. You can smell the piss on him all the way from here. “What qualifies as worse?”

Cam coughs and smiles for the first time. His teeth are yellow, and one of them is chipped.

“Let’s just leave it at that, eh?” he says, drains the rest of his cigarette, and throws the remains into the can. He clears his throat wetly, and spits a ball of phlegm into the gutter.

“Time to go?” you ask. He nods quietly, and you follow him back inside.

The warehouse is massive compared to any you’d worked in before. Black splotches crawl from floor to ceiling in a mixture of shadows and spilled engine oil. Yellow support beams reach all the way to the top, stained and worn from holding the place up since the day it was built. The walls are solid concrete, save for the huge shutter doors that open into the chilly night like windows into a different dimension.

The place is bustling — people swarm it like bees loading and unloading, shouting for assistance or barking orders, driving heavy, wheezing trucks and whizzing by on forklifts. The noise is immense.

“There you are!” A gruff male voice calls a few feet away, muffled by the crowd. Your head whips in his direction as he pushes past a group of men with clipboards and hardhats.

Your boss, Tomas, is hard to forget — thick, wild eyebrows constantly bent in disappointment, gaunt cheeks covered in greying stubble, and the constant, pungent stench of sweat poorly disguised by cheap cologne. He’s huffing heavily by the time he reaches you. “Where the fuck have you been, eh?”

Sorry,” you say, tongue thick and dry in your mouth as you try to speak. “I didn’t know we’d already—”

“Bull-fucking-shit, I say.” His hands are for once out of his pockets, and he points his dirt-stained finger towards a Barrington Freight truck that had just entered the building. “Get to work or you’re out — both of you.”

Without another word, you scurry to the truck with Cam on your tail. Cam, who is entirely unbothered by getting chewed out by the boss. He digs something out of his teeth with his little finger and shakes his head as he approaches.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says and pulls you out of the way as the truck’s rear doors swing open. He pats your shoulder, much like you imagine a father would. “He pulls that shit every time you take a break. You get used to it.”

You glance back at Tomas, currently busy shouting at a truck driver with so much force you can see spit all the way from here.

“Come on,” Cam says. He climbs inside the cargo space and then offers you a hand that you gratefully take.

Multiple hours pass by in chunks of wrapping and piling and driving and avoiding the wrathful eye of Tomas. It’s monotonous work, work that will remind you of its price the following morning when you roll out of bed only to realize that your back is permanently bent in the shape of an S. But it pays the bills. Parts of them, anyway.

The truck empties slowly, and it seems to be matching up with your lunch break quite nicely. You can’t say you look that forward to fifteen minutes in the front seat of your car with a sandwich and a water bottle, but it’s still a little bit of breathing room.

Just a little further.

There are two crates left, both of them shoddily thrown together and just a bit taller than you, and if you weren’t a little bit superstitious, you might have even said they look like coffins.

You go to push one of them towards the forklift, currently operated by Cam, but stop as soon as you’re close enough to put your hands on the fractured surface.

The edge of the lid is slightly open, the nails still trying to keep it shut completely bent out of shape. Some of them are missing altogether. A thin crack runs down from the corner of the lid and ends right in the middle.

“Hey, Cam?” You chance a quick glance at him, just to make sure his half-open eyes are looking at you. “What do we do about this?”

He doesn’t ask what this is, doesn’t say anything at all, and instead clambers into the truck, absentmindedly scratching at the bald patch hidden beneath his cap.

“Ah, shit,” he says and wipes his forehead. “We gotta check for damage, make sure the goods are still good. If everything’s okay we just seal it back up and let it find its owner like any other package. Got it?”

“Got it.”

You don’t know if he’s talking protocol or if he’s pulling this out of his ass to cover for you, but you appreciate it all the same. Cam looks around for a moment and then hops back out of the truck. He returns with a banged up crowbar, nicked and stained by countless doors and boxes. Maybe even a burglary, who knows.

He turns around, looks both ways, and closes the rear doors behind him.

“You got a light?” he asks, and you quickly fish your phone from your pocket to guide him with its flashlight.

Cam dips the crowbar under the lid of the strange crate and places his foot carefully at the other end.

“Cover your ears,” he says, and you do as you’re told.

The wood cracks as the lid breaks into two. You watch the broken piece ricochet off the wall and clatter to the floor, right by your feet.

“What the fuck?” Cam whispers. He takes a cautious step back, the crowbar held tightly in his hands, pointed toward the crate like a knife.

You frown from your position a few feet away. When he doesn’t say anything further, you approach him, steps loud and heavy, heart fluttering with curiosity and a healthy dose of fear. You’ve known Cam for all of five hours, but you get the feeling that he usually doesn’t rattle easily.

You look inside the crate, and breath runs from you like a pheasant in the burning woods.

A corpse. Inside an obsidian coffin with a broken lid lies a beautiful woman, perfectly preserved. Her nose is straight and sharp, and the curve of it leads down to thick lips, painted dark crimson. Her skin is dry and cracked around her knuckles, and there are splinters under her long nails. Black hair cascades down her shoulders onto her preposterously detailed dress — an incredibly well-kept antique by the looks of it. Early 19th century, maybe? If it weren’t for the dried mascara on her cheeks, she might as well be a porcelain doll, posed and painted to perfection.

“Do you mind?”

Something shuffles beneath the wood, and small childlike hands reach for the splintered edge. Some far off place in your brain wants to warn her to not touch it, but you’ve long since lost contact with your mouth.

A doll nearly identical to the dead woman crawls into sight, its face twisted in frustration.

“Well, what are you staring at?” it asks. “How about a little help?”

You scream and lose your footing as you try to back away. Pain flares in your spine as your back hits steel. Your phone falls from your hand but the light stays on to coldly illuminate the insanity in front of you. By your side, Cam is like a statue of stone, with the crowbar now pointed at the little doll.

Beneath it, the woman creaks to life. A thin layer of dust billows forth as her hand rises slowly, reaching for Cam. Cam, who’s offered her a helping hand in return.

You can’t look away. You’ve never been the type.

The woman’s fingers curl around Cam’s wrist and she snatches a grown man off his feet like he’s made of thin air. A snarl tears from her throat when she opens her mouth and crushes his throat between her jaws. He doesn’t even have time to scream before his neck snaps, the crack soft compared to the moist crunch of the woman’s teeth — fangs sinking into him. The second he is dead, she pulls her head back, and slowly, as if she’s savoring the feeling, she rips off a piece of flesh and suckles it, her cheeks hollowing, and then spits it across the cargo space. In a flash, she’s back at Cam’s neck to nuzzle the spraying arteries, the mangled flesh, the red bone – almost like in prayer, like this is a holy gift sent from the gods and the only thing she can do is accept.

She licks his exposed jugular, dips her jaw into the crevasse of his destroyed throat, and drinks.

Cam empties of fluid in seconds, and his husk of a body falls to the floor with a hollow thud.

The woman lets go with a thin gasp. She wipes her eyes, wipes her mouth. Her hair is soaked, as is her entire face, and she leaves a dripping trail as she climbs out of the crate, red handprints sharp against its pale wood.

She smacks her lips and coughs, mouth downturned in disgust.

“Oh, ugh,” she says. “Anemia.” She blows a raspberry and shakes her head. “Fuck me.”

“Been there, done that,” the doll says, its plastic face dyed a deep, dark red. “You made a hell of a mess, there.”

The woman turns to the doll and makes a face — apparently one of offense, because the doll flips her off in return.

“You try doing this shit,” the woman says, and kicks Cam’s body to emphasize her point. A twitch shakes you from head to toe. “I haven’t gone this hungry since I had to flee the country in 1857.”

The doll imitates her voice mockingly, and the woman curses potently in return. She grabs a bunch of her soaked hair and twists it; a small puddle of blood forms by Cam’s corpse.

“Wait,” the doll says. “What about that one?”

She points at you with a tiny pale hand, and all heat escapes your body. Your fingers feel like blocks of ice as you try to crawl toward the rear doors. Pressure builds in your throat and your mouth opens in an involuntary, instinctual scream of terror, but before a single squeak escapes, the woman rushes you at unprecedented speed and slams your back to the floor. Air explodes from your lungs, and if it wasn’t for the woman’s hand firmly over your mouth, you’d be left gasping.

“I’m not sure,” she says. You whimper and try to free yourself, but her grip is like iron. You can only watch her, desperate, like a pleading mouse in the claws of a hawk.

She purses her lips and looks at you like yesterday’s leftovers. “I’m still a little hungry. But I don’t know if I want to finish this one so quickly.”

A hoarse wail slips past your lips despite the woman’s best attempts at keeping you quiet.

“Let’s take it with us, then,” the doll says, flipping its hair. “I’m down for some fun.”

“Maybe.” The woman turns your head from side to side, appraising. She lowers her face to your neck and your pulse picks up. Your breath quickens. Panic makes lights up inside of you like a flash fire. The woman drags her nose up your neck and places a sloppy kiss on your jaw, as if your fear only enhances her hunt. “I could go for a little snack, still.”

Tears burn your eyes and fall down your temples. The woman catches one, brushes it into your skin and then puts the finger in her mouth, her tongue peeking out to savor your fear.

“Don’t worry, little morsel,” she says, and boops your nose with her manicured nail. “You’re going to a good cause.”

You try to shriek past her hand but her hold only grows stronger as she bends over you and, despite your thrashing limbs, your punches and kicks and scratching fingernails, she plunges her teeth into the side of your neck.

It stings, sharp as a needle, and then the rest of her teeth dig in, like a vice lined with rows of broken glass. What follows is the strangest of sensations. You’ve had hickies from past lovers, even been bitten by your best friend’s niece, but it’s nothing like this feeling of being drained, emptied like pulling guts out of a fish.

Your fingers claw at her face out of pure instinct, nothing more. She swats you away like a fly and continues, uninterested in your distress.

Your flailing weakens when your limbs grow heavy, like they’ve been replaced with brick. The woman’s hair is in your face, thick and wet and suffocating, and the only thing you can see is neverending black, like staring into a dead void.

You begin to grow still, only twitching when the woman’s teeth dig deeper for just a few more drops.

Wood cracks behind you. The woman pulls back with a deep breath, heady and broken, and turns to look at the commotion along with you.

The other crate, the identical one; its lid is in shambles on the floor, and a man climbs out.

He is short, with a stubbled chin and a pale brown coat, stained with sweat. You smell something acrid as he comes closer, pushing his cracked glasses up his nose.

“H—Help,” you whine through a mouthful of blood. You can barely lift your arm to reach for him. “Please.”

The man looks at you, looks at the woman, and curses in Spanish.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says to the woman.

Darkness finally claims you.

—

You awaken, every muscle in your body sore and aching, in a beautifully decorated living room.

It is dimly lit with candles of wildly different shape and size, freely leaking wax onto the floor, the mantle of the fireplace and the coffee table. The walls are old and wooden, decorated with portraits of the people who must live here: a rich-looking family, blond except for the youngest son and the dog. Beside the paintings are thick curtains, their beautiful silk stapled shut to keep out the sun.

The sun.

How long has it been? What even happened?

You sit up with a groan, your head immediately protesting via a sharp blast of pain behind your eyes. The world flashes to white, then to black, and then finally fades back into view. Another pain bursts forth, this time on your neck, and you cover the spot with your hand, only to be met with a thick layer of bandaging.

You breathe in as deep as you can, and your throat burns, seethes like fire reduced to coals.

Thirsty.

So, so thirsty.

You swallow several times, but it brings forth the taste of vomit and inflames the pain in your mouth — in your teeth. Your canines ache like you’ve badly chipped them, but when you feel the tips with your tongue, they’re unharmed, if a little sore. And much sharper than you remember.

Something tickles the corner of your eye and you gently rub your lower eyelid. Whatever it is flakes off onto your finger. You blink away the spots in your vision and try to inspect the stain despite the dim lighting.

Blood. Long since dried, but impossible not to recognize.

You knead your whole cheek with the flesh of your palm and manage to scrape off a long stain that runs down from the corner of your eye to the top of your upper lip. Strangely, you can’t find the source of it. There’s no cut – you can’t even feel a bruise.

Something clatters in the distance, beyond a door to your right. You strain your ears for more, for footsteps or muffled words, but can’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

As gently as you can, you set your feet down on the carpet, soft and plush, and probably worth more than your yearly salary. You test your legs, put a little bit of weight on both of them. A twinge of pain, an echo of severe strain, as if you’d just fought off an intense fever, but other than that, you manage to stand up fine with the assistance of a decorative floor lamp.

You place your palm against the wall, firm and steady, and take a step, just to test the waters. Though your knees wobble and every moment of it hurts, you manage to get moving.

The doorknob is old and made of brass. Your heart is in your throat as you turn it, only to meet no objection. It turns smooth as butter, and the door clicks open, inviting you further.

Beyond, you arrive into a dining room. A massive table stands in the middle of the room, laden with plates and trays of food, all of it half-eaten, like the occupants had stood and left in the middle of dinner. Their forks are still buried in potatoes and steak.

The smell is a crooked kind of heavenly. You know meat, remember it. Your uncle standing at the grill, turning sausages; shepherd’s pie right out of the oven; chicken wings, covered in barbecue sauce. But the smell is off, as if you’d forgotten the fine details of it and could only sense a hazy memory.

Your nose leads you to the spot at the head of the table, furthest from the door you entered. The veal on this plate is half-pink, the way you’d never eaten it.

You don’t need a fork or a knife. You take hold of the nearest chair for support, snatch the meat from the plate with your bare hands and take a bite.

It goes down quickly, and you expect the satisfaction of a meal well prepared, but instead your stomach cramps and you heave, overtaken by nausea. The meager morsel comes up to stain the hardwood floor along with a splash of stomach acid, burning your esophagus like molten magma.

You stare at the mess, brows furrowed and your mouth open, drool still dripping off your lower lip.

Thirst strikes you as if you’re stranded at sea and you pick up a glass, half-full of wine. Usually, it’s not your drink of choice, but at this point you would drink gasoline straight from the pump if you could.

Your fingers tremble and the glass is at your lips, but your stomach turns — enough for you to gag and let the glass slip from your hand to shatter against the floor.

The sound, at least, is satisfying.

Another door to your right opens. You try to hide behind the chair, but your vision fills with dark spots again, and you sway, eyes barely open as you stare at the man standing in the doorway.

It comes back, then. Maybe it’s his cracked glasses, or the smell of viscera enveloping him, but you remember nevertheless.

A late night shift.

A crate.

Cam.

Sick burns the back of your throat all over again as you remember his bloodied corpse on the floor of the truck, staring at you with pale blue eyes, red-rimmed and frightened.

You finally fall to your knees, unable to keep yourself standing a second longer.

The side of your neck burns, and this time you tear at the bandage until it shreds to pieces. There, right where you remember the woman’s cold lips, is a bumpy scar in the shape of her teeth. It’s not as rough as you imagined it would be.

“That’ll be gone in a week or two,” the man says, nonchalantly. “You’ll be good as new.”

He sounds almost derisive. Like you aren’t worth his time. Like you’re beneath him.

A growl rises from your throat, deep and guttural. The tremble in your larynx is simultaneously foreign, like suddenly breathing fire, and as natural as breathing.

“You,” you croak, your shaking finger pointing at his out-of-season sweater. He looks mildly amused, and not even vaguely threatened.

“Oh, boy,” he says.

You leap over the table, dishes and decorations alike crashing to the floor as you clear the room in one single jump without an inch of wind-up. The man doesn’t even take a step back. You snarl and circle him, taking in his scent, the sweet ambrosia staining his plastic apron.

“Where am I?” you ask him. “What did you do to me?”

“I just wanted to take a bath,” he mutters to himself in a voice that should be far too quiet for you to hear. He reaches for his pocket slowly. Whatever weapon he has, you will not give him the chance to draw it.

You leap again with the full strength of your weakened legs, and hurtle right into the wall with a sharp crack as the man dances out of your way like water. He pulls a string of beads out of his pocket — to strangle you, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. He won’t live long enough to lift his arms.

You curl your fingers, claws at the ready, and soar towards him again with a hiss. He dodges, an infuriating smirk on his lips – one that makes you want to break his nose. He slaps something into your back: cold metal that instantly turns searing. You shriek, your hands flying to cover the injury. Your knees buckle, and you bang your forehead into the corner of the table as you go down.

The man comes to stand in front of you and lets the beads dangle by his knees. There’s a beautiful cross between the rosary beads. He must have stabbed you with it — but there’s no blood to prove it.

You pull your hand away from the wound, only to find no wound at all. Your fingers brush the bumpy ridges of a burn scar that’s already beginning to fade.

You look up at the man, confused.

“What’s happening to me?” you ask him. In return, he looks at you like you're an animal too fragile to put down. A chick that got under his skin before he could lop the head off. The man rubs his temple and pockets the rosary.

“Come on,” he says, and puts his hand around your arm.

“What?”

He painfully lifts you to your feet, and you growl in protest.

The man rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

You’re shown through a variety of rooms: a library, a sitting room, a music room, and then up the stairs and through a long, dark hall lit with more candles. Every curtain in the house has been drawn, and some of the windows are covered with newspaper.

You arrive at a door that’s identical to all the other ones: dark, wooden, and with an ornate brass handle. It’s the smell that’s different; sweet and rich and delicious, and it makes you fidget in anticipation as the man fixes his glasses on his nose and knocks twice, his knuckles sharp against the wood. The sound feels like an ice pick driven through your skull, hammered a good two inches in with each rap.

Muffled groans slip past the door, but no one answers. The man knocks again with a bothered sigh. When no one turns up, he opens it himself.

“Nadja?” he says, annoyed.

Your jaw falls open at the sight on the other side.

On the floor are three bodies, mangled and dried up like raisins. A middle-aged man, tall and lanky, by the upended desk and its former contents. Another man, shorter and stockier, spread on the stained satin couch. A woman, no older than twenty, in front of the massive bookshelf by the farthest wall.

In the middle of the twisted formation is the woman, the one who murdered Cam.

Nadja.

Her face is buried in another victim, a woman in her forties with red hair and a ripped safety-vest. Her glasses fall off her nose as you watch.

The man next to you takes a look at your face and scoffs. “Well, we couldn’t leave witnesses, could we?”

You wait for horror, for nausea and fright and all the things that come with seeing real dead people strewn on the floor of someone’s personal library.

It never comes, though. None of it.

You don’t faint in shock. You don’t scream. You barely feel grief as a thick, pungent veil overwhelms you, like the perfumed kiss of a lover pressed to your forehead. The corners of your lips lift, and you feel a little laugh bubbling in your throat, just like after two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

Nadja finally notices you two, and rolls her eyes. With a smack she releases the woman on her lap, who drops to the floor and begins to bleed freely into the ornate rug. It feels like a waste. You want to cup your hands beneath the tooth marks on her neck to save what you can.

“What the fuck, Guillermo?” Nadja says.

Guillermo points at you. “This guy finally woke up.”

Nadja licks her teeth, digging at a bit of skin stuck between her incisors. “Why is it my problem?”

“You’re the sire.” His voice is deadpan, like he’s stating the obvious. “You deal with it. I have my hands full with the shit you pulled back at the warehouse.”

Nadja groans like there’s a knife caught between her ribs. You wait silently, lost in the strange haze caused by the smell – and the faint taste – of the room. Nadja worries at her teeth for one more moment and then finally gets up.

“Fine. But just the basics.”

You feel her stare at you, but you can’t take your eyes off the woman slowly bleeding to death in the middle of the room. The burning in your throat grows stronger, brighter, and butterflies take off in your belly when Nadja comes closer and brings the smell of death with her.

She snaps her fingers in front of your face, and you return to your body. She sighs.

“You’re hungry, dumb-dumb.” She grabs the collar of your shirt to drag you into the room. The smell intensifies and you can’t help drawing in a breath so deep you feel your lungs might burst. Nadja stops and turns to Guillermo, who is still standing in the doorway. “What the fuck are you still here for?”

Guillermo looks like he wants to say something along the lines of fuck you and your mother too, but instead he offers Nadja a smile that doesn’t even remotely reach his eyes and closes the door.

“Good.” Nadja lets go of you and you stumble, still unsteady on your feet. “Now, how are you feeling?”

“What?” you ask her through the smell invading the rest of your senses. The burnt orange light from the candles fades into a vivid maroon, casting the room into pulsing shadows, the strongest of which keeps pulling you towards the syrupy fragrance stuck to the woman discarded by Nadja.

Nadja laughs, and you marvel at the sound. It’s harsh, like a swarm of bees or the screech of a cat.

“Weak in the knees? Little human tummy all upset? Feel like someone put you in one of those blendy things and drank you and shit you out?”

You tick every box on her list, slightly perturbed as to how she knew each one. She then looks at the drained bodies at your feet, specifically at the woman still gurgling only a foot and a half away from you.

“Thirsty?” she asks with a honeyed voice.

You nod, too much and too fast, and regret it immediately when lightning strikes behind your eyelids.

“I thought so,” Nadja says and walks to the dying woman. She drags her to you by her arms, and her pained moans sound like sirens beckoning you into the dark depths of the sea. Nadja appraises you for a moment, takes careful inventory of your clothes, your hair, and then purses her lips. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Some semblance of fear finally seeps into you, and you watch Nadja carefully, measuring the distance between you. “No.”

“Shame. You look like you’d be good at it.”

Nadja crouches and grabs the woman’s chin to turn her head and expose the neck. It isn’t like in the movies, with two tiny round holes to mark the canines. The woman’s skin is rough and torn where Nadja’s jaws were locked before, both rows of teeth firmly sunk into the flesh. She’s beginning to empty; the tide of blood grows slower on her neck and her wet gasps for air are fewer and far between. Based on the gently rueful expression on her face, she knows the end is near as well.

It twists the tight coil of panic in your gut.

She’s going to waste.

Nadja rises to her feet with a grunt.

“I’ll help you, but only because you’re cute and it’s your first time,” she says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you reply weakly through your trance. Nadja’s hands encircle yours and she presses her thumbs into your palms to pull you down to your knees with her.

Watching the dying woman’s slowly rising chest, with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like you’ve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind – the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead man’s flesh on her tongue.

Nadja takes your hand and places it behind the woman’s neck, slick with blood.

“Hold on tight,” she says and waits as you tangle your fingers into the woman’s hair. “The first time is the most intense — you’ll need the support. Don’t be afraid to break a few bones.”

Your mouth opens. The woman’s scent hits you like a mirror shattering, and you take a shuddering breath as you bend yourself over her. She coughs and wheezes, blood splashing from her lips, and she looks straight at you. Her eyes are the same shade of green as the calathea on your windowsill.

Nadja sighs. “Look, she’s going to die anyway,” she says. “Make use of her or don’t. I don’t mind a bit of dessert.”

But you can’t move. The woman is staring at you like a drowning mutt, and under her severe watch you can’t make yourself take the leap.

Nadja slides herself behind you and presses into your back, her whalebone corset pronounced against your thin, sweat-soaked shirt. The beads of her dress prick at you, but her breast is soft on your shoulder blade.

She grabs a fistful of your hair and pushes your head down. You inhale slowly, let the enticing scent of iron, of cypress and cherries reach the back of your mouth, and nuzzle the woman’s neck. Nadja’s fingers curl tighter against your scalp, and you finally feast.

The taste is inexplicable. Exquisite beyond your wildest hunger-ridden dreams. It reminds you of a hot summer day, at dusk when the sun has set but the air is still so humid you can feel it move on your skin; of the first autumn evening, when you get to dig candles from the back of your kitchen cabinet and put them by the window; of a winter morning spent indoors with your friends, bundled up by the radiator with a cup of coffee that’s too bitter to drink.

It is relief. It is frenzy. It is peace of mind. It is hysteria.

The accursed burning in your throat ebbs at last, and you hear yourself laughing around the human flesh in your mouth. Something tears, splits, and you move deeper in search of more, more; you bite, you suckle, you drink like it’s your last day on earth until your lips are wrapped around an empty, sunken shell devoid of life, and more importantly, of sustenance.

You finally let go, gasping for air as the woman’s body falls from your hands and onto the floor, her head thumping as it hits the carpet. You lick the remains from your fingers, tongue dipping under the nail so you don’t miss a single drop.

Nadja’s hand untangles from your hair, and her head falls on your shoulder.

“Good, right?” she asks with a sigh. “I still remember my first time. The 1600’s were something else.” She cranes her neck to see your face and slips her arm around you to wipe something off your cheek. Her fingertip comes away bloody, and you open your mouth, but she quickly dips it between her own lips instead. She laughs, softer and more languid this time, and shakes her head. “Someone’s eager. But you’re lucky — this one was the best of the batch.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. She looks at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“So you do have manners.” She huffs another laugh, and runs her eyes down your face slowly, from the arch of your brow to the curve of your chin. “Feel any better?”

“Yes.” The churning growl in your belly has been sated and replaced with a soft, heavy weight, a warmth that spreads all the way to the tips of your fingers. Your head has been filled with cotton and you have trouble keeping your eyes open anymore. “Warm. Good.”

Nadja smiles, wide enough for the tips of her fangs to peek from under her lip. “Sleepy?”

You nod, leaning too hard into the movement, and find yourself approaching the floor at an alarming rate. Nadja’s arm tightens around you, and she pulls you back until you’re off your knees and sagging against her instead. Engulfed by her sea of hair and the abundant layers of her dress, you wait for a reprimand with bated breath, but she lets you lie right where you are without a word. When you make the effort to look up, you’re met with her face, curiously watching you with a small and devious smile. Drops of blood are coagulating on her eyelashes, glittering like gemstones under the light.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, drawing your thumb slowly across her cheekbone. Nadja’s smile widens into a mischievous grin.

“I knew you’d be good at murder,” she says. “A little messy, but first kill is always like that. We’ll fine-tune your technique later.”

You finally let that champagne-laugh bubble over and it spills from your mouth like birdsong, bright and borderline hysteric. Nadja joins your laughter, and you both fall over to the squishy, bloodied carpet.

Your eyelids grow heavy as you float in the euphoria of feeling truly satisfied for the first time in your life.

"We're going to have so much fun," Nadja whispers. She brushes her hair off your face and kisses the curve of your jaw.

In the strong hold of her arms you let yourself sink into oblivion. Your dreams are filled with the sting of her knife-sharp teeth at your neck.

#Nadja/Reader #Nadja x Reader #Nadja of Antipaxos #Reader #Nadja #WWDITS

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