#at least that's how I see it... there is so much smut... sorry not sorry? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rowarn · 7 months ago

Text

IF YOU NEEDED ME !

simon riley/reader – 7.1k words sale of a lifetime mini series !

tags: smut, childhood best friend!simon, virginity for sale trope, unrealized feelings, soft!simon, protective!simon, virgin!reader, afab!reader, no prns for reader

cw: loss of virginity, cunnilingus, wet & messy, fingering, creampie, mid-sex love confession, a little arguing but nothing crazy tbh, petnames (love, lovie, sweetheart)

; he remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. he never thought he was deserving of such happiness. but now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you.

or.

he may not have been the first man you picked to give your first time to. but looking back, you realized he was the only right choice in the end.

Meeting some unknown, shady guy out on the street outside of a seedy bar wasn’t the smartest decision you’ve ever made. Nor was it how you actually intended to spend your Friday evening. But it was the only option you had at the moment, so you swallowed your nerves and forced yourself to stay put at the spot the guy had chosen despite the fact that being out on the street made you feel x10 more nervous and vulnerable.

You could hear the loud music and chatter inside the bar every time the door opened to let someone in or out. There was a chill in the air that had you contemplating actually going inside and just telling the guy to meet you in there – you were about to give the bastard your damn virginity, the least he could be was accommodating to your temperature struggles. Plus, you could really use a drink.

A car, expensive by the looks of it, pulling up to the curb had you pausing in that train of thought. You recognized him from his profile picture when he stepped out of the vehicle – Lucas, you recall being his name. Whether that was really his name or not didn’t matter; all that mattered was he brought what he promised.

“You have the money?” you asked when he approached you, giving him a tight-lipped smile as a greeting.

“Yeah, got it in the car. All cash, I hope that’s alright,” he grinned, a sight that made a shiver go down your spine. His tone didn’t match the smile, all transactional and dull despite the glimmer in his eyes.

He wasn’t necessarily unattractive but he certainly wasn’t your type. There was a look in his eyes, one that made your skin crawl because you felt like you were nothing but a piece of raw meat in front of a starving, salivating predator.

“We should get going,” he said, hurrying to open the backseat of his car for you.

You paused, “Aren’t we going to go inside or something?”

He looked confused, grip on the door tightening for a moment before he bursted out laughing. When he saw the shocked look on your face he sobered up, “Sorry, sorry, that was rude of me. Sweetheart, this isn’t a date. I’m just here to get what I paid for.”

“Oh…” you swallowed around the lump in your throat at the condescending tone, humiliation making your cheeks burn, “Right.”

Tears stung the back of your eyes and you quickly averted your gaze so he wouldn’t see how much that stung. Of course, you knew it wasn’t a date. This was a transaction. But you at least thought you’d get to know the guy who was about to take your virginity. You should have known better.

A man who was paying for your virginity wasn’t bound to be someone you could trust to feel comfortable around. You quietly sigh, resigning yourself to this all for the sake of some fucking money.

You settle into the car, heart jumping into your throat when the door slams. It feels as if you’ve just sealed your fate and you can’t deny that you’re scared.

But there’s an envelope next to you that you can see stuffed with bills and you clench your fists, trying to calm your racing heart by closing your eyes and breathing.

You just hope this decision doesn’t cost you your life or something. You’d hate to imagine what that would do to a certain someone.

Suddenly, the car jostles. Your eyes snap open and you see Lucas is jacked up against the side of the car, a very familiar form caging him in. His scarred hands grip the man’s shirt in tight fists. You can’t hear what they’re saying but you can see Lucas is chattering frantically, gesturing wildly with his hands in an attempt to quell the angry man in the skull balaclava.

You curse to yourself, a different kind of terror shocking through your system. Lucas is thrown to the side and you wince at how hard he hits the pavement before the car door is jerked open.

You can’t even say anything before a strong, rough hand wraps around your arm, yanking you out. You stumble once you’re on your feet, falling right into his chest.

You try to pull away but his arm clamps down around you.

Lucas is cursing and screaming his head off, words you don’t even bother to try and decipher because you’re too preoccupied with the masked figure that made his sudden appearance. Nerves make your knees shake and from the look of pure rage in his eyes, you know you’re in deep shit.

Lucas opens the car door and slams it before driving off, tires squealing against the pavement before he vanishes. Along with that wad of cash that was going to be yours in just a short time.

Suddenly you’re angry, shoving your hands against his chest to get him away from you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Riley?!” you shriek, shooting him the fiercest glare you could muster.

“I should be askin’ you that,” he sneers, “The hell were you doin’ with that prick?”

“I–”

“Don’t answer that,” he snaps, cutting you off swiftly, “I know what you were doin’. If you needed money that badly you should have told me.”

“It’s not your concern, Simon!” you cry, resisting the urge to petulantly stomp your foot.

You’re so pissed.

Simon Riley and you went way back, childhood friends. The two of you had always been in each other's lives. Simon especially was always there when you needed him, a beacon of safety and protection. Your best friend and someone you loved to the ends of the Earth.

But right now, you’re so angry with him that you can’t seem to think straight.

How dare he show up now, when you’re about to do the most humiliating act of your entire life. How could he show his stupid, masked face here when you didn’t even ask for his help in the first place for a reason.

“You are always my concern,” he shoots back, scarred knuckles turning white from how hard he clenches his fists, “I have always taken care of you. You should have come to me for help instead of puttin’ yourself in danger like this. You didn’t know that guy, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Anger makes your skin hot, sweat beading on your forehead, blocking out the chill that once made goosebumps rise. You feel ashamed that you were caught in this situation – that the man you’ve known your entire life knew you were about to sleep with some random asshole for a fat wad of cash. You don’t like that he’s made you feel ashamed and confronted you with it.

“Just fuck off, Simon!” you shriek, the only thing you can think of before turning on your heel and stalking away from him.

You don’t glance over your shoulder to check if he’s following because you know he most likely is – from a safe distance to make sure you make it inside your apartment alright but far enough that you can’t get mad at him for it. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that you feel a headache radiating down your neck.

By the time you reach your apartment, the anger has simmered and all you’re left with is a festering shame that makes tears fill your eyes. You wrap your arms around yourself and quickly shuffle yourself inside, not bothering to check if Simon is out there or not. All you want is to get a hot shower and crawl into bed for the rest of the weekend.

You do just that, letting the burning hot water scald your skin until you can’t feel any emotions except exhaustion. And then, you crawl into bed and let sleep overtake you without a second thought.

When you wake up, it’s clear that it’s late into the afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and shining painfully bright through the crack in your curtains. You groan and roll over, slapping the bed to find your phone.

You grab the device and unlock it, taking a moment to scroll through your notifications. There’s some angry messages from the guy from last night – cursing you out for setting him up to be jumped. It makes you roll your eyes before a particular notification catches your eye.

It’s from your bank – alerting you of a deposit.

You sit up straight in your bed, brows furrowed before your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see your bank statement. It’s more than you needed and you know exactly who was responsible.

You jump out of bed, not even bothering to dress out of your pajamas before you’re shoving some slides onto your feet and storming out of your apartment.

You’re so heated that you can’t even remember the walk to Simon’s place, your mind racing a million miles a second. You storm up to the door and slam your fist on it, the hard wood making your hand sting from how hard you pound.

The radiating tingle of pain is quickly forgotten when the door swings open.

Simon stands there, looking down at you expectantly. He leans against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears an army-issued t-shirt that’s a bit too tight. The sleeves stretch taunt around his biceps and you can make out the swell of his pecs. It’s not very often that you get to see his tattooed arms, littered with scars since he tends to wear long sleeves most of the time.

He doesn’t look at all surprised to see you, clearly having expected you. The apathetic look in his eyes just solidifies that you were right all along.

“What the hell is your problem?!” you cry without so much as a greeting.

He sighs, broad shoulders rising and falling with it before he opens the door wide and motions you inside. You duck underneath his outstretched arm, turning to watch as he closes the door and locks it.

He wanders into the kitchen and you realize you can smell bacon. He doesn’t seem at all surprised by your outburst nor does he seem interested in acknowledging your question.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, only solidifying how unperturbed he is by your display of anger.

“No!” you snap, “I want to know why you did that, Simon!”

He sighs again, much louder but doesn’t respond. You stand in the doorway to his kitchen, watching him plate his lunch – which is actually just breakfast food. He places the dish on the table and pauses, looking up at you.

“You needed the money, I had it,” he offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I was handling it on my own,” you say, “I-It was my problem to solve.”

“By sellin’ yourself to some prick?” he snarls, the anger he was masking coming out in a flurry.

“I wasn’t selling myself–” you refute but he slams his palms down on the table. His cutlery clatters with the action and you jump.

“I read that post you made,” he hisses, teeth bared, “There’s no fuckin’ reason you should be selling your virginity for some cash when I was right here the whole time!”

Your cheeks burn when he brings up your virginity, crossing your arms over your chest protectively, “I-It’s mine to sell if I want to! I needed that money!”

“And now you have it,” he says with finality.

He takes a seat and you stand there, fuming. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding together as your mind races to find a rebuttal. He begins to eat, taking large, fast bites that just shows how he’s been conditioned to eat quickly by the military.

“That’s not the point, Simon,” you huff, growing less angry and more frustrated by this conversation. You were just going around in circles.

“Then what is the point?” he snaps, snatching his empty plate and angrily tossing it in the sink. He turns to you again, a frown evident on his face, “You got the money you needed safely. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s too much money, Simon!” you cry, “I was selling something in exchange for it!”

“I care about you,” he says, “That doesn’t matter to me. What’s mine is yours, you know that.”

You silently glare at him, wishing that the heated stare would get through to him. He stands unbothered, staring blankly at you with his fists clenched by his sides.

You hang your head, sighing, “I-I can’t take your money, Simon, alright? I’m already in debt and I’m not going to be in debt to you of all people.”

“You feel like you owe me, is that it?” he asks.

You nod your head, heart rate spiking when he stalks towards you. You’re close enough to smell his body wash and aftershave, a painfully familiar scent that you adore. He stares down his nose at you, brown eyes lidded and lazy.

He reaches out suddenly, rough hand gripping your cheeks, smushing them together until your lips pucker, “Then give me a kiss as payment.”

“H-Huh?” you whimper dumbly, eyes wide in shock as his face grows closer and closer.

“It can be payment for a kiss, lovie,” he coos, syrupy sweet and soft, “Will that make up for it, then?”

The air in your lungs suddenly doesn’t feel like enough. This is a man that you’ve known almost your entire life so you’ve obviously thought about him in a romantic sense at some point. Hell, when you were a teenager you even had a crush on him. But he never once looked at you any other way than as a friend so you quickly got over it – or maybe that’s just what you told yourself. Because as you stand there, staring into his eyes, you realize that kissing him would feel like a dream come true.

You find yourself nodding despite the inner turmoil going on in your head. Simon huffs through his nose before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours.

There’s a shock of electricity that goes through you at the contact. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into the kiss, letting him take over. He works his lips expertly against yours, eventually abandoning his hold on your face in favor of wrapping his arm around your waist. You gasp into the kiss when he suddenly yanks you closer, your body pressed close against his.

He’s warm and sturdy against you, a solid form of muscle that makes you feel safe and content – just as he always has. His hands are big and rough as they grip your hips, kneading the soft flesh there as he gets lost in kissing you.

“S-Si,” you find yourself muttering without realizing.

He hums in response, chuckling when you continue to mindlessly kiss him. He pulls back, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat, thumbing at your jaw as your eyes slowly focus on him, “What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?”

“I-I don’t…” you swallow thickly around the forming lump in your throat, “I don’t know. I just…”

“Show me,” he breathes, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice.

The sweet, tender look in his big, brown eyes is what gives you the courage to grab his wrist, leading it just under the hem of your shirt so he can touch your bare stomach. You give him a shy glance from under your lashes, hoping he’ll get the hint that you want more.

You want him.

Simon, in all his experienced wisdom, understands immediately what it is you’re aching for. His hand travels up further, pausing at your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. Your heart hammers in your chest when your gaze meets his. His eyes are lidded, long lashes obscuring his pupils but still burning into you.

He stares deep into your eyes, waiting for any sign of hesitation as his fingers creep higher and higher. You suck in a breath when he cups your breast in his palm, squeezing lightly to feel their weight.

A large, calloused thumb creeps up, passing ever so softly over your nipple until the bud peaks and hardens under the attention. You sigh at the feeling, new shocks washing over you that you’ve never experienced before.

Sure, you played with yourself plenty – you had a healthy masturbation life, you’d say. But you’d always just been focused on reaching an orgasm, never on the build up. You imagine, however, it would never feel as good by yourself as it does with him.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine, lips parting as the sound escapes. Simon takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Your hands grab his shoulders, desperately clinging to his shirt as you lose yourself in the sloppy kiss.

Drool drips down your chin – it's messy and hot between the two of you. His hand switches to your other breast to give it the same attention as the other. You tremble in his arms, overcome by the insatiable throbbing between your thighs.

You shift on your feet, the fabric of your panties stick uncomfortably to your core. You’re so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been in your life. By the time he pulls back, there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips to his.

“You want more?” he asks, voice gravelly as he speaks, as if he’s drunk. You nod your head and he clicks his tongue, “You gotta tell me, sweetheart.”

“I-I want more, Si,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks burn as you admit it.

“Let’s go,” he hums, taking your hand in his as he leads you around the couch towards the hallway.

“Where?” you ask dumbly, hoping that making some kind of conversation would ease the nerves steadily building in your chest.

“The bedroom,” he responds, stroking his thumb over the top of your hand as if he can sense that you’re nervous, “Wouldn’t want to be stripped down in the middle of the living room, I imagine.”

“N-No,” you squeak, cheeks burning even hotter at those words.

You’re going to be naked. In front of another person for the first time. In front of him. Simon.

“There now, lovie,” he whispers as he shuts his bedroom door behind the both of you. He takes your waist in his hands, kneading the soft flesh there, “It’s alright.”

“I-I’m just–”

“Nervous,” he finishes for you, smiling softly when you nod, “I know. We can stop anytime you’d like.”

“I don’t want to,” you rush out, hands coming up to press against his firm chest, “Just…d-don’t be upset when I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The tender way he looks at you sets your heart pounding like a little rabbit. A ghost a smile appears on his lips, “I would never do somethin’ like that.”

“I-I know, I just…” you look down at your feet only for him to catch your chin in his fingers, pulling you to look up at him.

You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat, holding your breath as he descends down. His lips find yours all over again, as exhilarating and mind-melting as the first time.

Just the sweet, deep kiss he gives you has your nerves dissipating a bit – back to normal levels. You no longer feel the desire to flee, you just feel an intense longing and anticipation. You crave more from him.

As if sensing this, his fingers find the hem of your shirt. He slowly starts to pull it up, agonizingly slow. But you’re grateful for it, it gives you time to prepare before you’re bared completely to him. You lift your arms for him, a sign that you’re still okay with this.

He pulls it up over your head and lets the fabric drop to the floor. But he doesn’t look down, he continues looking in your eyes, softly pecking your lips as his hands cup your breasts once more.

When you sigh and lean into his touch, he finally lets himself break the eye contact. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees how pretty your tits sit in his hands. He touches them softly, sweetly brushing over your nipples in admiration.

“Perfect tits, lovie,” he coos, chuckling when you whine in embarrassment.

His head descends, pink lips parting to take one of your nipples in his mouth. It’s hot but his tongue is soft when it circles and flicks at the bud. He sucks, popping off lewdly before switching to the other one.

The sensation makes you squeeze your thighs together, imaging what that would feel like around your clit. Your hole clenches around nothing, drooling messily into your panties. The fabric was so wet by now that it couldn’t soak it up anymore, leaving it to slick up your thighs instead.

Your core ached, a feeling only Simon would be able to soothe.

“Please, Si,” you finally break, whimpering pathetically.

He detaches from your breast, lips wet and swollen from the worship he had been giving your now sore nipples. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing brown and you were sure that yours looked the same.

He stands to his full height, nudging you backwards until your knees hit the bed. They buckled at that, leaving you to fall back against the bed. Simon’s bedding was soft, the scent of detergent and his own body wash filling your senses. You relax at the familiar, comforting scent, sinking into the blankets with a bashful smile on your face.

To Simon, you’re an ethereal beauty. You take the air right out of his lungs with the way you look at him.

He remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. He never thought he was deserving of such happiness. But now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you.

He scooches you up the bed, crawling on after you until he’s on top of you. Though you’re still wearing your pants, you feel so vulnerable beneath his weight. He’s heavy and warm and he smells so good. You can’t focus on anything except for him – he’s all around you and it’s exhilarating.

Feeling bold, you reach up and tug at his shirt. He pulls it off with ease, revealing his toned, scarred upper body. You can’t help but trace over some of the ones you’re familiar with – there’s one from a time he fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat that you had been crying about. He fell out of the tree on the way down, a jagged branch stabbing into his upper arm and slicing it open. There was another one from when you were teenagers, some other kids jumped him and he took a stab to his shoulder trying to protect you. You kiss that one and he softens, as if he’s remembering it too.

He’s always been there for you, an overwhelming presence that you simply couldn’t live without. The fact you’re here, in this bed, about to give him your virginity is something that you never would have expected.

And to think, you were planning to sell it off to some random loser.

“I’m glad you stopped me,” you find yourself whispering.

He looks confused for a second before he hums, nodding in understanding, “I am too.”

“I-I want it to be you, Si,” you whisper, the confession leaving you embarrassed. It’s true, all this time, you realize, he’s all you’ve ever really wanted. You had just buried it deep down so you no longer felt those sparks towards him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers back, as if the two of you are sharing some secret little moment that no one else can hear about even though it’s just the two of you in this room.

“You always do,” you respond, the words making his dark eyes light up.

He kisses you deeply, moving his lips slowly against yours. When your hands come up to grip the back of his neck, he takes that as his cue to move down to your neck, then your collarbones, down the center of your chest between your breasts, the spot between your breasts, and finally your navel.

You lay back, head in his pillows with your hands on either side of your head. You watch him, breathing labored as you wait for his next move. He pauses in his path, looking up through his lashes at you before his fingers find the hem of your sweats. You swallow thickly, holding your breath when he slowly begins to pull the fabric down. You lift your hips to help him, pulling your legs free while being careful not to kick him by accident.

He keeps his gaze on you until you’re settled back down into the bed and the pants are forgotten on the floor to be collected later. Then, he looks down.

Even though you still have your panties on, you know that the white cotton is soaked through and hides absolutely nothing from his view.

You watch as he licks his lips, as if his mouth is suddenly bone dry. His hands are burning hot when he touches you again, sliding over your thighs to your hips. He leans down, pressing his lips against each of your thighs.

His thumb reaches down, stretches over your pubic bone to touch the sticky fabric. You nearly jump at the sensation – someone’s fingers other than your own touching you there for the first time. Simon’s fingers.

As if he can’t help himself anymore, he tugs the waistband of your panties and yanks them down your thighs. You squeal when you’re jostled under the force.

He holds the material up and you’re mortified to see just how wet they are. He runs his thumbs over the crotch and you whine, drawing his attention from them. He drops them to the floor and returns his hands back to you, gripping underneath your knees, so he can spread you all the way open.

Your hands fly to your face, covering your eyes in embarrassment at how exposed you are. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing a kiss over the top of your hands before moving back down your body.

You peek through your fingers only to find him already staring at you with a sparkle in his eyes. He carefully spreads your slippery folds apart with his thumbs, the movement causing a wet, sticky sound to emanate from between your legs. The little bud of your clit is hard and twitching as it’s exposed to the cool air of the bedroom. When he’s sure you’re looking he leans down, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. You stop breathing as you watch a fat glob of spit roll down the surface of the smooth muscle and splatter right on your clit.

“Si-!” your squeal of his name is cut off when your eyes roll back in his head as that sinful tongue slides right over your bud.

Your whole body twitches at that, hands falling away from your face so you can reach down and grab his hair. It doesn’t even seem like he notices your grip, focused on slurping up that sensitive nub into his hot mouth.

You choke out a moan, tilting your head back into the pillows as your back arches. It feels just as good as you thought it would when he was giving the same, lewd treatment to your nipples.

He continues to suck and lick your clit until your mind is completely blank and all you can think is him. Then, all at once it stops and he pulls back, letting your bud slip from the heavenly clutch of his lips.

“You ever have somethin’ inside you, lovie?” he asks, bringing up one of his fingers to swipe through the folds of your entrance, as if to show you what he intends.

You swallow to moisten your throat before nodding, “J-Just my fingers.”

“How many?” he asks, growing more confident in prodding at the tight little hole.

“T-Two,” you breathe, any embarrassment you felt long dissipated in the face of true pleasure.

“Alright, lovie,” he hums, “Just lay back, I’ll take good care of you, yeah?”

You nod and do as he says, turning utterly boneless against the blankets. The sweat already slicking your skin despite the fact you’ve only just begun makes the fabric stick to you.

He prods at your entrance for only a second longer before finally, he pushes his thick middle digit inside you. Your cunt is so wet and pliant that it hungrily swallows it up to the very last knuckle. You clench around it intentionally, getting used to the feeling of the foreign finger inside of you for the first time.

It feels so different compared to your own, thicker and rougher. The sensation is so strange but you can’t say you don’t like it – in fact, it feels amazing. You already want another, feeling like one just isn’t enough to give you that unknown feeling you’re chasing. It’s like you have an itch that needs to be scratched and only Simon can do it for you.

As if sensing this, ever the reliable one, he carefully introduces a second finger. The stretch is unfamiliar, a burn around your entrance following as he reaches the last knuckle on that one too. His middle and ring finger stuffed snuggly inside your gooey little cunt as you whine and squirm from the feeling.

Once you’ve adjusted, he slowly begins working them in and out of you. You slick up his fingers easily, streaks of creamy white coating his skin and making his mouth water. When he crooks his fingers up suddenly, prodding at that tender little spot inside of you, your entire body twitches and the most beautiful moan rips from your chest.

He can’t resist leaning down and trapping your pulsing little clit under the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t slurp it into his mouth like before, instead, he just licks over it, pressing it down with the muscle. Your eyes are rolled up and your mouth hangs open as you moan and moan, tugging mindlessly at his hair as he works you towards your orgasm.

It grows and grows, the unrelenting pleasure of his fingers fucking deeply into you and his tongue lapping sloppily at your clit like a mutt driving that knot in your belly to tighten. Drool spills out around his tongue, slipping down to meet his fingers where he easily fucks it into you – the added lubrication not needed but so very welcome with how much wetter and messier it makes you.

“S-Simon…” you pant, gasping to catch your breath as the pleasure makes it hard for you to even think.

He glances up at you through his lashes but doesn’t offer any other acknowledgement. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to wring this orgasm out of your little cunt whether you like it or not.

And fuck, do you love it.

The orgasms you brought yourself in the deep of the night, little hands stuffed down your panties as you played with your clit and stuffed yourself with your own fingers was nothing like what you were experiencing now. Simon’s thick fingers and hot tongue were torturing your little clit until your entire body started to lock up.

You looked at him desperately, unsure what was even going through your mind besides him and how fucking good you felt right now.

Just as you teetered on the edge of this orgasm, he suddenly changed up and swallowed your twitchy little clit into his mouth. He sucked, sending you flying over the edge with a shrill wail of his name. Your legs kicked and twitched, heels hitting him on the back as you trembled and shook through the orgasm that he eagerly fucked out of you onto his fingers.

He suckled your clit, swirling his tongue around it until it was too sensitive and you were tearily pushing him away. When he finally released you, slipping his fingers from your cunt, you were boneless and twitching on the bed. You didn’t even try to close your legs when he pulled away, giving him the perfect view to watch your cute little pussy clench and messily drool cum in the aftermath of your orgasm.

He popped his fingers in his mouth, eyes rolling and lashes fluttering at the taste of your cum tingling on his taste buds. As you came down, eyes closed and breathing heavy, he began pulling at his belt.

You could hear the metal clinking as he dropped it to the floor, peeking your heavy lids open to see him pull the button of his jeans open. As he slowly pulled them down, his underwear went with and suddenly you were more aware than ever.

His cock was something to behold. Thick and veiny, bobbing in the air where it hung – too heavy to actually stand upright. You’d seen dicks in porn before but none of them prepared you for Simon’s. Precum dribbled from the tip, creating a long, gooey string down towards the floor before it broke.

He wrapped a big hand around himself, giving a few good strokes as he reached down to cup his own heavy balls. The hair wasn’t wild or offensive, but neatly trimmed short.

“All good, lovie?” he asked, stepping out of the pool of his jeans and boxers so he could kneel on the bed again.

“All god-good!” you blushed as he laughed, leaning down over you to balance his weight on his elbows.

“You still want this?” he asks, hushed and sweet,

You glance between your bodies to see that intimidating cock, drooling messily over your skin. You realize, quickly, that you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

When you voice such, he looks relieved, like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders. He sits back on his heels and spreads your legs, pushing your knees up to your chest.

“Hold them there,” he orders, which you follow immediately.

Your elbows circle around your knees, holding yourself open for him as he asked. He whistles low in appreciation when your cum-slicked cunt was spread and exposed for him to prod his cockhead against.

He swipes the tip up and down through your folds, humming appreciatively when your little hole tries to suck him in every time he grazes past it. He nudges your clit, the little bud still hard and sensitive from your orgasm but so eager for more. He couldn’t wait to grant your wish and make you cream on his cock.

You watch him with wide eyes as he starts to push into you. Your jaw drops as you feel that burning stretch, an ache settling between your legs as he continues to sink himself into you.

“F-Fuck, wait, Simon!” you squeal and he halts immediately.

He’s only reached just past the head of his cock but he reaches down to pet your clit. The pleasure shoots through you, making your toes curl and your walls relax around him. He keeps his eyes on your face for any sign that you want him to stop as he moves his hips again.

More and more of his cock sinks inside and his thumb keeps working little circles over your clit until his hips are flush with yours. Your voice breaks as you moan when you realize you’ve taken every single inch of him.

He’s heavy and throbbing inside of you and you clench around him intentionally, forcing a moan from his chest.

He leans down, arranging your knees over his shoulders, folding you up and pressing down on you. He’s heavy and it makes it hard to breathe but that makes it even better – the pleasure of being speared on that fat cock and being utterly helpless underneath this man is better than any fantasy you could have made for yourself.

“Fuck,” he snarls, rolling his hips back before rocking them forward again, heavy balls slapping against you as he does, “Can’t believe you were gonna give this little cunt away to some prick.”

“S-Si,” you whimper, biting your lip at the feeling of him slowly and carefully rocking his hips against yours, “‘M sorry, sh-shoulda been you all this time.”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he hums, “No one else gets to love you but me, sweetheart.”

“O-Only you!” you agree, nails digging into his shoulders when he hits that spot just right.

He can feel you soaking his cock, drippy cum lathering him up to make every glide of his cock wetter than the last. He sits back up on his knees, adjusting his grip so he can pin your legs wide open, giving him the best view of your greedy cunt swallowing his length up.

He begins to fuck you in earnest, pulling out halfway before sliding home again - nothing like the little movements he gave you to prepare you. He was going to show you exactly why you should only think of giving him this precious pussy for the rest of your life. No one will ever be able to fuck you as good as he can, he’s going to learn your body like the back of your hand and you’re never going to be able to cum as hard as you can with him. You’ll never even want to use your own fingers again when he’s done with you.

You can’t do anything but lay there and take it, take the pleasure and take his cock. He hits so deep, prodding at your cervix in a way that aches but it only feels that much better when it’s mixed with mind-numbing pleasure.

Simon looms above you, panting and groaning as he fucks you like he was made to. He angles his hips just right, blunt nails biting into your thighs where he pins you open, neither of you caring if he happens to break skin while he does. You don’t even register the bite of pain underneath the way his cock prods you g-spot so perfectly.

Your own fingers would have been tired by now, no longer able to work that little spot like you need. Simon’s cock, however, is unrelenting. The pleasure builds and mounts uninterrupted, every stroke of his length sending you higher. His body moves fluidly, rolling his hips tirelessly so he can give you every ounce of pleasure your sweet little cunt needs.

You’re creaming around him, a frothy, milky ring forming around the base every time he sinks in and becoming visible when he pulls back. It’s filthy and messy and makes your cheeks burn but Simon seems to not mind in the slightest.

“So fuckin’ messy, love,” he coos, breathy and slurred, “Look at that, pretty cunt needed some cock, huh?”

“Y-Yours!” you manage to choke out.

“What’s that?” he asks, a crooked, teasing grin on his face.

“Y-Your cock! Only needed your cock, Simon,” you pant, reaching up to grope your own tits, pinching and rolling your nipples meanly. It hurts so good, making you clench around his cock. He moans at the sight, his pretty little virgin tormenting your own nipples.

“That’s right,” he hums, reaching a shaky hand down to thumb at your clit, “Keep pinchin’ those pretty tits, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”

You nod your head, unable to form a vocal response from the new sensation of your clit being played with while he fucks you. It feels so damn good that you could go drunk from it all. Everything in your brain is slow, thoughts of only him and how good you feel are all that’s there. Your entire world, right at this moment, revolves around Simon Riley.

He knows it too, a cocky grin on his face as he works you to your orgasm. You dangle, almost helplessly, staring unblinkingly at his handsome face as he works it out of you.

After what feels like minutes, but is probably only seconds, you cum. Hard.

Your head slams back against the pillows, back arching as you cunt clasps tight around him. You cry out in pure, unadulterated pleasure as he fucks you through it. His thumb keeps working your clit as it twitches and pulses under the digit, cumming nice and pretty for him just like he wanted. Just like you deserved.

You cream his cock messily, it drips down his balls and down your ass to the bedding below. So fucking sloppy and wet, a perfect little cunt made to take his cock.

His brows furrow, mouth falling open as his own orgasm mounts and builds. Now that your well-earned orgasm is out of the way, he can finally let go and allow himself to experience it as well.

“Where do you want it?” he grits out, teeth clenched from the ache of holding back.

His balls draw up, heavy and full. He feels ready to positively explode when you gasp, “I-Inside!”

His head falls back, the loudest, most drawn out moan you’d never expected to come from a stoic man like Simon falling from his lips. It’s deep and primal, full of nothing but euphoria as he spills into you. His load is hot and thick, drooling out of the sides of his cock as he slows his thrusts to milk the least bits of pleasure from the orgasm.

When he comes down, he collapses. Your legs lock around his waist and he draws you tightly into his arms, neither of you caring for the way his weight crushes you. All you care about is being wrapped up in his arms where you belong.

He pulls his neck from your chest and kisses your forehead. Then he kisses your nose. Then your lips.

“Pretty,” he breathes, still drunk on the endorphins of the sex so his lips are a little looser than they’d normally be, “Always thought you were pretty.”

“Really?” you prompt, cheeks heating at his confession.

He hums, “Glad you’re finally mine.”

You beam, “No one deserved me as much as you.”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world, rolling off of you with a sigh. His cock unplugs your cunt and a gush of your mixed cum comes out, making you whine. He laughs softly, drawing you back into your arms.

You’ve never felt safer and warmer in your life, knowing in that moment that you should have come to Simon all along. There’s no one in the world who would be there for you, more willing and able than he.

this work belongs to rowarn. do not repost to third party websites or use for character ai. reblogs welcome and appreciated!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #cod x reader #cod smut #ghost x reader #ghost smut

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daemonbrain · 14 days ago

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1.8k, cw: ghosts a pervert, smut, readers husband is piece of work, not proofread.

Simon Riley who first saw you at the butcher's shop on the phone.

You were a pretty thing. Wearing a pink little yoga set, one arm holding your mat and the other holding your phone to your ear as you wait for the butcher to bring out your cut of meat.

Which was taking a long time

Simon would’ve had it chopped and packed to go by now. Though, he can’t complain with the view he has of your ass- you. The man was touch starved. He hadn’t been back home in a while, back-to-back deployments keeping him occupied. His only company being his calloused and scraped hands roughly jerking himself until he came, bordering on unpleasurable. Not what some could consider enjoyable, but try being in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere for weeks on end and see if you care so much about gentle.

The borderline perverted look you were blissfully unaware of was tracking down your form. He stared at the way the material tightly clung on to every bit of you in a welcoming way, a second skin. The sweat on you from your little session.

Just how flexible does yoga make a bird like you?

It was only when he heard a grating sound come from your phone that he snapped out of his trance. Even with his bad ears from all the bullets whizzing past him, bombs going off within meters of him, and the usual shit show he did for a living he could hear the voice which bled through your phone's speaker.

"Get me a steak this time. Nonna that nasty shit from last time!"

You hurriedly turned your volume down as it blasted in your ear, startled by the voice. Chewing on your lip you pivoted towards the counter to see if your order had been brought out; the motion to no avail as the employee continued chopping away in the back room.

It was only when your other hand came into full view from the motion he noticed the absolute rock on your finger.

"Honey, I thought the salmon was pretty good." That prick clearly firing something back as you winced away from your phone once again. Gritting your teeth as if biting back your arguments, looking around to occupy your time as the man on the phone continues to speak. "I know... I'm sorry. Don't worry, it'll be ready by 7." You placatingly cooed.

"Listen, I have to go. I love y-" You began, but the moment the words tumbled from your lips you pulled the phone fully from your cheek to see a blank screen with the time staring back on you. The asshole hung up!

What a fuckin tosser.

Simon hears the butcher finally call your name with familiarity and with a sigh you step towards the counter.

He leaned on to the wall further as he had been the entire time. Silent. Unsettling. A stark contrast to your bright appearance in the shop, the larger man brooded in his corner waiting his turn.

“See ya’ next Friday!” You still managed a bright smile at the butcher who handed you your meat.

A mild thing like you really shouldn’t be talked to so thoughtlessly, some guys are fuckwits though. He never liked the type. Why lock a bird down with a ring if you were gonna be mean to her?

“S’cuse me sir, i’m just gonna push past you here” You asked. With widened eyes, Simon gruffly mumbled a “Yeah,” out before creating a stupidly small space.

Maybe he really did want you to push past him. Or just push up on him but oh well.

Sweeping past him, you give him a toothy smile as you had so sweetly done to the butcher, as if you hadn’t got yelled at less than five minutes ago. God you really have no common sense, beaming up at the lurker in the corner at least twice your size. A girl as pretty as you should really stick to herself.

From that interaction on, Simon found himself being guided by the memory of you back to the butcher shop the next Friday.

And the next…

And the next.

Every week progressively standing closer and closer to you as you picked up your usual order. One day you had taken the liberty of starting small talk with him after recognizing his unmistakable stature. After all, there were only so many people you had seen in this shop and none so… large.

You could not deny you found this mystery man disquieting. Always dressed in dark colours, not so much as a word coming from him. Like clockwork you would come in after hot yoga, greet the butcher, he would come in, silence would ensue as you both waited for your meat, and you would leave with a quick smile.

It was rude. He had never even said a simple hello to you! Though, you suppose that it could be due to your own curt exits. The thought of the unkindness you might’ve exhibited subconsciously sent your mind into a spiral, leading to your abrupt introduction.

After all, who were you to judge! Kindness is and should always be the response in your books.

At this kindness, Simon swore he had to take a breath in as you politely outstretched your hand and spoke your name casually. Tilting his head down to your face he raises a brow skeptically, and then firmly shakes your head.

He failed to hide the shudder which wracked his body. The way your hand effortlessly slipped into his. Soft and manicured engulfed in his.

“Simon.”

“Well it’s good to meet you Simon” With the twinkly little smile you would grace him as you hauled it out of the shop. He felt the shiver go down his spine a second time when you spoke his name for the first time.

And then- it happened.

You giggled. A soft thing, no doubt intended to be small. It wasn’t to Simon though. It reverberated throughout the room, rang so prettily in his ears. Fuck. He would remember that sound later on tonight.

“Are you cold? You keep shivering. It’s pretty harsh out there right now.”

“Nah. Not really.” His accent thick as he shrugged.

Letting out a little “mhm” you nod and look back to the counter.

“I was freezing outside! Usually I walk home-” Simon already knew that “-but today I called my husband to come grab me! Way too cold!”

That visibly made him stiffen. Of course. Perfectly normal that guy is coming to get you, he’d be an idiot to leave you walking home alone in the cold.

If you were his girl, Simon wouldn’t have let you out of his sight. Fuck sakes you practically had “come mess with me” written all over you. There were creeps all over the place nowadays, (thought the creep).

He would’ve carried everything for you, scarfed down whatever the hell you had taken the time to prepare him. That husband of yours doesn’t like your salmon? Simon would. Hell if he didn’t, he’d cram it down his throat with gratitude anyways. He doubted anything could be worse than some of the rations he’s eaten on duty.

That train of thought is pretty redundant when he takes note of how you wouldn’t be able to leave the bed to make anything.

Maybe you’d cram something of his down your throat in gratitude.

Shaking his head subtly, he hears the bells of the store door opening. He watched your face fall as you step away from him and it’s when he sees your husband's look of complete irritation he understands why.

You had grabbed your order swiftly and with a quick wave goodbye you were on your way back to your husband. Simon could only register your husband's whisper-yell as he disapprovingly glared his way. “The fuck are you doin talking to him?”. And with that you were hurriedly ushered out.

You deigned it necessary to continue greeting Simon, have little chats about the weather, any plans he had for the weekend. Tossing in your stupid jokes that he would laugh at. You interpreted it as something closer to a breathy snort-hopefully positive- and it went on as such for weeks

And every time he returned home Friday night, he came home with only one thought after. You.

As he laid in bed the same thought persisted as he slipped his cock out of his boxers, red and weeping for some sort of stimulation. He took to his usual harsh pace. You’d be so much softer.

You’d be so nice to him wouldn’t you? Coo some compliment as he lets you tug at him. Fuck he wouldn’t know what to take first.

Would you give him a blowie or a hand job?

No. You wouldn’t be on your knees- not yet. If you’d let him have you, you’d be on your back in an instant. He’d rip the stitches of those leggings right down the middle, your panties next.

“Fuuuuuck” he moaned into the quiet of his room. He’d stick it in slow, he’d try. It would be torture not to ram himself right up to the hilt, but he’d do it for such a good girl.

That’s what you were, weren’t you? Always a nice word for someone? What would you say to him when he began to rut into you like a madman. When you would feel the pummeling intrusion, his head knocking into the deepest parts of you.

He’d be able bend you into so many different positions that you’d better hope that yoga has taught you well. Split your legs open to accommodate his imposing body size as he’d take purchase between them. Then you better hope your cunny can accommodate his other size when he spears you open on his cock.

Would you take it smiling? Would your tears roll down your cheeks, the prodding bordering too much? You’d take it either way, he knew you could. He’d rub at your clit with such tenderness he never afforded himself (as gentle as he could anyway). He’d make sure you begged to stay on his cock forever, fuck himself so deep you would be too stupid to pull away unknowing of where he ended and you started. Not that you’d have to care.

He’d flip you on to all fours and rip away your clothes entirely, pounding you from the back and instead of just his own labored breaths, the sound of skin slapping together would ring out.

In silent stoicism, he feels his balls tighten up at the thought of your perfect face stuffed into the pillows screaming your thank you’s. You probably were just as nice with someone stuffing themselves into your pussy.

At both his ruthless ministrations and boundless imagination, his release spurted all over his hand with a breathy sigh. When you were here he’d make sure to slam his hips to yours and keep them flush against you, coat your insides in hot cum better than your limp-dick husband ever could. That man wouldn’t be able to fuck you the way Simon knew he could. You deserve someone who could make you go stupid on his dick, not cry of frustration like you probably did everytime that knob who thinks himself a man rolled over after finishing himself off.

Not that you’ll have to worry about that soon

…

He wouldn’t be around for much longer anyways.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #simon riley smut #ghost cod #ghost mw2

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joelsgoldrush · 4 months ago

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“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: Superheroes and mutants weren’t enough. No—the universe had to throw in soulmates who share scars. Fantastic, right? Except yours had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear with the arrival of a new face: the “Worst” Logan Howlett, fresh from another earth.

OR What happens when a hopeless romantic crosses paths with the ultimate soulmate skeptic?

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ strangers to lovers. drinking. cursing. slow burn. angst. pining. mentions of alcohol. fluff. reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books. dual POV. takes place after the events of “deadpool & wolverine”. TW: multiple descriptions of scars. worst/variant!logan. implied age gap (reader’s in her late 20s). they’re both touch starved. wade’s everyone’s friend. miscommunication/misunderstandings. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering, grinding. some slight hair pulling. unprotected p in v, creampie. sex with feelings.

A/N: HOPELESS ROMANTICS RISE! here we go again with another long ass fic. this is a soulmates AU in which you get your soulmate’s scars. if you feel triggered by this topic, please refrain from reading. i had a lot of fun writing this even though it took me a while to get it done. thanks to @lubdubology for being my beta and allowing me to share my work with you. and also thanks to @brushworth for giving me the chance to write this. having said this, enjoy the story! i’d love to know your thoughts on it <3

Love giveth and love taketh away.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

If it weren’t for love, you wouldn’t be here. No one would, actually. Human beings are the result of billions of people who loved each other just enough—or at least long enough to bring life into the world.

But isn’t it in the name of love that people act in bad faith? Why would something so pure be used in vain?

You don’t get it, but as the years go by, you slowly come to terms with the idea that perhaps you never will. Not because there isn’t a reason, but because you’re in love with the idea of love.

How could you not be? It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up.

Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

It had always been a relentless race, your only worry being to catch it before time ran out. But with each day that passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you live and breathe on autopilot.

In a Jane Austen novel, you’d be considered a lone woman. That character who’s nice, and kind, and loved by some, but not in the way she yearns for. Every time she’s mentioned, you go “Oh, the poor girl,” until the slow realization dawns.

In reality, she’s you, and it’s you who you feel sorry for, not a fictional character. You.

All in all, love giveth. And love also taketh away.

Love maketh you miserable.

Soulmates—a nine-letter word that holds so much meaning.

It’s one of those words that you learn early in your life, one you hear at home or on the TV. Your parents never fail to mention it if given the chance. The first time you’re introduced to the topic is at school when you're older, a bit more self-conscious, and no longer preoccupied with picking your nose.

“Everybody has a soulmate. And no,” your teacher had added after a pause, already anticipating the inevitable questions from any curious 10-year-old, “there isn’t such a thing as not having one. We all do. You just have to search for them.”

Back then, that had been your favorite game—always keeping an eye open, scanning the crowd more than once in new places. You knew for sure that more than one person probably thought you’d strained your neck from all the times you glanced over your shoulder.

It must be pretty obvious now, the fact that you’re—well, alone. Saying ‘without a companion’ sounds quite outdated. They can’t see through you, but something in the way you walk or speak must give it away.

Or is it the fact that you always ask for a table for one?

“Are you expecting someone else?” A waitress approaches you, her tone gentle as she makes sure you’re on your own. A small notebook dangles from her slender fingers, and your eyes catch the name stitched onto her apron: Emily.

The response you give her is on the verge of sounding automatic, robotic even, like one of those prerecorded messages busy people leave on their phones. “No. Just me.”

She nods, and you feel the sympathy in her gaze. You’ve mastered the art of recognizing that look—the one hovering between concern and pity.

Of course, people rarely voice it, but they’ll never know their eyes sometimes say more than they think.

As she jots down your order, you’re met with the ring on her left hand. Very pretty, very shiny. Very expensive as well. Your attention must linger on it a little too long, because she catches you staring, making you feel exposed.

Emily—you decide to call her that way from now on, because once you know her name, it feels odd to address her as the waitress—offers you a shy smile.

“I’m getting married next month,” she blurts out, happiness radiating from her pores. Her eyes glint like two lanterns in a starless night. She also looks younger than you, and the abrupt silence forces you to pinch your wrist, a reminder of the fact that this is a conversation, and not just something you're overhearing.

“Congratulations,” you manage to reply, returning the smile. If she saw how your expression faltered the second she walked away, you wonder if she’d still think you were so amiable.

Sometimes, your façade slips—you can’t help it. That’s what the ‘hopeless’ in ‘hopeless romantic’ stands for.

Some minutes later, she comes back with your coffee, and you catch another glimpse of the ring as it twinkles in front of you. Envy doesn’t suit you, so you shift your focus.

Taking out your laptop, you scroll through the latest headlines. This is your attempt at acting more like an adult and less like a girl in her mid-twenties who has no clue what she’s doing.

One article stands out from the rest: Hollywood Actress Divorces Loving Husband of 25 Years to Pursue Presumed Soulmate. “I saw his scars and knew he was the one.”

Interesting. You can’t help but feel sorry for the displaced husband, though.

“Good for you,” you mutter under your breath, clicking the link to read more. There’s a picture of the actress and her new boyfriend that makes you stop dead in your tracks: they’re smiling at each other, their faces close, noses almost touching, while they show off their matching scars—the unmistakable sign that they’re, in fact, soulmates.

Soulmates, superheroes, mutants. It all sounds like a whole lot, doesn’t it? Overwhelming, to say the least. One thing’s for sure—you’ll never get bored in this world.

But, hey! Don’t forget that there are multiple universes out there. Maybe in one of them, you’re not this pathetic.

Why are you being so hard on yourself? That’s not even the point. Shaking your head, you keep glancing at their scars—they’re identical, perfect mirrors of one another. The kind of scars that only two destined souls share.

Their happiness is evident, tangible. You can feel it by just eyeing the image. It’s a bitter sensation that metamorphoses into a warmth, which heavily spreads through your chest, filling up every empty space it finds.

To say you understand that feeling would be a downright lie. And you may be many things, but a pathological liar is not one of them.

As if on cue, you duck your head, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket. You do the same with your shirt, foolishly hoping to find something other than smooth, unmarked skin.

No scars. No marks. No sign of a soulmate, of a lover. In the world you inhabit—this universe full of the most inexplicable things—you’re alone.

Without a second thought, you pack your things, shoving them rapidly into your bag. The cafe feels too little and too large all at once, the walls closing on you.

The rest of the customers are looking at you. Fuck, they already noticed it—you can’t escape it.

Have they? Do you think they see you like you see yourself? The lone woman who writes poems for an addressee who will never read them?

In silence, you hand Emily the money for your coffee. You fear that if you open your mouth, a cry will come out, and that’s the last thing you need today. She gives you that look again—pity laced with sorrow, the one you despise. It burns.

At that moment, a man walks in, passing right by you. You see his face, his green eyes, and the way his lips curl into a grin as he greets Emily.

The scar on her forehead, which you'd missed before, mirrors the one on his.

They are soulmates.

It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is.

She wishes you a nice morning as you leave the cafe. Little does she know you’ll spend the rest of the day locked in your apartment, mourning someone you never even met.

Until the day you lost them, you wore your scars with pride.

They were scattered across your stomach, back, chest, and even your legs and arms. Some were shallow, others deep. It never occurred to you—the thought that they belonged in the shadows, hidden.

Everyone has them, you thought as you stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers along their jagged paths. I just seem to have more than most people.

Over the years, you might have changed your hairstyle or the way you dressed, but your scars never did—they’d always been there, and they were yours.

Partly yours, of course, since you knew they belonged to your soulmate as well.

The older you grew, the more you realized having a good memory was both a gift and a curse. You still remembered that moment so vividly—when you found out that somebody out there was meant for you and only you.

A point of no return, that’s what it’d been. From that day on, not a single one went by without you imagining the first encounter with your Prince Charming.

In the meantime, you dated. A few boyfriends came and went during and after high school, mostly as practice for the real thing, you’d told yourself.

God, you were determined to know everything. To be the best girlfriend ever, so that when you finally met him, he’d be over the moon.

At the age of seventeen, it sounded like a brilliant plan.

You never knew how, but your life became that meantime. All your friends began to find their soulmates: in the supermarket, while traveling, at the goddamn doctor’s office.

Everybody was fulfilling the purpose you’d been taught humans were made for—everyone but you.

The scars multiplied, yet he was nowhere to be seen, remaining out of reach. Your soulmate’s whereabouts were a mystery. What the hell does he do in his free time? was something you used to often ponder. Is he suffering? Does he need help?

“Be patient, give it some time. The less you seek, the more you’ll find,” your mother would say, trying to sound encouraging. Although she was trying to do her best, that phrase alone had the power to make you go nuts.

Be patient? Waiting was all you’d been doing. What was so wrong with you that he seemed to be hiding from you? You didn’t want to wait any longer, no—you wanted to find him. If it meant traveling to Italy like your cousin had to meet her husband, then so fucking be it.

Many nights, sleep eluded you. Lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, you’d imagine what life with him would be like. What he would look like. You were certain that no matter his appearance, you’d think he was beautiful.

Wasn’t that the whole point of soulmates—that the bond you two shared transcended physical attraction?

Nevertheless, you secretly wished he’d have brown hair. He didn’t need to know, but you had a weakness for brunettes.

On the night of your twenty-second birthday, you were getting ready for the big event when every trace of your scars disappeared.

The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower’s stream, and as you wiped it clean with the palm of your hand, the image you saw reflected on the glass made your stomach do a flip.

There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you—it couldn’t be. Scars didn’t just vanish. It was impossible.

But as you lowered your gaze, tracing your limbs again and again, the truth hit you. The marks you knew by heart, the ones that reminded you, He’s out there, somewhere, were gone.

You felt it deep in your chest, too. Every sound seemed louder and clearer: the blood rushing through your veins, each shaky breath you took. Where are they? Your fingers dug into your flesh, intending to ground yourself.

Is he… dead? It was the only reasonable explanation, the rule you’d known all along. You’d read it countless times, memorizing the principles about scars.

The scream that tore from your throat brought your mother running upstairs, and she entered the bathroom with a horrified expression on her face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, but your mind was already far away. Your whole body shuddered in her arms, a sob slipping past your lips as you crumbled to the floor, desperately hoping it was all a nightmare. “It must be a mistake, honey. I’m sure he’s okay.”

But he’s not, you wanted to tell her. The words, however, never formed—only a broken whimper escaped your lips. Isn’t that what we were taught? Our scars belong to our soulmates; they bind us to them in a way that simple words can’t explain.

It goes deeper than the skin. It delves into our bodies, our minds, reaching into the very essence of who we are. What was once his is also mine, but they’re gone.

He’s gone. He must be, because otherwise, how would you explain this void?

When one’s soulmate passes away, that person will notice the disappearance of their scars. The physical marks that once symbolized their connection fade, leaving no trace. This absence is accompanied by a distinct, unsettling sensation—an awareness of loss that goes beyond the physical, signaling the end of the bond.

A part of you died with him that day.

The first time you exchanged words with Wade Wilson, you thought he was a total dick.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know him—not when he was so infamous for that mouth of his. Deadpool: the self-proclaimed superhero with a vocabulary that was 90% profanity, who made cracking jokes while fighting the bad guys look easy.

Super funny? Sure. But not exactly your cup of tea when all you wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed.

He was apparently long retired from superheroing. No one had seen that red, sex-toy-looking suit in ages, which was why you were only mildly surprised as you spotted him hauling boxes into your building on a Tuesday afternoon.

It was late, and you weren’t in the mood for small talk. He’d been there barely a week, yet somehow, he’d already managed to fuck things up.

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing the crease between your brows. “Look, Wally—”

“It’s pronounced Wade,” he corrected you, trying to edge his face further into the gap between the door and its frame, though you didn’t let your guard down. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been up for twenty-four hours, and I need to sleep,” you groaned, trying to push him away with one hand. Technically, he wasn’t even asking for something that complicated—he wanted to use your microwave to heat his dinner, since his had decided to stop working out of the blue.

The thing was that you’d had the kind of week that felt like a one-way trip to hell, an important detail he wasn’t aware of. “Go ask someone else. I can’t do charity tonight.”

“You’re the only one who answered,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture, his lips curling into a heartbreaking pout. “Please, my lovely neighbor, whose name I don’t know. You wouldn’t want me to starve to death, would you?

“I thought you couldn’t die.” You raised an eyebrow, half-interested.

Wade’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes drifting downward. “And I thought kindness wasn’t extinct, but here we are.” He spun on his heel, acting defeated and dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. “Can’t believe this is what the world’s come to. I’m sure the Bible says something about treating others how you’d want to be treated.”

Why. Just… why? Some cosmic, divine force from beyond might have been testing you that night.

“Wait,” you croaked just as he was about to step into his apartment—which was literally three meters from yours. His face lit up, expecting you to continue, and you moved aside slightly, signaling him in. “Five minutes and you’re out, okay? I really need to get some rest.”

The rest was history. Wade was just standing there, mesmerized by your microwave as if he’d never seen one before.

You could only hear the faint buzzing sound of the gadget, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the counter. He was humming a tune while shaking his head to the beat.

You tried to focus, replaying the guided meditation you sometimes followed to sleep in your mind.

Allow yourself to feel the stillness of this moment. Notice your breath slowing as your body begins to calm. Be the observer of your breath, flowing in and out naturally, as your lungs—

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

“Please, stop it,” you eventually told Wade, whose gaze shifted from the microwave to you, brows furrowed.

“And why’s that?”

“They say it’s bad for your eyes,” you explained, recalling a half-forgotten news report you’d heard on the TV. Whether it was a myth or not, you’d never know. “I believe it’s because of the radiation exposure.”

Leaning back on the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “At this point, I think I’m safe. You, on the other hand… maybe not so much,” he nearly whispered that last part, and your desire to strangle him grew stronger.

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

He jerked his thumb toward the pile of papers and books you had on your kitchen table. “So, you’re a writer?”

“Editor, in reality,” you snapped, your eyelids twitching as you watched him leaf through your stuff. “Wade, don’t touch my things.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself. I’m very curious.” Flashing you a quick grin, he opened your notebook, squinting his eyes as he went through the pages. “But you write too, huh? I’m discovering plenty of material here.”

The bastard. “Give. It. Back,” you snarled, lunging at him and trying to snatch the notebook from his hands, but he was faster, raising it out of reach. “I hope your food explodes in that microwave, asshole.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about it,” he snorted, tossing the notebook onto the couch and retrieving his dinner instead. You stared at him in disbelief, opening your mouth to scold him, but nothing came out. Then, there he was, standing in front of you with his plate and a fork.

Wait. Was that your fork?

“It’s hot, I’ll give you that.” He blew on his food to cool it down, and as he glanced up, he was met with your murderous glare. “Whoa. Want some? You could’ve just asked me. No need to get so angry.”

Calling it a desire to kill him would’ve been an understatement. And the worst part? He couldn’t die. “You’ve got what you needed. Now, can you leave?”

“How long’s it been since you talked to another human being?”

You blinked, feeling the sudden urge to look around, half expecting a hidden camera. “Why do you always answer with another question?”

“All I’m saying is I’ve been meaning to talk to you for days now, but you’re practically living the hermit life,” he said between bites of chicken, excusing himself briefly to chew. “That robe you’re wearing? It’s had the same stain on it since I moved in. Also, your doormat’s buried under a mountain of newspapers, so either you really love trees, or you’ve been avoiding any sort of social interaction.”

If he had been wrong, you would’ve felt much better. But he… wasn’t, and it sucked.

“I feel like I should be scared,” you mumbled after a long stretch of silence, your eyes going round.

Wade did no more than laugh at your troubled expression. “Scared of me? That’s cute. I’m a nice guy, sweet pea. Persistent, sure, but I’ve got a knack for getting under people’s skin,” he said, grinning through a mouthful of food—which, for the sake of your sanity, you chose to ignore.

After he had finished eating, he let the fork fall into the sink, the metal striking against the surface with a piercing echo, making you jump. He stretched his arms with a satisfied yawn, and he seemed determined to leave you alone. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, following his movements as he ambled toward the door. “Are you telling me your microwave does work?”

“Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Wade patted your head, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy who had just learned a new trick. “Good night, peanut.”

From that moment on, the two of you became inseparable. Your personalities clicked in a way you’d never experienced before with any other friend. Wade was loyal to a fault, and he treated you like the little sister he had never had.

Most importantly, he didn’t pity you—he saw you for who you were, not just someone marked by a lost soulmate. You never told him how much that meant to you, but deep down, you were grateful.

Which brings you to the present day. You’ve been friends with him for over a year, and he’s taken every chance to introduce you to his “weird but lovable” (his words, not yours) group of friends.

“Check your social anxiety at the door, thank you,” he’d tell you every time he hosted a get-together and you were invited.

Somehow, you had managed to bond with them—especially Althea, his elderly roommate, who occasionally forgets who you are despite living next door.

“Remind me of your name again, sweetie? All this disco dust must be affecting my memory,” she’d ask, leaning in close so you’d practically have to shout it into her ear. Then she’d nod, smirking knowingly. “Ah, yes. I thought so. Just making sure.”

She’s quite the character. A real sweetheart if you leave aside the number of times she’s offered you more types of drugs than you knew existed.

Tonight, you’re throwing Wade a surprise birthday party. Among all the party tasks, you’ve handled the decorations and the cake. The room’s a riot of color, with balloons floating lazily from the ceiling and a cascade of streamers draping over the furniture.

Guests start arriving, greeting you warmly, a feeling you once thought impossible. They’re Wade’s friends, sure, but on some level, you like to think they’re your friends now too: Vanessa, Dopinder, Buck, Shatterstar, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio.

As you hear footsteps approaching the door, Wade’s voice filters through the hallway. Panicking, you whirl around to the group. “He’s here! Everyone shut up!” you whisper urgently, turning off the lights and pressing your back flat against the wall next to the door.

Seconds later, the sound of keys jingling fills the air as both Wade and Peter step into the apartment.

You flip the lights back on just as Dopinder pops his much-anticipated party popper. “Surprise!” you all scream in unison, and Wade’s face splits into a grin, unsure of whom to hug first.

“You guys are lucky I’m not armed,” he quips, slinging an arm around Dopinder’s shoulders. “Six years ago, you’d all be dead!”

And you giggle, because… well, what else are you supposed to do?

As you expected, the night unfolds smoothly. You’re having fun, engaging in conversations despite yesterday’s emotional meltdown at the cafe. It’ll be okay—it always is. The food is amazing, the company even better. You remind yourself that romantic love isn’t the only kind that matters—that’s what friends are for, after all, to teach you that lesson.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses, creating a lively symphony that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Yukio calls your name, waving her head in front of your eyes, trying to snap you out of your thoughts. “Everything okay?” she wonders, concern flickering in her voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, tightening your grip on your beer bottle. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

You all gather around the cake when Wade’s about to blow the candles. You know he’s preparing himself for a speech. “Another year of spinning around the moon, huh?”

“Sun, you dumbass,” Al corrects him, and you have to bite your lip to keep your laughter to yourself.

“Okay, flat-earther,” Wade shoots back, giving her a playful side-eye. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right—I can’t thank you all enough for being here. These past few years have been... well, rough on me, to say the least,” he says, glancing down at the cake with a small, crooked smile. “But I’m happy now. We’ve got each other’s back, like a team!”

“Like The Avengers, you mean?” Dopinder pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. There’s a moment of silence in which you swear you’d be able to hear a hairpin drop.

It’s still a sensitive topic.

“Next time, give me a trigger warning before you mention them,” Wade mutters in a hushed tone, and Dopinder shrinks sheepishly. “I guess what I wanted to tell you was…” he trails off, his palm covering the place where his heart is, “that I'm glad you’re all here. Being surrounded by the people I love most is the best birthday gift ever.”

His words stir something inside you. Vanessa gently nudges his arm, smiling up at him. “Why don’t you make your wish?”

Wade dramatically drops to his knees in front of the cake, eyes fluttering shut before blowing out the candles, whistles and cheers erupting all around.

Just then, you hear the unmistakable sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. You exchange a curious glance with Wade, raising your eyebrows. “That’s weird. Want me to get it?”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, excusing himself to answer the door. He slips outside, shutting it behind him, and everything returns to normal. For a while, you assume he’s chatting with someone who dropped by to say hi—but that doesn’t really make sense.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been out there so long?” Vanessa inquires, her worry starting to creep in.

“I’ll go check on him,” you tell her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.

But when you open it, there’s no Wade in sight. Just… his toupee—or “hair system” as he insists on calling it, lying on the floor.

Kneeling down, you gingerly pick it up, a strange sensation settling in your chest.

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

Completely out of character, right? He thought so too. The number of times he'd stepped foot inside a church could be counted on one hand, so why would a man like him resort to religion?

In the past, he had been told he was part of God’s plan, but somewhere along the way, he felt like he had become God’s mistake.

After living a life plagued with loss and constantly in hiding, he wasn’t shocked that his self-worth was in the gutter.

Things only spiraled after letting everyone down, especially after that particular day when things took a turn for the worse. He had prayed, asking God to make him forget.

When that didn’t work, he just drank harder and smoked more. But not even drowning in alcohol and clouds of nicotine could put an end to his struggles—he was condemned to suffer.

In spite of everyone’s wishes, he’s still going strong, stuck with no defined purpose. It’s almost impossible not to fall into a routine that seeks to numb him, to put him under anesthesia—waking up after passing out who-knows-where, finding the nearest bar, sinking into whiskey and the haze of ashtrays.

Then he does it all over again, a never-ending cycle. His self-destructive habits don’t lead him to oblivion; instead, they intensify every sensation, making each memory and emotion painfully vivid.

Day after day, he convinces himself he’s got it under control. Logan may be tough as fuck, and he may heal faster than anyone else, but his pride is in pieces.

No amount of strength or supernatural abilities can stop the decay he feels inside, the slow rot creeping deeper within him the longer he remains trapped in this life.

He slams the empty glass onto the counter with a heavy thud, tapping two fingers against it. “Again,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

The bartender looks at him like he's the reincarnation of all things vile. “I told you—you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

Oh, yes. Music to his ears. If he had a nickel for every time he heard that, he’d be rich. “Just give me one more drink and then I’ll leave.”

“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies, and Logan knows he’s screwed. Another public establishment he’s been banned from—fucking perfect.

Will there ever be a day where he’s not treated like garbage?

“It does now,” an unknown voice joins the conversation, and Logan glances to his side, arching a brow. The masked man doesn’t let his stare falter. “Leave the bottle.”

“Do I know you, bub?”

“You don’t, but I know you.”

This serves as evidence of how pliant he’s become. Years ago, he would’ve already wiped the floor with this guy. They didn’t call him Logan “short fuse” Howlett for nothing. But now? He just can’t bring himself to do it.

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

“—Wolverine.” Once he finishes the sentence, his words taste bitter. Perhaps it’s the venom on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol from yesterday kicking him again. Either way, both hit hard.

“Yes, you are,” the stranger says, continuing to stare at him, as if Logan’s worth the effort. “And I’m going to need you to come with me. Right now.”

Logan holds his breath. The worst part of it all is that his day’s just getting started. He has no clue who this guy is or why he’s claiming to need him.

But he’s got the wrong man—Logan doesn’t know him, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything good to offer.

Or so he believed five minutes ago. Life seems to have its own way of surprising him.

Knowing he’ll regret it later, he closes his fingers around the whiskey bottle, chugging the liquor until darkness takes over his senses.

Nighty-night, Logan.

I'm aware that you're not mine, and nor will you ever be.

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from.

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

nor can I control who touches you and who doesn't.

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

You're beyond reach—someone has already marked you.

I’m aware that you’re not mine,

and I guess maybe that’s how life is meant to be.

“Bullshit,” you mutter softly into the quiet of your apartment, where the only sound is the echo of your own voice.

Chewing the end of your pen, your eyes narrow as they skim over the poem you’d written over a month ago.

Since then, you’ve been working on refining the details, but something is missing—that you can feel. The flow is awkward, the choice of words stiff. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together.

You take a long sip from your coffee, tucking both knees up onto the chair you're sitting in. 7:30 a.m., and already, your mind is spinning, diving headfirst into a poem when countless other things are demanding your attention—like, a hundred things, really.

Right now, cracking this piece feels more important than any other task on your list.

Who do you write to? That part is easy—your soulmate. That deceased, probably buried, long-gone soulmate of yours.

It shouldn’t be funny, but there’s an absurdity to it.

Without warning, a memory slips into your thoughts—one girl you used to work with once advising you to change the subject of your writing.

“You should go for some self-love crap. People usually eat that up,” she said, not even bothering to look up from her nails, red polish smeared over the edges.

Her fingers were a mess, coated in that fiery hue, but she didn’t seem to care as she tapped your notebook with her lacquered index finger. “This is repetitive. Keep writing about the same thing, and people will get bored of you.”

“I haven’t published them yet,” you answered, your voice coming out more high-pitched than usual, betraying the doubt you intended to suppress. Her blue eyes flicked up, studying your face as you slid the now red-stained notebook back into your bag, away from her careless, messy fingers. “I thought… I thought we were supposed to write about what we feel passionate about.”

That managed to catch her attention. Passionate. She let out a laugh—sharp and cold, like something straight out of a villain’s script in a children’s movie. It grated against your ears.

“Sweetie, you call that passionate?” She waved her hand dismissively, standing up from the table.

Taller, older, and more secure—just the fact that she gave you her time should’ve made you feel grateful. “Not to be a bitch, but what you showed me is kind of depressing.”

Kind of depressing. From that moment on, you kind of hated her. Small victories, though—the agency fired her a year later. You like to think you kind of won that battle.

Still, she might’ve been right about one thing: your writing does fall into patterns. It’s predictable, to say the least—the rhythm, the themes. Even the metaphors you include can be found in several of your poems.

Are you… lazy? Has someone revealed the way to break out of it? If there is, you figure you're fine without it.

You don’t want to write the kind of articles she’d churn out about the latest trends or the five best positions to get pregnant faster. Nor do you want to pick apart celebrities' lives for a flashy headline.

What you do want is to write about love. Real love. Even if you are not the most qualified person to do it. Even if nobody wants to read the words from someone who has never experienced it in the flesh.

And you’ll get there—how? You’re still figuring that out.

As long as you live and breathe, love will remain in your thoughts, haunting you—especially with your muse being the fleeting dream of a soulmate you never got to meet in the first place.

But it’s time to start your day—the real one. The one where you have to step outside the safety of your four walls and deal with reality.

The to-do list assembles in your mind: groceries, that book you’ve been meaning to pick up, emails you need to answer.

You let your mind take over, guiding you through the motions without a second thought. As you head back to your room, you get rid of the comfortable robe you love so much.

Next, your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the bed. Just as you're about to step out of your pajama pants, you notice them.

The scars.

They’re not the same, not the faded lines etched into your skin that you could see every night behind your eyelids. New marks glow against your flesh, each one a map of something you don’t yet understand, standing out like new brushstrokes on an old canvas.

You can’t help but freeze, your breath faltering for a moment, and you nearly trip over yourself. Kicking your pants to the side, you stare down at your hips, thighs, the hollow of your ribcage.

Tentatively, you press your fingers into the lines, expecting them to fade, to disappear under your touch like some peculiar illusion.

But they don’t. They remain. You can feel the raised edges, the subtle roughness, the heat beneath your touch.

These scars are different from the ones you had before. Under no circumstances are they the faint memories you once carried. No—these are fresh and vibrant. Marks that shouldn’t exist, the stories they’ve witnessed unfamiliar to you.

Within seconds, you’re sobbing, and you blink through the wetness clouding your vision, wiping your tears of disbelief (and maybe hope?) away with the back of your hand.

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

You've never heard of scars returning like this. It goes against everything in the manual on your shelf. Scars vanish when a soulmate dies, but they don’t come back. Not like this. And they certainly don’t change.

Barely able to stand without stumbling, you scramble to your phone. The first person you call is your mom, your fingers shaking as you press the buttons. She screams into the phone, and all you can do is laugh through the tears.

What doesn’t sit right with her is the change in the scars. She mentions something about reaching out to a specialist, insisting that your case is rare—one in a million.

Almost immediately, you think of Wade, knowing he’d want to hear this. God, he’d be ecstatic. Before you even realize it, you’re standing in front of his door, finger hovering over the bell.

That’s when the realization hits you: he’s been gone for nearly three days, off doing whatever it is he does.

Ringing the bell, a smile tugs at your lips. News like these are meant to be shared.

“Althea, it’s me!” you call out, hoping she’ll hear you. You press your forehead against the door, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have something to tell you.”

Logan has had better days. Days that didn’t involve escaping The Void, fighting a hundred Wades, or saving an earth that wasn’t even his to begin with.

You know, normal days—of being sneered at while drinking to forget and, fuck, how many hours has he been sober? It feels like an eternity.

When the adrenaline wears off and the heroism fades, he’s back to being just Logan again. If he had a watch, he’d probably tap the glass and fake impatience to Wade, pretending he’s got somewhere else to be.

He should leave. That’s his first impulse: to escape before it’s too late, but a question arises in his mind: does he truly want to?

Wade watches as Logan rises to his feet, planning to walk away. Pretty stupid, Logan thinks, considering he knows no one else in this universe—apart from the scarred man he’s become friends with against his will.

“Logan!” Wade yells his name, his voice light but firm enough to halt him in his tracks. Logan turns to face him, greeted by Wade’s familiar, infuriating smile.

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

Nothing’s holding him back, so why not accept it? The odds of being the target of hateful glares are lower here, and that’s reason enough for Logan to give a small tilt of his head and return to the bench where Wade remains seated.

“We’re gonna be roommates!” the latter exclaims, a wide grin stretching across his face as they head toward the building. “Can you imagine all the fun we’ll have?”

Logan presses his lips into a thin line. “Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, a small glimmer of sarcasm slipping into his tone, although Wade takes his words at face value.

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

Wade holds the door open for Logan with an exaggerated bow. “Why not? It’s the truth. We can even share my bed if that’s—”

The sound of Logan’s claws succeeds in silencing him. Wade recoils and covers his crotch, no doubt remembering past close calls.

“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. No problem.”

Was moving in with Wade the worst idea he’s had in a while? Absolutely. The reason? Althea, the elderly woman he lives with, isn’t answering the door, and he doesn’t have his keys.

Logan covers his eyes with a hand, silently questioning all of his life choices. And it’s only been ten minutes.

“This doesn’t happen often,” Wade reassures him, rubbing his neck.

“Hard to believe,” Logan mutters, some unknown muscle in his jaw beginning to ache from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You just leave the house without your fucking keys?”

Wade huffs, jutting out a hip in mock offense. “Those TVA guys didn’t exactly send a ‘We’re here to ruin your day’ memo. I was ambushed, okay?” he retorts, keeping a finger glued to the doorbell, its shrill ring gnawing at Logan’s already thin patience. “Al, I swear to God, I’m replacing your blood pressure pills with laxatives if you don’t wake up!”

“How old is she?” Logan asks, searching for anything to keep him from snapping the other man’s neck. Peaceful thoughts.

“Compared to you, she’s basically a newborn,” Wade replies, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s having the time of his life—meanwhile, Logan’s self-control is reaching its limit.

His claws twitch in his knuckles. He’s had enough, and with a jerk of his left hand, they gleam as they slide out, ready to break the damn door.

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, buddy! I’m not letting you turn my door into a strainer.”

“Move,” Logan barks, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone. His stare is flat, unfazed.

“I’d rather not. You can’t just go around breaking people’s doors, man. Not cool,” Wade blurts quickly, placing both hands on Logan’s chest, pushing him away. “How about I ask my neighbor, huh? I gave her a spare set of keys for situations like these.”

“I thought you said this didn’t happen often.”

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

Before Logan can answer back, Wade rushes to the door next to his, slamming his fist on it like a madman, his finger hammering the doorbell simultaneously.

The devil’s orchestra—a symphony straight from hell.

Logan grabs Wade’s wrist before he can knock again, hissing: “Have some manners, will you?”

Wade tries to shake his arm free from Logan’s tight grip. “She’s in there. I know it,” he replies in the same tone, but now he uses his other hand to ring the doorbell with greater feeling.

After a pause, he stamps his foot on the floor, throwing his head back. “Come on! Is this how you treat me after being away? Shame on you, Missy!”

This neighbor must be very patient, Logan thinks, to keep up with a guy like Wade without often seeing red.

As the door finally swings open, his grip on Wade loosens, and his hand falls limply to his side.

“What… the fuck?”

The sound of your voice—soft, slightly groggy from sleep—pulls his attention away from the door incident. His gaze is fixed entirely on you—you look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, which makes sense since it’s still early.

Back in The Void, Wade had rambled on about all his friends, you included. Logan recalls how he had described you: a book editor who lived on her own and loved reading. You were younger—but then again, who wasn’t younger than him?

The picture Wade had shown him, with you standing in the background, hadn’t done you justice. He had found you attractive then, but seeing you in person?

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

Fuck. Why is he even thinking about that? He must’ve been staring at you for quite a while—you glance at him like a startled lamb, clearly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering stare.

“May I know,” you start, tightening your robe, “why you were banging on my door like that? I thought I was getting robbed for a minute.” You direct your question at Wade, avoiding Logan’s presence, which makes something tighten in his chest.

He finds the way you stifle a yawn endearing, though.

Okay, that’s enough, he tells his mind. Let it go.

Wade steps in first, dropping his mask on the nearest surface. “Hello, my dear. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just a few scratches. No, I wasn’t partying—I was kidnapped. Thanks for asking.”

You draw in a long breath, rubbing your eyes to wake up once and for all, and then you proceed to gesture for Logan to enter. Even now, you find it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. “Do you—would you like to come in?”

Not only are you pretty, but also polite. He nods, muttering a gruff: “Yeah, thank you.”

As he walks past you, your shoulders brush briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through him. A tingling sensation on the verge of being electrifying that has him knitting his brows.

His gaze finds yours, searching your expression to see if you felt it too. But you look away, closing the door to go after Wade.

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo.

“I’m always up for company, but why so early?” you ask your friend, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “And are you going to tell me what happened the other day? You left without saying anything.”

Wade hops onto a stool at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. “You know Al. When it comes to sleeping, she’s like a much older version of Sleeping Beauty,” he replies with a grin, snatching the mug you were about to use for your morning coffee. “Thanks, you’re such a doll.”

“That was—mine,” you sigh, hitting him in the thigh, and Wade winces with a fake whine. “I don’t think I’ve missed you that much. Go back to being missing in action,” you say, grabbing another mug and filling it before raising it toward Logan. “Coffee?”

Logan hesitates. You’re treating him like you’ve known him for years, not minutes. “I’m… good.”

“You sure? I made it fresh, just before you guys arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

“I love the chemistry here,” Wade interrupts your conversation, drawing your attention back to him, “but you still got the keys I gave you, right?”

You roll your eyes, blowing on your steamy coffee before answering. “I do, but I want answers first. And I want them now.”

Twenty minutes and a rambling, half-coherent story later, your drink has gone cold, and Logan’s patience is wearing thin… again.

Will he survive sleeping under the same roof as Wade? Stay tuned for more.

“And then I told Paradox ‘He has risen, babygirl’—”

“I think you’re being too specific,” Logan interjects, noting how you’re staring into space with wide eyes. “She seems confused.”

“I am,” you admit, rubbing your temples. He doesn’t blame you: Wade’s a terrible storyteller. You offer him a weak smile as you turn to him. “So… you’re from another universe.”

“Last time I checked.” His back collapses against the couch, groaning softly. He sits beside you, and the way your eyes sweep over him, taking in his disheveled and sweaty appearance, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

Wade says your name, and you look to your right, lifting your brows. “Do you mind if I grab the keys myself? I need a shower. I’ve been marinating in sweat and blood for way too long.”

You grimace, pointing toward your room. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”

With that, he embarks on a quest to find them, leaving Logan alone with you. Silence stretches between you two.

He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything. Casual conversation isn’t his forte.

“You and Wade…?”

Letting out a giggle, you lean back on the couch. “God, no. We’re just friends,” you explain, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, your eyes bore into his, and then you return to burning holes in the floor. “I’m single. Haven’t found my soulmate yet.”

It’s his turn to chuckle now—a dark, humorless sound rumbling in his chest. You chew on a cuticle, Logan’s gesture igniting a sense of curiosity in you.

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

“Do you really believe in that? Soulmates who share scars?” If he were to think carefully, he’d watch his tone. It’s too late, anyway—you straighten your posture, your face contorting with each passing second. “I can tell you do.”

“And I can tell you don’t.”

“Why would I? Those are lies,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

His opinion is anything but objective, totally biased, given that every time he dove into love’s arms, he was met with the crude reality: not everyone’s meant to be loved, himself included.

The look you give him is enough to wipe the smirk off his face.

“Soulmates exist, Logan. We all have one.” There’s a certainty in your tone, marked by the subtle way in which you say his name, that he finds alluring. He shouldn’t, especially when you seem angry above all.

“And where is yours, then?”

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your expression becomes inscrutable. You could be either disappointed, frustrated, or even exasperated—sad, perhaps?

Logan feels as though a weight has settled on his shoulders just from staring into your eyes.

You strike back with silence. Plain, pure, dreadful silence that has him wondering if he’s breathing properly.

At long last, Wade comes back from his expedition, keys dangling from his fingers. “It was quite the treasure hunt, you know? You’ve got a lot of garbage in there.” He sticks his face between Logan’s and yours when you don't answer him. “Guys, is there something wrong? Are you doing a staring contest? If so, can I join?”

“I need to start getting ready for work,” you announce, standing up from the couch. Logan mimics you, and you open the door, your fingers curling around the knob. “You should get going. And Wade,” you pause, acknowledging only him, “I need to talk to you later. In private.”

Without Logan. That’s what you wanted to say but didn’t.

“Sure, my queen. I live to serve,” Wade says in rejoinder, and he kisses your forehead briefly, which forces Logan to avert his gaze the whole time his lips are on you, feeling uncomfortable watching. “Take care, alright?”

You give Wade a small nod, waiting until he’s outside your apartment to glance at Logan.

“Goodbye,” you croak, and he knows he should say something, that he—

The door almost closes on his nose.

Had he been an asshole? He was merely expressing his thoughts. The idea of soulmates didn’t sit well with him.

Once settled into Wade’s apartment, Logan steps into the shower, water rinsing off his body. Yet he finds himself unable to stop thinking about you.

The disappointment in your eyes when he asked about your soulmate.

The coldness in your tone at the end, so different from the warmth you initially offered.

He feels drawn to you, as if some sort of invisible string is tying the two of you. Were it possible, he would use his own claws to cut it, but he can’t discern where it begins or ends. Instead, he prefers to blame his touch-starved state for this reaction.

He’s already hating this earth. So much for a man whose skin refuses to scar.

And where is yours, then?

His words shouldn’t have stung the way they did. All the charm—the gruff exterior, the mysterious personality—had vanished.

The guy from another universe, with the claws, the healing abilities, and the raspy voice, is a moron.

A ridiculously good-looking moron? Yes, but a moron nonetheless.

There is something about him you can’t quite place. A chill creeps down your spine as you replay the instant your eyes first locked. Your body had reacted in ways it never had before, drawn to him like metal to a magnet.

Why? You’d seen handsome men before, even been with some. Yet, you’ve never felt this—this gravitational pull, this inexplicable pull to invade someone’s personal space.

How would your soulmate feel if he saw you like this, lusting after another man?

You shudder at the thought. This isn’t like you. You pride yourself on loyalty—perhaps a little too much. You don’t read two books at the same time, and you’ve been buying the same brand of shampoo for the past five years.

So why now? Why him? It feels like a betrayal of your own mind, your conscience turned against you.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

That afternoon, as you take a nap on the couch, he invades your dreams. It’s not even a wet dream, but he’s there, staking a claim on a part of you he has no right to.

You wake up with your hand clutching your chest, a frustrated punch landing on the nearest cushion.

The next day, you drop by Wade’s place for a quick visit, your eyes darting around the room every few seconds, half-expecting Logan to appear out of nowhere.

“I told you, he’s sleeping. That guy’s got a fucked up sleep schedule,” Wade says, urging you to take a seat beside him at the table. “Why don’t you wanna see him?”

Because he’s messing with your sanity. Your brain cells are practically disintegrating at the mere thought of breathing the same air as him.

“I just—I need to tell you something.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? Wade, no! You’ve been gone for three days—pregnancies take months.”

“I’d make an amazing uncle, though.” He grabs your hand between his, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babies are so adorable at that—”

“My scars are back,” you cut him off, putting an end to his nonsense. Pulling the neck of your sweater to the side, you show him the thin lines etched into your collarbone. “But they are different this time.”

“Different? You mean they changed?” His disbelief is clear as he reaches for your arm, frowning while he inspects more of your scars. Wade’s jaw slackens, color draining out of his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Fuck?”

“Yeah, fuck!” His strong arms envelop you, and you lean into the embrace, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Is this good news? Are we happy? Does this mean I have a shot at becoming an uncle after all?”

You laugh a little at his eagerness, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I am happy. I just—I don’t know what these changes mean yet.”

Althea steps out of the bathroom, her cane tapping the floor in rhythmic beats. “I already told you what they mean.”

Wade pulls away from you, glaring at her. “You meddler! Haven’t we talked about not eavesdropping? Hasn’t life taught you anything after all these decades?”

“Upside of being blind: I’ve never seen this motherfucker in Crocs,” she says, pointing her cane at you, though you know her aim is Wade. “Downside of being blind: I hear everything in this apartment. And you, kid, have a new soulmate.”

“I know what we talked about the other day, but... it doesn’t make sense, Al. You only get one soulmate,” you protest, feeling the tension grow as you pace around the table. “Why can’t it just be simple? My friends are getting engaged, years are flying by, and I’m still out here chasing this… this idiot who no one can even find!”

That’s when Logan appears, emerging from his room, holding several empty beer cans. He rolls his eyes and walks straight into the kitchen. “Great. Who else is coming tonight?”

Wade smirks, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he looks at you. “Sweetie, Logan’s going through his second puberty at the ripe old age of two hundred. The pediatrician said it’s just hormones, nothing to worry about. Excuse his shitty attitude.”

With a low groan, Logan shrugs off Wade’s hand, scowling. If anything, the younger man’s grin just grows bigger. “Wolvie, I gotta admit that whole ‘Don’t fall in love with me or I’ll break your heart’ personality shouldn’t turn me on, but here we are.”

You decide to take that as your cue to leave. You grab your bag, muttering a quick goodbye to Althea as you head for the door.

But Logan calls after you. “Can we talk?”

You freeze, your back to him. “How much did you hear?” you ask, not daring—not being able—to meet his gaze.

“All of it,” he admits after a beat, and you curse under your breath. “But it doesn’t—Hey!” He follows you into the hallway. “I’m talking to you!”

“No, you’re not.” You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking as you try to unlock your door. “Leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” he mumbles behind you, his voice softer now. “Come on. Don’t be so harsh.”

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, finally finding the right key and jiggling it into the lock. The door swings open, and you step into the safety of your apartment. But when you try to close it, Logan’s foot wedges into the gap, blocking it. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, me neither. But I owe you an apology.”

You wonder if he realizes the hold he has on you. No matter how hard you try to mask it, the unbearable pounding of your heart betrays you.

Scanning his features, you trace the rugged contours of his face with your eyes, lingering on the lines on his forehead—the aftermath of what it looks like a life lived through bitterness and pain.

“Can I come in?” he insists, his tone on the verge of sounding pleading.

You hesitate. The sensible part of you screams to send him away. Thinking that avoiding him would be as easy as stealing candy from a baby is a long-forgotten idea now: you’d been naïve to even consider it possible.

He’s going to find a way to sneak into your space, your home—and you’ll let him in. You’ll grant him a chance to cross a boundary that should’ve been already drawn.

It feels like you’re fifteen again, infatuated with the guy you know you shouldn’t get close to. Paul from high school wasn’t your soulmate back then—Logan isn’t now.

The smart thing would be to take a step back, accept his apology, and ask him to leave. That’s how you preserve what little remains of your sanity and protect your heart, which is already hanging by a thread.

But God, it feels so good to be near him.

You step aside. He walks in. Something tells you this won’t be the last time.

“I’m waiting.” You stay near the counter, pressing your back against it, and keeping your distance. Logan sits awkwardly on the edge of your couch, unsure of where to begin.

“Look, about what I said yesterday…I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, earnest. “I didn’t know you believed in soulmates.”

“It’s not a matter of believing in them or not, Logan. My soulmate is out there—yours too.”

Your words coax a grin from him, and he shakes his head. “I guess we’ll never see eye to eye on that.” In a fluid motion, he crosses the room, and you find his unexpected proximity a bit exasperating. “Do you forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Give me a break, darlin’. I’m trying my best.”

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

It’s not that you’re easy—it’s Logan’s persuasive allure that gets to you.

“What else can I do to win your forgiveness?” he wonders aloud, his syrupy voice making you tighten your grip on the counter.

An idea sparks in your mind. You move toward the pile of books next to the TV, eyeing the titles, until one catches your attention: your copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, one of the first novels you’d read when you were younger.

It’s adorned with colorful post-its, and the pages, sort of rough to the touch, are marked with handwritten notes in the margins.

“How do you feel about reading?”

“Not my strongest suit,” he answers, arching a brow as he takes in your enthusiasm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“You want me to believe you’re sorry for what you said? Then read this,” you say, wiggling the book in front of him, “and we can start over.”

“What is it about? Let me guess: love and soulmates. Did I get it right?” he asks, playfulness lacing his tone. His breath hitches as you press the book against his chest, silently urging him to take it. His pinky grazes your hand, feeling your skin and sending a jolt through you.

Logan watches you with half-lidded eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower to tear yourself away from him and his maddening touch.

You clear your throat. “Open it to page one hundred fifty-three.”

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

“And read what’s underlined in black,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. “Please.”

Logan must mutter something along the lines of ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ before searching for it. It’s only then that he begins to recite the passage:

He is not to them what he is to me. He is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is – I feel akin to him – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

Logan looks up from the book, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s about to speak. You interject before he can find the words.

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

He surrenders, sighing in defeat. “You’re killing me here, y’know?”

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

Right there, Logan offers you a mock laugh. “Haha. That’s so funny.”

“It is for me,” you talk back, unable to hide your smile from him, and soon he mirrors your expression.

As Logan steps toward the door, he hesitates and glances back. “We’re all good then?”

Leaning against the doorframe, you raise your chin defiantly. “We’ll be when you finish the book.”

What he says next has your stomach turning into knots. “You’re trouble.” His tone shifts—no longer teasing, but grounded in truth. Gone are the jokes; he seems to mean every word.

For the rest of the night, one line from the book doesn’t stop echoing in your mind—the line about soulmates: I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.

You’re trouble for him, and he’s trouble for you. You hope he knows it too.

He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished.

That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day.

Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable.

Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place.

The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun.

Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment.

He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind.

Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself.

Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out?

Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes?

The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.

Instead, he listens.

Some nights, you play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen.

He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll.

None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.

One way or another, there must be a way to get you out of his system. He knows, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t want him. He’s not your soulmate, and it’s clear that finding that person has become the center of your existence.

Logan can’t allow himself to be the moron who derails your purpose.

Sure, he’s done bad things, but he likes to believe that at least a part of him—some small fraction—hasn’t been lost yet. That there’s a piece of him that can be saved, which is the reason why he stayed here: to be a better man than the one he was in his universe.

But it’s hard. Harder still because it’s you who disrupts his quest for redemption. How is he supposed to go on with his life when every thought circles back to you? The idea of holding you, kissing you—sleeping beside you haunts him.

And so the images blur, new dreams twisting with his usual nightmares.

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

One afternoon, while deliberately steering clear of Jane Eyre, he reluctantly turns to Wade in search of answers. “Tell me more about her.”

Wade, lounging on the couch, stops scrolling on his phone and drops it onto his chest, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Her? Who do you mean?” His tone oozes with feigned innocence, barely containing a shit-eating grin when Logan grits out your name, his tone rough, almost pained. “Oh, Romeo. You’ve got it bad.”

Intending to maintain some semblance of control, Logan strides into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the last bottle of whiskey. As he tips it, only a few drops fall into the glass.

“No, I don’t,” he says, extending his arm and holding the bottle up. “We’re out of whiskey.”

“You keep saying we, but you’re the only alcoholic in this apartment.” Wade kicks off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, why the sudden interest in the lady? She getting through that tough exterior of yours? I’ll give her points for that.”

“And you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”

“I saw the book,” the younger man replies, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching as Logan rummages through the fridge with increasing frustration. “You never told me you were into classics. If I’d known, I’d have gotten you a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who came to me, looking for the essential oil of truth?”

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, mood-killing.

“See what I just did there?” he adds, and Logan feels forced to shake his head from side to side, appearing conflicted. Wade lets out a low huff. “That was Virginia Woolf. Add her to your reading list.”

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“More times than I can count. I’m just not everyone’s cup of coffee.”

“Tea, Wade. Not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Whatever.” Wade simpers, as though Logan’s correction is the punchline to a joke only he gets. He sets his palms flat on the table, looming closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what would you like to know about my dear friend?”

Logan hesitates, the weight of his question heavy on his tongue. “What’s the deal with her scars?”

The air shifts. Wade’s playful expression fades and he tilts his head, his tone turning serious. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell,” he begins, gaze dropping to the floor. “But she lost them years ago. She was living a normal life, and one day, they were just—gone, like they were never there. It broke her. We didn’t know each other back then, but you’ve seen her.”

Wade’s eyes flick back up, while Logan stands there, tongue-tied. “You even know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates being destined. Imagine how she must’ve felt when she found out her presumed soulmate was dead… without a single warning.”

From what he had heard, that sense of loss was impossible to put into words. Those who’d gone through it described the experience as if half of you—your body, your soul, your very essence—was being ripped away.

The pain was excruciating, and the only way to survive it was by means of tolerating it—no remedy, just the endurance to outlast the agony.

It wasn’t just a momentary hurt. It was the kind of torment that lingered, making you question who you were and what little remained of you.

You and Logan had more in common than he’s willing to admit.

“She’s a good person,” he mutters absent-mindedly, his thumb grazing the cover of the book. He had carried it everywhere for a week now, without even cracking it open.

“Oh, you dirty pig…” Wade whispers, his eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his mind. “Now I get it. You wanna know her. Like, really know her!”

“I don’t—”

“Your sex life is none of my business. I’m all up for you putting your mutant dick to work, otherwise it’s just wasted potential. But it’s my friend we’re talking about.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, and he snaps. “Drop the speech, alright? I’m not trying to get into her pants. I just want to be nice. That’s all.”

“Nice, huh? What’s your version of nice? Starting a two-person book club?” Wade stifles a laugh, pressing a finger to Logan’s chest. “Look, if you want to sleep with her, and the feeling’s mutual, then go for it. Just tell me this—how long’s it been since you visited Pussy Village? Was it before or after the Big Bang?”

Things are never truly serious with Wade Wilson. “I’m not answering that.”

Wade raises both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. But if you’re really interested, just be clear about it. She doesn’t need a half-assed situationship.”

By now, it’s like a mantra he repeats again and again, hoping that eventually both Wade and he will start to believe it. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

As he heads back to his (now Wade’s old) room, Wade adds, “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you underlined some quotes you like.”

Much to his dismay, that’s exactly what Logan does.

His handwriting isn’t the most legible, but he tries his best, leaving notes in the margins of some pages, such as:

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

He finishes the book at 7 a.m. A long-ass book—just for you. While getting ready for work, Wade calls him an unemployed fucker, and Logan knows nothing better than to shoot back a similar insult, stretching his arms as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains.

Wade was right about something, even if Logan himself doesn’t wish to admit it: he’s behaving like a teenager—staying up until dawn, practically chained to the bed without daring to go out. Falling for a girl he didn’t know a week ago.

Learning to control his impulses has been a hard task, especially with his temperament. Over the years, Logan thought he’d mastered the art of self-restraint, long past the point where his body moved without his mind’s permission.

As his feet carry him down the hall toward your apartment, he recognizes how wrong he is.

This is a terrible idea, he thinks. And yet, his fist knocks on the wood. Three times.

Fuck.

The door opens just a crack. You peek out, your face barely visible, eyes puffy from sleep. “Logan?”

His name isn’t a fancy one. It’s pretty normal, pretty standard. There must be a thousand other guys named like him—yet it’s only when you say it, your voice turning it into something rare and unique, that it feels different, like it’s only his.

The tone you use with him isn’t the one he’s used to: Logan, you’re a disappointment. Logan, how dare you turn your back on your friends? Logan, they’re all dead. Logan, it’s your fault.

Yours is inviting, and warm, and new. He likes new.

“I just finished it,” he answers, holding up the book, mindful not to grip it too tight as not to crumple the pages.

You scratch the back of your head, blinking at him. “You just finished it… at 7 a.m.?

Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you say it out loud, but it’s true. Hoping his reaction is enough to explain what he can’t put into words, he gives you a slow nod.

This time, you don’t wait for him to say more. “Come in?”

Yes, this is what he’s been looking forward all week. This moment, this interaction.

This Come in. This Yes, thank you. You’re so kind.

His quiet acceptance of your invitation, the unpronounced thought of I don’t deserve this, but I can’t back off now, because how could I ever say no to you?

He follows you into the kitchen as you move to make tea. “Want some?” you ask, but he declines the offer. If he were to drink anything right now, it would be something much stronger, not tea, despite the early hour. “You’re here to talk about the book?”

“Well, you told me I could come back after reading it.”

“I did,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hide it behind your mug. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so punctual.”

You don’t need to know that he’s been counting down the seconds, marking each minute in his mind since the last time he saw you. That’s a detail he’ll keep to himself. “It’s a good story.”

“Tell me about it.” You smile even wider, and he takes a moment to absorb the details of your face—the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches when you’re amused. “I lent you my most precious book. Fell in love with it years ago.”

“I can see why you liked it,” he explains, flipping through the pages to find the one he marked. “All the romance and the yearning—”

“Hey, it’s also good for other reasons,” you try to defend yourself, but any other argument dies on your lips when he finds the passage he was looking for and begins to read aloud.

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now,” he recites, his voice lower, almost reverent, as he looks up from the page to meet your gaze. “It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.”

You seem startled by the sharp sound of him closing the book. He’s sort of breathless, and from where he stands, he can tell you are too. “That’s one of my favorite passages.”

“I can’t blame you for believing in soulmates if this is the kind of thing you read growing up,” he teases, handing the book back to you.

Though a part of him almost wishes he didn’t have to—so that it would still be a reason, a tether, pulling him back to you again and again.

Grinning, you take it, your eyes remaining trained on his. “I happen to notice it hasn’t changed your perspective on soulmates.”

“It’ll take more than a book.”

“This is, in my opinion, one of the best love stories ever written. How else will I convince you?”

“Why do you feel like you need to convince me?” He takes a step forward—you take a step back. “Why can’t it be the other way around? I might end up being the one who convinces you.”

“You could never,” you respond, clasping your hands behind your back. “It would be like convincing me the sky is green instead of blue.”

Logan retreats slightly. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of waiting. Of always being on the lookout.”

You don’t react badly to his question. You’re not even shaken, not fazed in the slightest. “When I meet him, I’ll know all the waiting was worth it.”

“And in the meantime?” Logan inquires, pressing himself further into your intimacy, edging closer as if testing the boundaries you’re willing to cross. His words are a subtle request for more, for answers. “What will you do until you find him?”

If you ever do, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid, lingering in his thoughts. He’s getting better at not saying the things that sit heavy in his chest without thinking.

“I think you misunderstand, Logan.” You study him through your lashes, and he feels he’s become the keeper of your most sacred secrets. “It’s not about waiting as if my life’s on pause. I’ve been with other people. But in the end, I want to choose him.”

That casual admission strikes him like a wave of cold water. A flicker of jealousy burns at the edges of his composure, though he tries to smother it.

I’ve been with other people, you say, your tone so nonchalant, and yet the mental images that flood his mind are anything but comfortable.

He imagines someone else standing in your kitchen. Perhaps in five minutes, there will be another man knocking on your door, here to discuss a book, and it won’t be him.

Perhaps this isn’t rare for you—all this come in, grab something to drink, let’s talk when you’re done reading.

Perhaps he’s not as important as you make him feel.

His thoughts spiral until your voice pulls him back from the brink.

“Don’t you understand how beautiful it is?” There’s a dazzling glint in your expression, a light in your eyes that makes him ache. “Outside of these four walls, there’s a person who’s waiting to meet me, in the same way I expect to meet him. I can’t grant myself the choice not to believe in something like this.”

Far from easing the martyr in his mind, this conversation only deepens his internal struggle. The questions overlap each other: what happens if you never find him? Would you ever consider settling for somebody else?

He rephrases that last one—would you ever consider being with him?

“He’s a lucky guy,” Logan murmurs, and just like that, he feels himself slipping deeper, falling into the rabbit hole with you guiding him through the madness.

For a moment, he can pretend—pretend that matching scars and bonds that defy the rules of his principles make sense.

Maybe, just for you, he’ll allow himself to believe it.

Your eyes soften with sudden emotion, glistening with the beginnings of tears. He feels the primal urge to reach out, to cup your cheek, to be there when the first tear falls. “You think so?” you ask, your voice fragile.

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now.

“Of course I do,” he replies, his tone quiet but laden with a strange, undeniable truth.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.

Whatever this is between you—it’s messed up. He’s messed up. And you… you’re just as tangled in this chaos for indulging it, for looking at him in that way that calls out to him.

The more time he spends with you, the less he feels like himself. Everything he’s done lately—reading that damn book, standing in your apartment at 7 a.m.—none of it feels like something he’d do.

It’s not just his mind you’re messing with: it’s his very sense of self.

Logan’s smart mouth had always been a liability, getting him into trouble either by saying too much or by choosing the wrong words. Bad things had always followed in the wake of his tongue.

Somehow, when it comes to you, he’s the most careful he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to upset you, nor does he want to be the cause of any sorrow that might affect your heart.

When the two of you stand at the threshold once more, just as you have other times before, you softly say: “I feel like I’m experiencing a déjà vu.”

He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Care to explain why?”

“You come, we talk, you leave.” You lean against the wall, your hand ghosting over the handle. “But you never stay that long.”

There’s no mistaking the layered meaning in your words. You, who work with language and its peculiarities for a living, never speak by chance—every phrase, every pause, carries an assigned weight. The double meaning in your statement doesn’t escape either of you.

You’re a natural at this madness, diving headfirst into it. You must be losing it, too, because your actions don’t match what you said before.

Slowly, his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the perfect excuse to feel your skin, to close the distance without saying what he actually wants.

They say food and shelter are the basic human needs, but Logan chooses to believe they forgot to include the longing to reach out and just feel you.

“I can’t stay,” he finally responds to your earlier comment, his hand still lingering against your skin.

His strength—the only thing saving him from completely giving in—helps him pull himself away.

Before the impulse to kiss you becomes too overwhelming to resist, Logan leaves.

Some time later, you’re making lunch, music playing softly in the background at the same time the city’s distinct noise finds a way to break through your tranquility.

You rely greatly on the knowledge that you’re good at multitasking—now more than ever, with a book in one hand and the other stirring the pasta on the stove.

The warmth from the pot rises around you, but you trust yourself not to be careless. Not to be stupid enough to burn yourself with the boiling water.

This time, you miscalculate. Not only do you dip the wooden spoon into the pot, but your fingertips too.

Though it only lasts a second, and the voice in your head instantly screams Hot! Hot! Hot!, the shock makes you drop the book to the floor. You yank your hand back, racing to the sink to run it under cold water.

“Fuck,” you grumble, watching the skin redden in protest. “Lesson learned: no more multitasking.”

The funny thing is, just a door away, Logan’s watching a movie with Wade when he feels a sting in the tips of his fingers.

It’s barely there, practically faint, but he looks down, inspecting his hand like it doesn’t belong to his own body. His skin briefly flushes with irritation before returning to its normal state.

Wade notices his distraction. “Hey, you okay?”

Logan pays no mind to it. “Sure. Just felt something strange.”

Is it still called avoiding if you’re both doing it? You’d like to think so.

For the sake of clarity, let’s say you’ve been actively avoiding Logan, but truth be told—he’s been avoiding you too. That last encounter in your apartment didn’t help matters at all.

If anything, it made everything worse.

You’ve been down this road before, knowing men like him too well: they’re everywhere, until they’re not.

One day, they vanish without a trace, leaving you staring at the empty space they used to occupy, asking yourself ‘What happened to my Prince Charming in disguise?’

They disappear as though they never existed, and not even the best detective can track them down.

So far, your avoidance strategy has worked wonders. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s a distraction—an undeniably attractive one, the kind anyone would want to trip over.

Yet you miss him, which is dumb: why are you missing someone you were never supposed to care about in the first place?

You return home after a long trip to the grocery store, arms laden with bags. It’s the kind of errand that exhausts you, though you keep telling yourself it’s better than thinking about him.

As you struggle to get through the building's exit, you resign yourself to the fact that it’ll take several trips to bring everything up to your apartment.

Then the elevator doors slide open, and you drop everything to the floor.

You should’ve known better than to assume victory so soon. After days of successfully avoiding him, there he is.

And of course, it’s when you look your worst—tired from running around, weighed down by groceries, barely holding it together.

“Hey,” he greets you, standing just outside the elevator, like he’s not sure if he should step inside or stay where he is. He’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt, layered over a white vest, a leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, and a pair of jeans that seem made for him.

He looks... ridiculously good.

“Hi,” you manage to answer after a beat, scrambling to collect the bags you’d dropped. “Just—give me a second.”

“Let me help you,” Logan says, ducking down to gather the groceries, but you pull them away.

“I’ve got it. Are you going out? On a date, maybe?” You nod toward his clothes, trying to keep things light, teasing even.

Glancing down at himself, a crease appears between his brows, and in one swoop, he gathers all the bags with a single hand. “I’m supposed to meet Wade at a bar, but he’ll survive without me.”

“Logan, you don’t—”

But he’s already moving, one hand tugging you out of the elevator, the other gesturing toward your apartment.

“Not up for debate,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for permission, he holds out his hand. “Keys.”

Sighing, you dig into your pocket and drop them into his open palm. He unlocks the door with practiced ease, stepping inside and placing the bags on your kitchen counter.

As he starts to unpack them, you stop him. “You really don’t need to do that.”

That seems to catch his attention. He pauses, turning toward you with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter.

His unrelenting stare sizes you up, and he cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He thinks he’s so discreet, so smooth. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you explain, fiddling with the frayed edge of your sweater, tugging at it like it might unravel your nerves.

You hear him click his tongue. “Been busy too.” His words hang in the air, thickening the atmosphere. Your body tenses, and you stare at his shoes, until— “Sweetheart,” he calls you softly, and your eyes snap shut for a moment, your chin almost pressing against your chest. “My eyes are up here.”

A quick flutter of your lashes brings you back to him, and your chest tightens with the effort it takes to look into his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, praying he’ll let this go.

You watch as his mouth twitches with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “You already want me to leave?”

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

He huffs out a laugh, inhaling a shallow breath like you’ve missed something obvious. “Wade can wait. He’ll be fine.” His expression shifts, and the playful tone in his voice falls away, replaced by something more raw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You can’t help but snort. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t been doing the same.” You walk over to the couch, feeling your legs wobble beneath you. You collapse into one corner, hoping the distance will help you breathe.

Like a shadow, Logan follows after you, sitting far too close. His legs splay wide, so wide they’re almost grazing yours.

“At least I have a reason for it. What about you?” His hand reaches out, fingers closing around yours in a grip that’s both firm and gentle, enhancing your anxiety. Your throat tightens, the room shrinking around you. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “I need you to tell me you feel it too.”

Panic flares in your chest, and you scramble for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but your voice cracks, the uncertainty leaking through the cracks in your bravado.

He doesn’t buy your acting. “You do. We can’t keep playing dumb. You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind one of these days.”

It’s not just his words—it’s the way he stands so close, heat radiating from his body, the roughness of his hand gripping yours like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.

The intensity of it all weighs on you in ways you can’t even begin to describe, leaving you breathless, caught between denial and desire.

“Logan, this isn’t—”

“What? Okay?” There’s a glimpse of mirthlessness in his tone as he speaks, his forehead furrowing. “I can’t stay away from you, don’t you see it? It feels too good to be wrong,” he utters, inching forward. You know you should take a step back, tell him to stop. Nothing good can come from this. “It takes two to feel these things. It can’t be just me.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to give in.” Blood pounds in your ears, your pulse racing as your heart hammers unpleasantly. Little shivers of ice run through your spine, and yet, your stomach burns with desire.

More than ever, you feel yourself slipping, your sanity at risk.

Logan runs his eyes up and down your face, agitated, almost going cross-eyed. “Earlier you asked if I was going on a date. Would you like that? Me being with other people? Kissing another woman?” His hot breath caresses your cheek, and you avert your gaze momentarily. “Answer me.”

Don’t do it. For the love of God, don’t. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“Come on, baby.”

“I don’t want you to be with other people,” you mumble, your lips almost grazing his, and that’s all he needs to grip your chin and pull you into a kiss.

His mouth moves hungrily over yours, pushing you back until the armrest digs into your lower back. A choked whimper gets lost in your throat, and you bring him closer by grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, your chest pressing against his.

Logan bites down on your lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and the moan you let out reverberates in the apartment.

“This is what you were hiding from me?” he rasps, his forehead bumping against yours. “These sweet sounds you make?”

You end up perched in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He’s hard beneath you, and as you shift, your center makes contact with his erection through the layers of fabric.

Both of you sigh into each other’s mouths, your hips moving on their own accord, rocking slightly against his clothed cock. He hooks one of his arms around your waist, guiding your movements.

Everything seems to fall into place. Outside your window, birds chirp. The world feels lighter, like a better place. The beast inside you quiets, and for once, your mind is blissfully blank.

Logic? Error 404—not found.

You tug at his hair, and Logan growls, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.” He jerks under your touch, bucking up into you. Encouraged, you pull his hair again, fingers wrapping around a strand at the nape of his neck, and you’re rewarded with a deep groan.

He’s dizzy for it, but you’re no better, not when he trails his kisses down your neck, his mouth latching onto your skin, tasting the sweat and salt.

“I can’t control myself around you,” he murmurs, groping your tits, and you wail, the ache between your legs becoming intolerable. His hands slip under your sweater, caressing the scars on your back.

That’s when recognition settles over you.

What are you doing? And why are you doing it?

He ceases sucking your flesh when you go rigid on top of him. Pecking your lips once again, Logan’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t understand how he does it, how he can remain so calm. Doesn’t he realize the gravity of this? “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me something you already know the answer to.”

His arms drop to his sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off him, away from the couch, putting as much distance between you as you can.

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you shake your head. “God, I’m stupid. This is stupid.”

Your reaction seems to get on his nerves, his frustration somehow increasing. Logan stands, towering over you. “Was it stupid when you were dry humping me?”

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“I’m not the bad guy here. You kissed me back.” He doesn’t let up, trailing behind you as you try to escape. “You want me as much as I want you.”

“Will you stop saying that?” you bark, throwing your arms in the air. Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Yeah, we like each other. So? Does that make it right? How can you just ignore how wrong this is?”

His expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “Forget your idea of what's good and bad. You're just upset you can't control what you feel.”

“He’s closer than ever.”

Logan gawks at you, his voice bitter as he goes on with his rambling. “That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.”

“You wish you were him, don’t you?” You jab your finger into his chest, feeling his heartbeat, a flutter you choose to ignore. “You want to be my soulmate.”

“Damn right I do,” he practically spits his words, narrowing his eyes at you. “But I’m not him.”

“No. You’re not.”

Everything seems to fall out of place. Outside your window, birds don’t chirp—they scream for mercy. The world doesn’t feel lighter, but heavier. The beast inside you roars back to life, restless and louder than ever, while your mind spins in chaos.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” Your voice pierces through the thick silence in the room, and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies, his jaw clenched tight, irritation radiating off him in waves.

“It’s what we both need.”

“Speak for yourself. I don’t have a soulmate.” His tone is biting, but you don’t miss the undercurrent of longing in his words. “But if in any other universe I do, I hope it’s you.”

Your hand turns the knob, and then he’s halfway out the door, sparing you one last glance before he turns his back to you.

No more visits. No more books. No more bruising kisses that leave you questioning your mere existence.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

It didn’t go well in the end.

You remember your first heartbreak—seventeen, fresh out of high school. One of your hands clutched a million dreams, and the other, a pillow soaked with your tears.

Your mother remained by your side, caressing your back, attempting to soothe the sobs that racked your body. She murmured that it’d pass, that you wouldn’t feel like this forever. You believed her then, and trusted that things would eventually be okay.

Almost ten years later, another heartbreak shouldn’t come as a surprise. By now, you thought you would’ve developed the tools to survive it. You should be able to piece yourself back together by instinct.

But life, as it turns out, has a peculiar way of catching you off guard.

Whether it’s pent-up horniness, touch-starvation, or genuine affection—it doesn't change the fact that your pseudo-relationship with Logan fell apart.

Though you’re not the one who’s suffering the most. Neither is Logan.

Wade, the third party in this tangled mess, has somehow taken it the hardest.

“I feel like a child of divorce,” he says, his head resting on your lap, eyes distant as they fixate on the peeling wallpaper. “You need to do something about that.”

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

He’s supposed to be the one supporting you, but it feels like the roles are reversed—you’re comforting him, letting him vent.

“My two favorite people now can’t even be in the same room. What are we gonna do for Christmas? New Year's Eve?” Straightening up, he grabs the nearest cushion and buries his face into it to muffle a defeated scream. “Damn it, Cupid! You had one job!”

All in all, Wade’s emotionally unavailable at the moment, grieving your separation from Logan as if it were his own loss, too caught up in his melodrama to be of any real help.

Meanwhile, you fill your days with work, books, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You go to bed too late, you wake up too early. Sleep too little, cry too much.

One thing stays constant—you and Logan don’t talk. Stolen glances in the hallway, awkward elevator rides—those are the only remnants of whatever you once were. Back to being strangers again.

Well, not really. Strangers don’t know the route to your mouth the way he does.

The ache lingers every day. Missing him when you’re awake is a common occurrence. At night, as you toss and turn beneath the sheets, he stars in your dreams. You can’t recall the last time he wasn’t lodged in your thoughts.

Where there used to be ideas, creativity, and plots worth scribbling down, there’s now only Logan—a man destined to problematize your stay on earth.

That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.

And yet, despite all of it, you continue to prioritize someone else. Someone who isn’t even here. Clung to the idea of a soulmate, you chose him over Logan.

What did he expect? For you to abandon your principles, your belief in destiny? It’s who you are. Nearly thirty years of life guided by one belief can’t just be discarded like trash.

You liked to separate things into categories: good and bad, right and wrong. A simple method to structure everything, to make sense of your world, and it has worked most of the time.

But now? The limits of those sacred categories look blurred. Your judgment feels unreliable, and you wonder if the choices you’ve made lately have been the correct ones.

Each of your decisions seems to be leading you further down a path you can’t recognize.

What’s the goal? Finding your soulmate, the voice in your head mockingly answers for the hundredth time, rolling its imaginary eyes. And where is he?

You’ve shut Logan out, a man who’s made it clear he has feelings for you, for this elusive person. Isn’t it time he steps into the light at long last?

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

You don’t want to be the lone woman who sits by herself in a cafe, drawing pity from waitresses who discuss her solitude. By no means do you wish to be that friend who dispenses wise dating advice, but goes home to an empty bed. You refuse to become the godmother whose hand no one holds when her time comes.

No, this can’t be all fate has to offer to you. There must be more. If your life were a book, you’d be flipping through the pages to the last chapter, desperate to see how it ends.

Or, better yet, you’d grab a pen and rewrite it yourself. What kind of ending you’ll have—you’re not so sure about that.

It’s Sunday, one of those endless weekends where the only way to survive is by rearranging your entire apartment. You could manage it alone, but help would be nice—Wade’s help, to be more precise, would be perfect for this kind of task, and you find yourself knocking on his door.

No answer. Deciding to dial his number to see if he’s fallen asleep, you try calling him, waiting through the rings until he finally picks up. “Hey.”

Except it’s not Wade’s voice that answers. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

The door swings open, and Logan appears right behind it, holding Wade’s phone to his ear.

He narrows his eyes, leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “How sad. You don’t remember what I sound like.”

You feel foolish for still being on the call, so you lock your phone, ending it. “Where’s Wade?” you ask, frowning as you hold your breath, your voice sharper than intended.

“Out and about. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” Logan replies, glaring at you as he raises the phone to your face. “He left without this.”

Abort mission! Nodding in agreement, you begin to step back. “Great, I’ll look for him later.”

You’re close to being locked up once again in the safety of your apartment when you hear him: “You need anything?”

It’s the most he’s said to you in weeks. You hesitate, keeping your back turned. “I’m moving some heavy stuff around. Thought I could use the help.”

“I could do it.”

No. Not really. He’s doing that thing again—offering help when you know you shouldn’t accept it. You shake your head.

“It’s not necessary,” you say, forcing a casual tone.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he retorts, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as they draw closer. With each passing second, your options shrink, leaving you no room for retreat. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”

“I’m not worked up,” you hiss, and he sidesteps you easily, his arm nudging yours.

The electricity is still there, undeniable, but neither of you has the courage to acknowledge it, acting as though it’s an ordinary occurrence.

His eyes roam the room, like he’s forgotten what your apartment looked like. He pauses by the bookshelf, his fingers gliding over the spine of Jane Eyre, and a low whistle escapes him as he slips it back into place.

You, frozen at the threshold, feel your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and the urge to hide in your bedroom only becomes stronger.

After this, you’ll have to burn your favorite book. What a pity.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the loops of his jeans, his posture both confident and annoyingly relaxed.

There’s a challenge in his tone, and he acts as if you’re the one who pulled him into this situation—like he didn’t worm his way in here.

You gesture toward the couch. “Can you put it by the window?”

He sets to work, moving the smaller pieces of furniture aside to make space for the couch. Under no circumstances are you going to just stand there and watch him sweat.

Instead, you busy yourself with the long-forgotten glasses and cups gathering dust in one of the kitchen cabinets, each one glinting with past disappointments.

Wetting a towel, you start by wiping the rims. The air feels heavily charged with uneasiness, but you're relieved that for once, you can breathe without feeling like you’re on the brink of a heart attack.

You can already imagine Wade’s face when you tell him—

“So,” Logan’s voice cuts through the silence, startling you, “how’s the search going? Got any luck?”

His words have the desired effect on you, and the glass slips from your grasp, shattering against the floor in a crash that mirrors the jump of your heart. You curse under your breath, stepping back from the mess, taking in the shards sprawled around your shoes.

“Be careful,” he says from the other side of the room, still dragging the furniture into place, and you scrutinize him over your shoulder, your brows knitted.

“I don’t need your advice,” you murmur through gritted teeth as you crouch to pick up the larger shards. His attention returns to the couch, but you guess he’s not technically thinking how nice of a person you are.

As you kneel, your hands tremble slightly, and you wonder when that started. You fumble for a larger shard of glass, bracing your hand against the floor for balance, unaware of the smaller piece lying dangerously close to your fingers.

The sting comes fast, slicing through the skin of your pinky. You flinch, raising your hand, and Logan, hearing the faint wince, abandons his task and crosses the room to you.

"I don’t need your advice," he echoes, mocking your tone as he squats beside you, his hand closing around yours to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding."

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed—” The words die in your throat, your eyes widening as you take a closer look at his hand. “Wait, why are you bleeding?”

He snorts, diverting his attention to his own hand. “What do you mean I’m—” Whatever it is he intended to shoot back remains unsaid as both of you stare down at the small cut in his pinky.

Driven by instinct, you place your hands side by side, your finger grazing his. The cuts are identical: same place, same width, same depth. The only difference is his vanishes within seconds, leaving only a few droplets of crimson blood as evidence.

Logan couldn’t have cut himself. He was nowhere near the glass. “Are you…?” You swallow thickly, trying to string together a coherent thought, dizziness making its triumphant appearance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

“Can you stop acting like a dick for one second?” You peer into his glossy eyes, watching him try to avoid your gaze, though he can’t seem to resist. “Please, Logan. Look at me.”

When he does, his mouth parts as if to speak, then closes again. “I don’t understand. I thought I didn’t have a soulmate.” His gruff tone slows even further, like he's straining to push the words from his lungs. “I thought—I thought I was alone.”

It explains so much: how your scars had reappeared once he and Wade returned from The Void.

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

The dread that washed over you each time he walked away.

The dreams that plagued your nights, and the tightness in your chest these past few weeks that made you wonder if you could ever coexist in the same space as him without breaking apart.

All those times you felt he was getting closer weren’t just a figment of your imagination—he was, in fact, right there.

But he wasn’t just anyone—it was him. Logan is your soulmate. You two are meant to be together. How long would it take for you to truly believe it? Until it no longer sounded like something too good to be true?

Without uttering a sound, Logan gazes at you, silently pleading to see them. To see your scars. You extend your arm, and with a gentle motion, he rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the marks etched into your skin.

He runs his fingers along the lines, trying to understand the bond you now share—both his and yours.

In a sense, you’re his. You carry his scars, the physical manifestation of the life he has lived. Even though he may not bear any of his own, you do, and that’s more than enough.

He belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

“There are more,” you tell him. your voice barely above a whisper. He stands, offering you his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet. Logan inches closer, his mouth hovering just above yours, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The look he gives you is one reserved for those he loves, a look filled with such warmth and affection that it almost feels dreamlike.

“Do you want me to see them?” he inquires, and all he needs is a nod from you to gently tug your shirt up your chest and over your head.

He lets out a dry chuckle when you attempt to tame your hair, the effort proving to be in vain. The clock on the wall seems to pause its ticking the moment his fingers begin to trail each of the scars that captures his gaze.

You can’t even begin to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in his mind, but if the flicker of lust and desire you catch in his expression is anything to go by, you’re not so worried.

Logan’s touch carries an unexpected softness, a tenderness you never imagined a man like him could possess.

Deep down, you wish he understood that these scars don’t hurt, that they never have. “I’m okay,” you reassure him, prompting him to explore more of your skin, to claim you as his.

“Do you… like them?” he asks without meeting your eyes.

Do you like my scars? is the real question hidden underneath.

Do you like me? is the one he can’t bring himself to pronounce.

“They’re yours. I could never not like them.”

Before you stands a man you once believed was meant to be your burden, your trial. Logan had been the earthquake sent to test your endurance, to see how much you could withstand before surrendering and waving the white flag.

The same fingers that once imprinted his mark on you now linger on the strap of your bra, waiting for you to decide whether to let him go further or stop.

Desire has a limit before it overwhelms. There’s only so much need a person can contain before it spills over, uncontrollable and raw.

This game, one you never learned how to play, feels as foreign to him as it does to you—neither of you knows the rules.

“Can I see more?” He’s still talking about the scars, still fumbling with the strap, and you nod, your eyelids growing droopier as you take his free hand and direct it to the front of your jeans.

He catches the hint, undoing the button with ease, allowing you to shed the last layers of restraint.

Bare, moments away from being completely naked, standing in stark contrast to Logan, who remains fully clothed, your stomach does a flip as he rubs his thumb along the sides of your underwear.

Leaning your forehead against his shoulder, you stifle a sigh when he splays his hand across your lower back, pulling you closer.

His rough grip tightens on your ass, testing the feel of you, while your breathing becomes shallow, erratic.

“What is it, honey?” He slides his fingers your stomach, just below your belly button, brushing a small scar in there. “Want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you croak, the plea slipping out involuntarily, throwing your arms around his neck. He buries his face against your jaw, his lips parting against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

You tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to him, breathless as you whisper: “I’ve waited so long.”

He moves toward the couch, and you follow, trying to anticipate what he’s got planned for you. “I know, baby. I know. You’ve waited long enough.” Guiding your body down, he has you lying horizontally on the sofa. He unhooks your bra, kneading your breasts with both hands, eliciting a ragged gasp from you. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to wait any longer,” he huffs by your ear, rolling your nipples between his fingers, his breath mingling with yours, each exhale warm and inviting. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Show you how much I’ve been thinkin’ about you?”

Instead of answering with real words, you surge forward, crashing your lips against with his, reveling in the way he cages you with his biceps, locking you up in a prison of desire from which you never wish to break free. He tries not to settle his full weight on top of you, attentive not to crush you.

As he nips at the column of your throat, you squirm beneath him, canting your hips up to seek the friction you crave.

He presses his knee against your center and you push back, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

You can’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this overwhelmed by a man. But then again, he’s unlike any other you’ve encountered in your array of momentary hookups.

His kisses grow even more insistent as breathy moans roll off to your tongue, merging with the occasional creak of the couch beneath your movements.

Logan spreads your thighs wider, sinking to his knees on the floor to tug your lower half forward until your ass is almost hanging in the air. He places your thighs on his shoulders, supporting you as he leans in to pepper your soft flesh with kisses.

One can be certain that he’s marking your inner thighs with a hickey or two, the scratch of his beard feeling magnificent against your sensitive skin, and you can hardly bring yourself to think about the potential burn he’ll leave behind. Logan inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dangerously close to your cunt, and you tangle a hand in his hair as he continues to test your patience.

“Eager?” he wonders aloud, looking at you through his lashes. While maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He does it again, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, his fingers deftly pulling your underwear down your legs.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds has you scrunching your eyebrows in pleasure, tightening your grip on his hair. Logan moans against you, the sound muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, lapping at your arousal with an insatiable hunger.

The way you purr his name—a soft caress, a pat on his back that says Yeah, you’re doing fine—only spurs him on, infusing every one of his ministrations with fervor.

His longing for you radiates in the intensity of his touch, sending shivers through you, making you writhe because of his hands alone.

Your core throbs. Your skin prickles with electricity. Your legs quake on either side of his face. He’s hungry and you’re his feast. He’s parched and you’re the last bottle of water in an arid world.

Logan eats you out like this will be the only time he’ll have the privilege—each movement calculated, pushing all the right buttons, pulling out every trick he knows to make you think No, it doesn’t get any better than this. This is as much as one can get.

Then his fingers join the symphony of pleasure, pumping in and out of you as he keeps flicking your clit with expert precision, and your back arches from the couch, following his pace with your hips. He pushes back, you push forward—he pushes forward, you push back.

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

His pointed tongue teases your bud, matched with the persistent hammering of his fingers plunged into your wet heat. The combination has you coming on his mouth, falling over the precipice while you struggle to keep yourself together.

Your walls flutter around his digits, and your cries fuse with his groans, both overshadowed by his insatiable desire to savor until the last drop of your release.

Shockwaves ripple through your body and you prop your weight on your arms to capture his lips in a fervent kiss, your eyes rolling rolling back in ecstasy as you taste yourself, a mix of sour and sweet.

In a frenzy, he sheds his clothes, practically tearing them away, and you wrap your hand around his length, stroking him in time with your kisses. Logan pulls back, panting against you, and you steal a glance at him.

Your gaze travels down to his hard cock, the tip a furious red, and he seizes your wrist.

“Why don’t you kiss it better?” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. In this moment, you’re taken aback by his beauty, and the urge to express it rises within you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against his thigh, showering his skin with heated kisses. You stare in disbelief at the trail of hair leading to his girth, mouth watering at the sight.

A kiss on the tip, followed by a broad lick along a prominent vein—Logan’s grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. “So perfect.”

“Shut up,” he retorts breathlessly, but you revel in the strangled noise that escapes him as you take him deeper, his head disappearing between your lips. His palm rests on your nape, anchoring you in place. “Goddammit. The fuckin’—mouth you have on you.”

You try to take him in further once you’re feeling more confident, while Logan fights with all his might against the need to thrust his hips up into your warmth. He can’t stay still, grunting and smothering you with lavish praise that heightens your arousal, slick pouring out of you in waves.

“Pretty thing you are. Don’t even know how to function around you. You got me all—fuck, actin’ all stupid.”

At one point, he tells you to stop, because he doesn’t want to come just yet. You know what comes next as he rubs his cock along your folds, blending your wetness with his precum.

It’s sloppy, and dirty, and messy—and God, do you love it.

He sinks into you and the world collides in a way you never expected. Everything you thought you knew falls apart, leaving you stranded in unfamiliar territory.

You can’t comprehend how you’ve spent so many years without him. Without this.

Your lips find his, and he swallows every sound he punches out of your lungs. His thrusts grow harder and faster as you adjust to his size, how big he feels inside you.

He digs his fingers into the globes of your ass, yanking you towards his shaft every time he fucks into you. You feel the brush of his balls against your skin, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

You come to understand it fully as his eyes flicker to yours, checking for any signs of discomfort in your features.

You understand why people write books and songs about love when he breathes your name in the shell of your ear, chanting how good you’re taking him, how tight and wet you are for him.

You understand the place love occupies in your life as the sound of your bodies slapping together creates a melody which has never been played before.

You understand why you’ve searched for this your entire life, lifting every carpet in hopes of uncovering the love you’ve pined for.

In the past, it had always felt like a race—finding your soulmate before the clock struck twelve. Now that you have him, you wonder what the future holds for you, how this connection will evolve.

For now, you can allow yourself the possibility of relishing the drag of his cock in your interior. His pace doesn’t falter for a second—something about mutants and their non-stop stamina, no doubt. He shoves a hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing circles on your already swollen bud.

Each time he fills you to the brim, you have to ground yourself, resisting the pull of an altered reality.

“So full,” you blurt out, mewling with a specially hard thrust, a chocked sob lodged in your throat. “Please, stay.”

It could mean many things: Please, keep fucking me. Please, don’t leave after this. Please, remain by my side form this moment onward, because I don’t know how to go on with my life now that I’ve experienced this closeness.

Whatever meaning he ascribes to your words is of little importance. He tightens his arms around you, kissing you deeply, tongue and teeth clashing as they compete to see who wins the battle. “Never. I’m never lettin’ you go, y’hear me?”

Heat pools in your lower back, a coiling tension radiating through your limbs. “You’re mine, princess. Can’t afford to lose you now that I found you. Gonna remind you every day.”

His rambling pushes you over the edge, your dripping cunt spasming around him as you reach your climax, moaning his name against his shoulder. You cling to him, convulsing beneath his body, and he grinds his hips into yours, his chest rumbling as he growls.

“Inside,” you mumble, extending your hand to press it to his waist. “Need you inside me. Please, I want it so bad.”

Logan stutters against you, his forehead falling against your collarbone as he finishes with one powerful thrust, his cock pulsing warm ropes of come within your cunt. You clench around him, whining as he prolongs both your pleasure and his, milking the last drop of his seed. His voice is a constant murmur, filling every space in the room until he slumps against you.

Night has fallen. The cut on your pinky no longer stings. Your scars, after all, are still there, nestled against Logan’s unmarked skin. You caress his back, sighing contentedly as a wave of peace washes over you.

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

Logan grasps your chin and tilts it up, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey,” he mutters, his gaze roaming all over your face.

You cup his cheek, his rough stubble grazing your palm. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

A genuine laugh pierces through the silence. the kind he rarely allows himself. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, his brow furrowing as he glances at you with love.

Love—hadn’t you pondered its existence for so long? Your fuel for living, the muse behind your best poems, a recurring motif in your fantasies.

Love now has Logan’s name written in ink, no longer a blank canvas awaiting its unknown owner. No—it’s all his now.

You’d do it all over again if it meant ending up like this, tangled and intertwined, with the promise of a future together. He has many stories to share—about his past universe, about himself. You have secrets to unveil, too. There’s so much you both have yet to discover about each other.

But time isn’t up. This isn’t a race, you remind yourself: things are just getting started.

Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up. Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

4K notes · View notes

punkshort · 2 months ago

Text

The Farmer's Daughter

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader one-shot

Summary: Forced to sell your body after your father's farm went under, you find yourself hand picked to service the Roman army on their latest battle away from Rome. What you didn't expect was to be selected to share General Acacius's room for the duration of the journey.

Warnings: language, smut (18+ MDNI), heavy talks of prostitution, mentions of SA but none occur, reader is a (new) prostitute, virginity loss (no blood mentioned just some discomfort), descriptions of battle wounds/blood, food and alcohol consumption, one bed trope, enemies to lovers-ish, unprotected piv sex, thigh riding, angst, possessiveness

WC: 10.2K

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: I know by this point his character is mostly referred to as Acacius in the film but I'm sorry, I can't wrap my head around someone moaning that name in bed. So let's just ignore that, okay?

How did this happen? Why did fate play you such a cruel and twisted hand?

When you were younger, you expected to be married off to be a housewife to a solider. From what you heard growing up, it wasn't a terrible life. The men were gone most of the time which allowed the women to run the household and raise children in peace. Unfortunately, your mother died during childbirth and your father, a humble farmer, passed away too early in life, leaving you and his few workers to keep the farm operating for as long as possible. To make money, you spent much of your time at the market, selling the food you made on the farm and the goods you weaved and molded from the scraps.

It wasn't enough. You lost the farm after a handful of years and you were on the brink of becoming destitute. Already you were malnourished and dehydrated, but as hard as you tried, you couldn't find work.

That was how you found yourself in a long line of women, standing silently with your heads bowed and your hands clasped as you were all throughly inspected by a senior officer of the Roman army. They were choosing their group of whores to hire to accompany the men on their next battle across the sea. You were left with no other option but to sell your only remaining asset. The thought turned your stomach, but the idea of starving to death was worse.

One by one, women were hand picked to step forward and exit the room. All in all it had to have been close to forty whores hired to service an entire army.

The odds were not in your favor if you were picked.

It came as a relief when you ended up not getting chosen. You breathed a deep sigh and lifted your chin, scanning the room of remaining women and senior ranking soldiers. You would make do somehow. At least you wouldn't be spreading your legs multiple times a night for different men after they've spent the day fighting and working up their appetite.

You turned to follow the women back out onto the streets of Rome, no doubt searching for another way to sell their bodies, when you heard a deep, familiar voice call your name. You froze in disbelief, wondering who could possibly know you, and then you slowly turned.

It was General Acacius. The fearless leader of the Roman army, but you knew him from your stand in the market. Whenever he was home from battle, he always found you and purchased more than he could possibly need, feeding you and your farmhands for weeks. He never said much and neither did you, but you had grown fond of seeing his greying curls and dark, smoldering eyes approach your stall, albeit with a new wound or scar to show for his travels.

You did not even realize he knew your name.

His eyes drifted up and down your worn tunic, noticing the stains and rips and your poor fitting sandals. Your gaze flickered nervously around the room at the other men impatiently looking to wrap up their work and begin their long journey, but remained silent, deferring to the general.

"You will come with us," was all he said, his voice booming in the small room. Your blood ran cold and panic seized your throat.

"But the choices have already been made-"

"I am paying. I believe I am allowed to decide how many whores we bring along."

You clamped your mouth shut, brows furrowing in anger. How foolish you were to assume he was a man of honor, a man who wanted to help you when he bought your meager wares in the market. As it turned out, he was no better than any other, only out to seek pleasure between your legs.

At that point, you knew better than to argue. Your fate was sealed. Begrudgingly, you forced yourself to follow after the other chosen women, walking past the high ranking officials who sized you up as you went.

The army was to travel by ship. Or multiple ships, to be exact. The women were counted off and told to stand in smaller groups, one handful of whores for each ship of hungry soldiers. When your group was assigned, you heard that familiar powerful voice come out of nowhere once again, stopping everybody in their paths.

"She is to travel on mine," General Acacius announced. A few men exchanged confused glances and Acacius grew irritated. "That one," he clarified, pointing directly at you. The other men quickly nodded and shuffled you into another group, and you thought that would be the end of it, but then he spoke again as the others began to board.

"She will stay in my chambers."

If the soldiers were surprised, they hid it well, but you didn't. You whipped around and glared at him defiantly, a litany of disrespectful curses on the tip of your tongue. Thankfully, you remembered your place and who you were speaking to and caught yourself before you got killed, but as you turned to board the ship, you noticed an amused smirk play across the general's lips.

A young solider shoved you into the general's quarters, ordering you to not go through his things or they would cut off your hands, then slammed the door shut, leaving you all alone. The rest of the women had gone below deck, most likely to a shared room that was filthy and freezing cold. You, on the other hand, had a beautiful soft bed and a roaring fire to warm yourself by a small wooden dining table. There was a bookshelf tucked into the corner and your fingers itched to pull the books out and examine them, but you didn't dare. Instead, you sat on the small cushioned bench next to the only porthole in the room, tucking your knees against your chest protectively while you waited for the inevitable.

Sleep took hold of you at some point while you waited for the general to retire. The last thing you remembered was the open sea and the glorious golden sun beginning to dip just below the horizon. When you awoke, it was dark, the only light in the room coming from the fire. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and unfurled yourself from your bench to look around, then nearly yelped when you found the general quietly sitting at the table pouring himself wine.

Your heart raced violently in your chest, knowing full well what he expected of you. And despite offering yourself up earlier that day as a whore, you had decided you would not do it for this man. Because this man came to your booth in the market under the guise of kindness that turned out to be a lie, and it simply did not sit right with you.

"I will not lie with you willingly," you announced boldly with your arms crossed. The general quirked an eyebrow and took a long sip of his wine.

"When was the last time you have eaten?"

You scowled, body vibrating with energy and ready for a fight only to be met with indifference.

"I am not hungry."

"You will eat or you will die," he said, avoiding your eye and standing to collect a plate of food by the door. He dropped it onto the table and pointed angrily at it. "Eat."

"Why?"

"You need your strength, you are frail."

"You do not like your whores thin, then?" you shot back. Acacius clenched his jaw, eyes still cast down. "You wish to fatten me up so you have something to hold onto when you force my legs apart?"

"That is enough!" he roared, fiery eyes finally finding yours and pinning you with an intense stare that had you trembling. "I will not be forcing you to do anything except eat. Now sit down, do not test my patience."

It was a combination of fear and hunger that made you obey, sinking down into the chair opposite his where the plate of lukewarm food awaited you. Acacius sat down and picked up his goblet, watching you from over the rim as you slowly began to pick at the food. You both remained silent while you ate and he drank, the only sound to be heard was the crackling from the fire and the distant laughter and yells from his men in the galley below.

He was right. You hadn't eaten in days. It was no wonder you fell asleep so quickly earlier. You wanted to express your thanks, but you were too stubborn. Instead, you finished your food and put the plate in the basin of water by the door before looking around the room once again. It was easily the nicest room on the ship. You had to imagine most of the soldiers would be sleeping in hammocks stacked on top of one another down below, but the general had the biggest, softest looking bed you had ever seen in your life.

But there was only one.

He watched you from his place at the table, studying your face as you worked out the mechanics.

"I will not force myself upon you if we share the bed," he said, dragging your attention back to him. He was still in his armor, all shiny and clean from the public celebration that took place prior to the army's departure.

"Why am I here, if not to pleasure you?" you asked. You sounded calmer than before but you were still very much on edge.

"You believe I would find pleasure in forcing myself upon a woman?" he questioned before draining his cup. You thought about it for a moment and shrugged.

"Perhaps. Yes."

He stared down at his empty chalice, your heinous opinion of him rolling around in his head and making his chest ache.

"Well, I do not," he proclaimed, standing up quickly and causing his chair to almost topple backwards. He began to unhook his heavy armor, dropping it into a pile on the floor until he was down to his tunic.

"If we were to lie together, it would be because you wish it so," he said softly with his back to you. You swallowed thickly.

"What am I to do here, then?" you asked as he began to turn down his sheets. He slid his tired body into bed and sighed.

"Whatever you like. So long as you stay in this room, you will remain unharmed."

You blinked rapidly, desperately trying to put the pieces together.

"That is all?"

"Yes. That is all. My only wish is you are safe and fed."

You couldn't help it. You had to ask.

"But... why?"

But the general rolled onto his side, effectively ending your conversation and leaving you wondering what you had gotten yourself into.

That first night, you did not share his bed. You slept on the bench by your porthole, curled up small, arms wrapped around yourself protectively until the sun rose. When you awoke, the general was gone, but a plate of food was left on the table for you.

The first week on the ship went exactly the same. You stayed in his chambers, staring out at the sea or sleeping until he returned way past dark with some food for you and a tired look in his eye. And every night, you slept on the bench, still far too distrusting of him.

The second week, the general brought a game with him at dinner time. Two cups and two wooden dice. The idea was you had to guess what you would roll. If you won, you got whatever you bet on the round. It wasn't that entertaining at first since you had only the clothes on your back and nothing else, but what you did have were stories or songs or a slight of hand trick your father taught you when you were young.

You wouldn't realize until much later that it was his way of getting to know you better.

"You released all the cows from the pasture?" Acacius repeated in disbelief. You giggled and nodded.

"I was only six years old! I thought they were being held against their will!"

Acacius laughed, the sound making you grin like a fool and your cheeks warm.

"Alright," he said once he got ahold of himself. "Go on."

You picked up the die and tossed them into a cup, giving it a firm shake and smiling when he shot you a playful wink.

You clapped the cup firmly over the table and before you raised it up, you announced, "One three and one five."

"What is your wager?"

You nodded towards his bookshelf. "One of your books."

He looked up at you in shock. "You can read?"

You gave him a fake look of disgust and nodded. "Of course I can read."

"And you have been here this whole time without picking up a book?"

"Your men told me they would cut off my hands if I touched what is yours."

His face softened and he sat back in his chair.

"No one will touch you," he told you firmly. You stared at one another, the heavy moment weighing between you, the implication of his words impossible to deny. No one will touch you because you are his.

To break the tension, you smirked and said, "So I suppose that means I do not need to wager the books?"

Acacius grinned and shook his head. "Too late, little one."

You rolled your eyes and lifted the cup, pouting when you saw two six's.

"Your turn," you said, pushing the cup to the side.

Acacius collected the dice and dumped them into the cup, shaking it while looking at you curiously from across the table and admiring the way the light from the fire flickered over your beautiful face.

"You can still take a book."

You perked up but shook your head. "That is against the rules of the game, General."

"I make the rules. Take a book tomorrow," he insisted before slamming the cup down. His large hand gripped the top of the cup, keeping it pressed tightly against the table.

"Your wager?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.

He swallowed, wondering if he should say what he wanted to say. The fear that you would pull away from him again fought against the insatiable attraction he had harbored for you for years. But the wine must have won the fight because he said, "One kiss."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and for a moment, he thought he made a horrible mistake. But then you squared your jaw and narrowed your eyes and said, "Go ahead."

He grinned, pulse thrumming excitedly in his throat when he said, "One one and one four."

But when he lifted the cup, his face fell. A three and a six.

"Ah, well," he said, shoulders drooping. He yawned and stood to collect the dice. "Better luck tomorrow."

Before you could stop yourself, you stood as well and leaned up to peck a chaste kiss against his scruffy cheek. He looked at you in surprise and you gave him a crooked grin.

"For the book."

He smiled and nodded, doing his best to hide his disappointment as you got yourself ready for bed. You had a small pillow and thin blanket to curl up with by the porthole, and it irked him that you wouldn't take more. He feared you would catch a sickness and your malnourished body wouldn't be able to fight off an infection, but you were so stubborn that he couldn't convince you otherwise.

However, the third and final week at sea had you shivering on your bench. Acacius could hardly sleep knowing how cold you were. He could hear your teeth chattering from across the room.

"I beg of you, please sleep in my bed," he said one night as you began to make your little nest by the porthole. You shook your head.

"I am fine, I swear it."

"You are not fine. Please, I will not touch you, you have my word."

You chewed on your lower lip and looked over his shoulder at his warm, plush bed. He could see your resolve begin to falter, so he offered to sleep on the bench in your place.

"No, do not be ridiculous. You have an army to lead tomorrow, you cannot be tense as a knot because you slept on a too small bench."

"I will if it means you are safe and warm," he said softly, his vulnerability taking you off guard.

"General-" you sighed, but he cut you off.

"Please. I promise I will remain on my side of the bed. Just stop being so stubborn for once in your life."

You scoffed and propped your hands on your hips. "For once in my life? And what would you know of it?"

He squinted at you and crossed his arms. "I know more than you think. I know you would not quit until you broke in that filly when you were twelve years old. I know you nearly pushed a boy down a well when he tried to kiss you in front of the whole school. I know you argued with your teacher over the correct spelling of amaranth and I know you poured every last bit of yourself into a dying farm just to keep the memory of your father alive."

Your jaw hung open in surprise, taken aback by the way he stored all of the little snippets of your life you had given him over the past two weeks only to end it with his own observation of you at the market.

You could feel yourself growing weak for him, the temptation to give in too much to bear. He had been slowly wearing you down since you arrived and perhaps he was right, perhaps you were far too stubborn because the last thing you wanted to do was go back on the proclamation you made that very first night.

So, you chose to be defiant.

"Fine," you snapped, swiveling on your heel and stomping towards his bed. "If you wish to share your bed with a whore so badly, then so be it."

Acacius rounded the bed and slipped in beside you, making sure to leave plenty of space.

"You and I both know you are no whore."

"Oh, you know so very much about me, I forget."

You tugged the heavy blankets up to your chin and tried not to audibly sigh at how comfortable it was in his bed.

"If you are a whore, tell me then: how many men have you laid with?"

You clenched your jaw, angry that he was able to figure you out so easily. Instead of answering, you rolled onto your side, your back to him, and muttered, "good night."

Acacius grinned and closed his eyes, proud of himself for besting you.

"Good night."

The following morning, you awoke earlier than usual. When your eyelids fluttered open, the first thing you noticed was the ache in your bones was gone. The large, soft bed had been enough to cure you in just one night.

Not something you planned on admitting to the general, of course.

The second thing you noticed when you sat up in bed was that the ship was not moving. It was completely still, and you could hear loud, quick footsteps outside your door and above your head. Men were shouting to one another and the clink of swords and armor were echoing throughout the halls. Then, through the walls somewhere above you, you heard the general's deep, booming voice yelling orders to his men. You threw off the blankets and hurried to the porthole, your eyes widening when you saw land and small boats being lowered into the water.

You had arrived at whatever distant land the emperors demanded Acacius claim for Rome, and the soldiers were getting ready to depart for their first fight.

You chewed nervously on your nail, curled up against the wall and peering out the window for hours until the very last boat sailed away. In the distance, you could see the general's broad back covered in armor, his dark curls fluttering in the sea breeze and his massive sword tucked dutifully at his waist.

He had left for war and didn't even say goodbye.

Why would you care if he said goodbye? Maybe if they all die, you could escape to shore and be free, find a new city and make a home for yourself.

Even you had to admit that fantasy was foolish. No matter where you went, your fate would always be the same. You had no money, no prospects, no skills and no family. Your destiny was already written and it was a miracle your first attempt at prostitution landed you in the cushy quarters of Rome's surprisingly respectful general.

Your nerves kept your feet moving all day. You tidied up the general's desk, sorting his papers and maps. You scrubbed at the dishware until they sparkled and you made the bed, fluffing up the pillows and tucking in the loose edges until you had nothing left to do. The room was as neat as possible, not a single item out of place, and yet you still floundered around looking for something to occupy your busy mind.

When the sun began to dip and his room grew darker, you went around lighting candles to allow for more light. You were in the middle of lighting the last candle when you heard a timid knock at the door.

Nobody had ever come to his chambers the entire three weeks besides the general himself. You swallowed anxiously, wondering who it could be and if you should answer when you heard a woman's small voice from the other side of the door.

You decided it was safe and opened the door a crack to find one of the whores you had boarded the ship with waiting on the other side with buckets of water and a basin.

"For the general," she said softly. You nodded and dragged the buckets into the room, trying not to stare at the bruises and dirt littering her dry skin. Your stomach twisted with guilt after she left and you locked the door. The other women were living like cattle and you were living the life of luxury. Not only was the general not forcing you to fuck him, but you were giving him sass at every turn.

It was a harsh reminder of your fortune, of what your life could be like. The thought of living the life of the women below deck frightened you, so you had decided that evening when the general returned, you would give yourself to him to show your appreciation, as well as out of fear he would soon get rid of you if you didn't give him what he wanted.

You remained at your post, staring out at the dark sea until you could see the bobbing of lanterns making their way across the black expanse, letting you know the men were returning for the night. You rushed to warm up his water over the fire, dumping it into the large basin. You poured some scented oils into the bath just as the door unlocked and opened, revealing a very filthy and exhausted looking general holding two plates of food.

"Good evening," you said, standing obediently. Acacius paused at the door, confused by your formality before closing it with his heel and setting down the food at the table. "I have a warm bath ready for you, General," you added, pointing towards the basin. He nodded tiredly and began to work on the hooks of his armor. You rushed forward to help him, once again taking him by surprise until he was stripped down to his red tunic.

"Would you like to eat or bathe first?" you asked. The general sighed and looked longingly at the bath.

"I will clean myself while you eat," he said. He pointed towards the table and motioned for you to turn around.

"May I assist you instead, General?" you asked with your back turned. You could hear the shuffle of fabric falling to the wooden floor and then a sharp hiss when he sunk down into the warm water.

"Assist me with what? Cleansing myself? I believe I can manage," he chuckled. You turned around to stare at the back of his head, his body now submerged in the water and hidden from view, but you could still see his shoulders and arms. They looked bruised and bloodied.

He didn't notice your eyes on him, of course. He was busy scrubbing the dirt and blood from his skin while he looked around the tidy room.

"It is very nice in here, you did not have to straighten up."

It was the least you could do and you knew it but said nothing.

Instead, you shakily lifted your worn tunic over your head and let it crumple to the floor. Nerves fluttered in your stomach as you slowly approached him, the general completely unaware as he continued to scrub his skin.

"I can think of another way to assist you," you said nervously as you stepped into his eyeline. His chin tilted up and he did a double take when he saw your naked form standing before him. His cloth dropped into the water and his jaw fell open in surprise, eyes wide and greedily raking over your body.

"Wh- what is this?" he stammered, gaze glued to your chest. Your fingers fidgeted at your sides under his scrutiny.

"I thought I would show you my appreciation for your hospitality," you explained. "I would like to repay you in some way for choosing me to share your quarters."

A small smile tugged at his lips as he eagerly reached forward, then stopped when he registered your words. He looked up at you questioningly, excitement falling from his face when he asked, "What do you mean, repay me?"

You shrugged and took a hesitant step forward, close enough now so he could reach out and touch your cunt if he chose.

"I realized today my fate could have been much harsher," you explained. "I have not been showing you my appreciation and respect, and in return, I wish to give you my body to use as you see fit."

Acacius frowned and turned his head away, searching for the cloth so he could continue cleaning himself.

"I do not want your body as payment, I believe I told you that weeks ago."

"You said we would not lie together unless I wished it so," you protested. "I now wish it."

"You wish to lay with me out of obligation, not desire. That is not something I want."

Embarrassment and confusion flooded your mind as you slowly stretched your arms across your exposed body, trying to hide yourself out of shame.

"I apologize-"

"Get yourself decent and eat," he commanded without looking up. His voice sounded hard and cold and for some reason, it made you want to cry. You did as you were told, dragging your dirty tunic over your head and sat quietly at his table to pick at your food. You were confused and ashamed, sitting in the tense room with him while you tried to work out what he wanted from you. The idea of wanting a man out of desire never occurred to you. You had grown up under the impression women of your station did not get to experience the luxury of desire, and instead came to terms early on in life that you always had one asset to use at your disposal.

Not one time did you ever imagine being with a man out of affection or love.

"I apologize," you tried again after he had dried off and joined you. He had changed into a clean, white tunic and was clenching a similar one in his fist.

"You may use this," he said, ignoring your apology yet again. He thrusted the tunic towards you and you fumbled when you took it from his grasp. "The one you are wearing looks as if it might fall apart the moment you step outside and feel the sea breeze."

"Thank you," you murmured, fingertips brushing over the soft and expensive material in your lap.

"I will also call for more water tomorrow so you may wash yourself," he said before biting into a chunk of bread.

Your cheeks went hot with shame, still feeling guilt over the mercy and generosity he had shown you.

"I do not know what it is to desire someone," you said after a few quiet moments. Acacius continued to chew and kept his focus fixed on his plate. "I never imagined it would be a part of my life. May I remind you we come from different worlds."

He grunted in response but you noticed his shoulders begin to relax.

"I understand. But you must stop treating yourself as a whore. You are so much more than that, I have seen it with my own eyes. And to watch you debase yourself, to think so lowly of yourself, breaks my heart."

Your breath caught in your throat and you felt tears begin to well up, quickly threatening to spill down your cheeks. How could you have been so wrong? How could you not see the man for who he really was? He was a man who was gentle, kindhearted, protective and most importantly, cared very deeply for you. To what extent, you were unsure, but if he wanted you to desire him and he saved you from being used by countless other men, he certainly must have harbored stronger feelings than you ever thought possible.

"Alright."

His dark eyes flicked up to yours when you spoke.

"I will not debase myself," you said flatly. The corner of his mouth twitched before he looked back down at his food.

"Very well. I am pleased that has been sorted," he replied before shoving his plate off to the side and standing to collect the cups and dice. "Shall we play a few rounds before bed?"

You grinned and nodded, gathering up your plates and dumping them in the water by the door to clean later before joining him back at the table. And somehow, the awkwardness from the evening faded away after a few rolls of the dice.

It had been two weeks docked off shore on some foreign land. You hadn't left his room in over a month and you were beginning to feel insane. You told him as much early one morning when he was dressing for battle. It was still dark outside. Acacius had mentioned he wanted to arrive on shore before dawn so that he might get into position under the cover of night.

"When I return tonight, I will take you up on the deck for some fresh air," he promised as he cinched up his armor. "Do not leave this room when I am not here."

"Why not? Are your men not with you during the daytime?" you asked from his bed.

"It is not my men I worry about," he explained, sheathing his sword after lacing up his sandals.

"Then what do you worry for?"

"I worry about everything," he confessed. His hand was on the doorknob poised to leave, but he stopped to turn to you one last time. "I do not trust the soldiers from this city not to try to climb aboard the ships whilst we are gone. It is important the ships appear empty."

You nodded in understanding before burrowing back in his sheets and he couldn't help but smile at the sight of you looking comfortable and radiant in his bed.

"Behave, my dove, and we may dine on the deck tonight," he said, making you smile wide. He slipped quietly out of his room and locked the door behind him, fearful if he lingered any longer, he may not leave the ship the whole day.

You spent the afternoon reading and bathing and cleaning the general's dirty clothes in the extra water he had brought up after he left. You weren't sure how it happened, but the two of you had fallen into a life of domesticity amidst war without even sharing so much as a kiss.

What surprised you the most was you enjoyed it. You enjoyed tending to his things and cleaning what you could during the day, and then caring for him at night when he returned all bloodied and tired.

It had not once crossed your mind that he may not return until it happened.

That night, you saw the lanterns bobbing over the water, your signal to begin heating up his water for a bath. Your hair smelled like the expensive oils you poured into his water from your own bath earlier. You smiled to yourself when you thought of smelling like him, and him of you.

Heavy footsteps landed on the wooden floorboards above your head and outside your door. At first, nothing seemed amiss. Acacius usually didn't come to his room right away. He typically visited the wounded soldiers in the infirmary, making sure they were well tended to and fed before doing his rounds, assigning a night crew, and then finally gathering food for you both before retiring for the evening.

But more time passed than usual. You could tell because your stomach began to rumble and his water grew lukewarm. You paced around the room, ears straining to hear the voices from the other soldiers, trying to discern anything from their muffled conversations.

It wasn't until two hours went by that you heard a sharp rap at the door and a man's voice echoing on the other side, announcing he brought you food.

Your blood went cold and you wondered if you should open the door, but then you remembered Acacius told you he wasn't worried about his own men, the underlying message being that his soldiers would never touch what was his. So after a moment's hesitation, you swung open the door.

"Here," a young man said, shoving one plate of food towards you. His face was stained with dried blood and dirt and you frowned before taking the food and thanking him softly.

"Where is the general?" you asked timidly.

"He fell in battle," he grumbled before turning away. Your heart plummeted as you reached out and grabbed his shoulder, taking him by surprise.

"What do you mean?" you exclaimed. Fear and adrenaline mixed with something foreign coursed through your veins as you felt your lower lip tremble. The solider shook you off with disgust before stepping back.

"He was struck down. Last I saw of him he was lying still on the battlefield."

When he saw the look of despair on your face, he took pity on you.

"Others were assisting him, his body will return to Rome," he assured you before giving you a firm nod and disappearing down the long hall, leaving you to collapse into a fit of sobs behind the locked door.

The feeling you had in your chest was similar to the way you felt when your father passed, but something was different. It felt like a piece of you went dark, like you may never smile or laugh ever again. Grief consumed every fiber of your being and you found yourself crawling into his bed, face streaked with tears so thick you could hardly see your hands reach for his pillow. You pulled it tightly against your chest and you curled up around it, muffling your wails until your head began to pound and your body felt weak.

You drifted in and out of sleep, tossing and turning until the room grew cold and the fire dissolved into embers. You stood and wrapped a blanket around yourself, sniffling and shuffling over to the fire to stoke the flames wearing the general's spare tunic he had gifted you. After a few minutes, the fire roared back to life and you sat back with a heavy sigh.

Just as you were wondering what you would do come morning and how you would ever be able to move on without him, you heard footsteps approaching. You whipped around in fear and tightened your grip on the blanket. With the general no longer around to protect you, you had assumed the other men would eventually come looking for you, but you had to admit you didn't expect it so fast.

You curled yourself into a ball on your old bench, staring at the doorknob, expecting to see it jiggle and eventually forced open from the other side, but to your surprise the lock clicked quietly and the door slowly creaked open.

When you saw the general appear, limping and bloodied but still alive, you practically screamed. You jumped to your feet and rushed over, moments away from throwing yourself into his arms before you caught yourself.

"Acacius," you whispered in disbelief, the informality slipping easily past your lips for the very first time. He gave you a tired smile and locked the door behind him.

"I apologize for missing dinner," he said. You laughed as two fresh tears trickled down your cheeks. Your hands hovered nervously over his armor as if you weren't sure where you could touch him.

"Apology accepted," you replied before gingerly unhooking the armor around his shoulders. He groaned with relief when you lifted the heavy metal off him and set it against the wall by the door to polish another time. When you turned back around, you gasped at the blood that had seeped through his tunic, staining the yellow fabric a dark red.

"You are hurt," you whimpered, then hurried around his room for clean cloths, healing oils, and salves he kept in his desk. "Take that off and sit down. Allow me to tend to your wound."

He wordlessly lifted the ruined tunic over his head, wincing slightly when the wound at his side pulled, and he sat down at the table just as you instructed. You collected some of the unused water from his bath and set it over the flames to warm up before scooping up some more and setting it on the table next to him.

"They stemmed the bleeding on the boat," he explained. "It just needs to be cleaned and perhaps -"

"I will handle this. You just rest and eat," you told him, pushing your plate of uneaten food in his direction. His eyes fell onto the food and he frowned.

"It is untouched," he said, "why did you not eat?"

"How could I when I thought you were dead?" you snapped as you brought a soaked rag to his side and began to gently pat at the nasty looking gash.

Acacius took a bite of food, the flavors melting onto his tongue and making him groan. He didn't realize how hungry he was and before he knew it, he had eaten all of the food except for the grapes. You were leaning across his lap, bandaging up his wound with intense focus. He sighed contentedly, basking in the warmth from the fire and the soft touch of your hand on his skin. He could already feel his strength beginning to return.

"That should hold," you said, sitting upright to inspect your work. He glanced down and raised his eyebrows at the neat little bandage you had adhered to his wound.

"You did a very good job. Where did you learn such things?"

You shrugged and began to clean up the salves and oils. "On a farm, many accidents happen. You learn quickly how to tend to a wound."

He smiled and sipped from the wine you had poured for him while watching you move around the room, disposing of his soiled clothes and rags and then bringing the bucket of warm water over to the table with a fresh cloth.

When you pulled the other chair closer and sat, fitting your legs between his knees so you could reach him, he began to protest.

"You do not need to -"

"I want to," you said, cutting him off with a warm, wet cloth on his aching shoulders. His eyelids fluttered with a groan, leaning back into his chair and giving in. It felt so wonderful to be washed by your hand, to have you so close and safe while tenderly caring for him. It was all he had been dreaming about for years, ever since the first day he saw you at the market.

"So many scars," you whispered, swiping the cloth down his broad, strong chest. His breathing stuttered when you reached his stomach and he tensed.

"I have been in many battles," he murmured with his eyes still closed. You hummed to yourself and continued to work, diligently and carefully scrubbing away the layers of blood and grime until you cleaned everything you could see.

"Can you lean forward, General?" you asked, "I would like to cleanse your back."

He nodded and with a grunt, sat upright so he could lean forward. You stood from your chair and positioned yourself behind him, taking great care with every swipe of your cloth, afraid of unearthing a new wound under all the filth.

"Back to general now, are we?" he asked.

Your hand paused on his shoulder blade. He sensed your confusion and he chuckled.

"When I first arrived, you called me Acacius," he explained.

"Oh," you breathed before continuing your work. "That was disrespectful, I -"

"No, I quite liked it," he said before you could finish apologizing. "You may call me Marcus when we are alone, if you prefer."

Your eyes widened and although he couldn't see you, he could tell you were surprised.

"That would be highly irregular," you finally said softly, putting down the wet cloth and picking up a bottle of perfumed oil. You sprinkled a few drops into your palm and you rubbed your hands together. "That name should only be used by those closest to you."

He opened his mouth to respond but when your slick hands found his shoulders and your fingers began to dig into the knots in his muscles, he moaned and felt himself go lax.

"Oh gods, that feels incredible," he rasped. The deep timber of his voice sent a wave of arousal right to your core. You continued to work on his back and shoulders, privately marveling at his broad frame and firm muscles under his scarred, bronzed skin. He was truly something to behold. So strong, handsome, and fearless. Yet also kind and gentle. The proximity of his body and the ricocheting emotions you had experienced that evening had you reacting to him in a way you never had before. It was confusing and strange yet also exciting, and the noises you were drawing from his mouth with every roll of your thumbs was causing a dull ache to form between your thighs.

You blinked and cleared your throat, trying to shake the heavy curtain of lust that clung to you.

"What happened out there? One of your men informed me you were dead."

Marcus sighed and sat up straight, the angle causing you to drop your hands from his tight shoulders. One of his massive hands reached back to take yours so he could lead you to stand in front of him, between his knees.

"They had called a truce. They requested to discuss terms of surrender, so I called off my men and went to speak with their king," he began, his hand still engulfing your own as he gazed up at you with his soft, dark eyes. "It was a trap. They ambushed me when I got out of range. It must have been twenty of them," he continued solemnly, his thumb brushing against your wrist as he spoke. "I slayed them all, one by one, but once I took down their final solider, an archer took aim from the wall. I was able to dodge the arrow but I was not quick enough," he chuckled and looked down at his wound. "I am not the young man I once was."

"I cried for hours," you admitted quietly. His eyes darted up to yours again, holding his breath as you spoke. "I had never considered you would not return to me at the end of the day. However, when I got word you had died-"

You paused when a sob got lodged in your throat. You knit your brows together, hoping to stave off your tears while Marcus patiently waited. Eventually, you gave him a watery smile and lifted your free hand to cup his cheek.

"I felt a grief I never thought I would feel again," you said, voice shaking. His eyes searched your face, watching the way your anguish rolled through you at the memory. He swallowed tightly and, with his other hand, gently gripped your waist.

"Tell me," he whispered, "did you feel these things only because you feared for your safety if I was not here?"

You shook your head as one singular tear trickled down your cheek.

"No," you breathed, "it was because I felt like a part of me died, too. Because I could not imagine my life without you."

When you saw the joyful look in his eye, you quickly closed the remaining distance between you, leaning down the rest of the way and slanting your mouth desperately over his. He moaned and dropped your hand so he could cup the back of your neck, pulling you even closer so you were forced to straddle his lap.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he groaned amid kisses that were growing increasingly messy as the heat between you grew. "How badly I want you? How long I have waited?"

Your mind was blank. You couldn't think of a single thing to say, but Marcus didn't give you a chance to respond, anyway. His tongue slipped past your lips, greedily swirling in tandem with yours and forcing your jaw to open wider. The hand on your waist dropped to flatten against your lower back and he pressed you forward so not even a sliver of moonlight could sneak between your bodies.

Underneath your gifted tunic, you were bare. When you joined the other whores all those weeks ago, they told you there was no use for undergarments, that the men would just destroy them if you bothered to wear any, so just like all the others, you never did. It had never been a problem until that very moment, when Marcus had you writhing in his lap, hips stretched wide and cunt free to rub against his thigh. When you first made contact with his leg, the firm muscle brushing against your sensitive clit, you jumped in his lap and moaned into his mouth.

"Tell me, sweet thing," he murmured when he finally broke the kiss. You were panting heavily, eyelids drooping with need as you gazed down at him. "I know you have not sold yourself to a man, but have you ever laid with one before?"

You shook your head and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, holding him close. His lips brushed up against your throat and he began to suck on the sensitive skin there as both of his hands fell to your hips. Gently, he rocked you back and forth, sliding your slick, bare cunt over his thigh. He heard you sigh and smiled against your skin when your head dipped backwards in pleasure.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes," you whispered, voice raspy and thick. "Oh, yes, it feels... heavenly," you told him with a sigh.

"Good," he grunted, "keep going. Do not stop until you come. I will need you soft and wet before you take my cock."

"Yes, General," you replied obediently, making his cock jump behind his thin loincloth.

Marcus tugged at the back of your loose tunic, stretching the material across your breasts so your hardened nipples poked through. With a low growl, he lunged forward and wrapped his mouth around one, cloth and all. His teeth added a surprisingly tantalizing amount of pressure that had you gasping for air as your hips quickened their pace over his thigh. You must have been leaving streaks of arousal all over him but something told you he didn't mind.

"You desire me, yes?" he questioned when he switched his attention to your other breast. You nodded feverishly, face tilted towards the ceiling as you chased your pleasure.

"Yes," you gasped, "yes, Ge- Marcus."

He groaned so loudly you thought he might wake up the whole ship.

"Fuck, say that again."

You smiled and circled your hips faster, grinding down onto his thick leg. You were so close, you could taste it.

"Marcus," you whined, "oh, Marcus. I cannot wait to feel you inside of me. I just know you will make me feel so good, will you not?"

Suddenly, his hand was back on your neck and his mouth was pressed tightly against the underside of your jaw, not unlike a wild animal pinning his prey against his sharp fangs. You could feel his hot puffs of air fanning across your skin and his teeth scraping your throat. His intensity might have frightened you if you weren't on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm.

"I will make you feel so good, you will never want to take another lover again," he said darkly. The hairs on your arms stood up but you continued to rut yourself as fast as you could against his thigh, your own chest heaving as you fought for air. "And if I have it my way, you never will," he added.

His words were what tipped you over the edge. You cried out his name and clutched at his shoulders for support as your orgasm rolled through you, covering him with your slick.

Your body was still trembling in his arms when he lifted you up and carried you to the bed. You blinked rapidly in response, poised to argue with him about potentially reopening his wound, but before you could get a single word out he had tossed you onto the sheets and climbed on top of you, caging you in.

"Before I ravish you, my sweet, what do you know of coupling?"

You scoffed. "I am no fool, I know how it works."

Marcus chuckled at your snark and sat back on his heels to peel your tunic over your head, exposing yourself entirely to him. A groan rumbled through his wide, bare chest as he stared down at you hungrily, all spread out and ready for him.

"I cannot lie. Ever since you first stood before me naked, your beautiful body has consumed my every waking thought."

"It shows incredible restraint, then, for you to share a bed with me each night," you teased, eyes dancing playfully as he stripped himself of his loincloth.

"You have no idea," he growled, falling back onto his forearms. The tip of his nose nudged against yours affectionately. "I have waited years for this, my sweet."

The idea of any man pining after you, let alone the mighty General of Rome, was a strange and foreign concept.

"I am just the daughter of a poor farmer," you muttered, fingers brushing his peppered curls behind his ear.

"Your station means very little to me," he replied, looking down between your bodies so he could notch the thick head of his cock at your opening. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

Your pulse quickened when you felt the slight bit of pressure he applied. Knowing how it worked was one thing, experiencing it for the first time was another.

"I-I was told it may hurt," you said meekly. Marcus's eyes found yours and he tenderly cupped your jaw.

"Yes, that is true, but I promise it will not last long," he assured you. You swallowed and nodded before spreading your legs wider and hooking your ankles around the backs of his thighs.

"Tell me if it is too much," he murmured. He pressed your foreheads together, lips hovering above yours, ready to soothe you from the pain.

"Go on, then," you said bravely.

Slowly, he breeched your opening and sunk one inch inside of you. You gasped and dug your heels harder into his thighs, but Marcus held steady.

"Speak," he demanded after a few seconds of listening to your heavy breathing.

"It stings," you admitted, "but it is not... unpleasant."

He nodded and pecked a chaste kiss against your lips before giving you another inch. You whined and squirmed a bit but once you settled, he took it as his cue to continue. It went just like that until he finally found himself fully seated inside of your tight heat.

"The worst is over, my sweet," he told you.

You wiggled underneath him, moving this way and that until you got used to the feeling of him inside you. Your hands wrapped around the backs of his biceps and you stretched your neck so you could bite and nip playfully at his prickly jaw.

"I enjoy being full of you," you admitted shyly, eliciting a grunt from the back of his throat.

"Good," he grumbled before drawing back his hips and slowly easing himself back inside your warmth. "Because I intend on having you full of me as much as possible. I fear I will never have enough now that you have given me a taste."

Your jaw dropped open when he began to move faster, gently and steadily working you open, carving a space for himself inside of you forever. The only thing you wanted was to have him as close as you could, so you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face against his neck, molding your bodies together as one.

"My sweet girl," he panted, mouth hunting for yours. "You feel better than I ever dreamed. So fucking tight and wet. I cannot believe my fortune, that you would give yourself to me. I wonder if I did indeed die in battle and have ascended to the heavens."

The stretch was divine, his heavy length dragging in and out of you and nudging against a spot that made your stomach clench and your head grow fuzzy.

"Do not say such things," you scolded him breathlessly. His hips stilled for a moment, waiting for you to continue. "Do not jest about your death. My heart cannot handle it."

His eyes softened and his mouth crashed against yours with a groan, overcome that you would feel so strongly for him. He began to roll his hips again but kept his mouth latched onto yours, swallowing down your whimpers and moans.

"I will never leave you," he whispered against your lips. His thrusts grew quicker but he tried his best to be careful and not drive himself too deep for fear of causing you pain. "I will always return now that I have you waiting for me. I shall be invincible in battle."

You laughed lightly, dragging your mouth down his throat and tasting his freshly perfumed skin.

"Was that all it took for you to become immortal?" you teased.

"Yes," he hissed, "a cunt as snug and perfect as yours is all a man needs to give him purpose."

His hand slithered between your back and sheets, pressing his palm firmly against your spine so you arched underneath him. His knees spread wider so he could get better leverage, and he began to roughly snap his hips. You gasped and grabbed onto his hair, giving it a sharp tug and making him groan. It was lewd yet somehow romantic, hearing the sound of your skin slapping together in the otherwise quiet room.

"Does it hurt?" he managed to ask through clenched teeth.

"No," you whimpered inbetween the soft moans he drew every time his cock slammed back into you. "Oh gods, Marcus, please-"

"What do you need, my love?"

He sounded breathless, his voice slightly strained, and your chest burst with pride. You loved the idea of being the one who made such a strong man so very weak.

"I- I am not sure," you admitted truthfully. "It feels so wonderful, but it is different than before."

As it turned out, you didn't need to figure out what you needed because Marcus knew. Somehow, he managed to know your body better than you. He knew how to make it sing and thrum just for him.

His hand snuck between your bodies and the pad of his thumb found your clit. He rubbed firm, slow circles over the sensitive bud, and his name instantly flew from your mouth, loud and wild. You likely could be heard from shore, but Marcus never shushed you. In fact, he smiled and worked his thumb faster, drawing out more delicious moans with every stroke.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured while sucking a mark into your neck. He could feel your lower belly begin to tense and heard your breath waver, so he circled his hips faster, cock greedily plunging in and out of your soaked cunt, chasing his release with reckless abandon now that he could feel you were close.

"I have obsessed over you for years. Dreamed of having you all to myself, just like this," he continued. He could sense his words had a great effect on you. Your walls fluttered and pulsed around him when he admitted his deepest secrets, so he kept talking.

"Long nights spent on the cold ground in the middle of war, I would dream of you. I would wonder what you would be doing back in Rome. I would pray you did not find a husband while I was away."

Marcus gasped when your cunt gripped around him so tightly that it took his breath away. "The thought of you belonging to another was enough to drive me insane," he groaned before capturing your lips with his.

"I am yours," you rasped when he pulled away, and when your eyes locked, he could see the adoration he felt for you reflected right back. "For as long as you will have me, I am yours."

Marcus's eyes slid closed in bliss after hearing the words he so longed to hear. "Come for me, my love. Come for me and when we return home, I shall make you my wife. I will take care of you. I promise you will never go hungry again."

Your hands grappled with the back of his head, fingers threading through his unruly locks as you pulled him down for a searing kiss. He muffled the sounds of your orgasm, cries of his name dying in your throat while your body bucked wildly beneath him.

It only took a few moments before he joined you. With his hand roughly squeezing your hip, he yanked you towards him. His body stilled, pumping you full of his seed while your tongues danced together in tandem until his shoulders sagged and you began to shake.

Marcus flicked the sheets so he could toss them over your trembling bodies. He planted kisses along the side of your head and jaw, then brushed the hair away from your face until your breathing leveled and your eyes reopened.

"Are you alright?"

You nodded and gave him a weak smile. "I am tired."

Marcus withdrew his hips, sliding his softening cock out from your clutch. You cried out in pain and he instantly jolted out of bed to soak a clean rag in some leftover warm water, then hurried back to press it between your legs.

"Better?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Thank you."

He gave you a quick kiss and slid back under the covers. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest so he could nuzzle your hair and murmur sweet nothings in your ear.

"Must you leave me in the morning? Can you not spend just one day recovering from your wound?"

Marcus kissed your bare shoulder and shook his head.

"The war is almost done. Tomorrow, I will make them surrender so we may sail home and start our life together."

You grinned and burrowed deeper under the covers. "Did you mean that?"

"What is that, my love?"

"When you said you would make me your wife," you said sheepishly. "Or was that just your mind getting lost to desire?"

"No, I meant every word," he said before rolling over and snuffing out the candle next to the bed. "When we return to Rome, I will make you my bride. You will bear my children and I will watch them play in the garden with you by my side."

You hummed and closed your eyes. "That sounds lovely."

You had very little idea of the politics in Rome and how the highest ranking general of the Roman army could possibly announce he was going to wed a poor farmer's daughter, but you knew deep down if Marcus wanted it, he would somehow make it happen. You knew this because his determination always won, on and off the battlefield.

After all, you were living proof of it.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x female reader #Marcus acacius x f!reader #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 fanfiction #gladiator 2 fanfic #the farmer's daughter fic

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xazse · 6 months ago

Note

I don’t know if you’re into it but liiikkkeee cow!hybrid reader x bull!hybrid jjk men or just any one of them! she’s a heifer ready for milking and breeding and the bulls have been reaaaally itching to get their hands on the only cow in the farm. like what if she tried going through the gaps in the fences chasing a butterfly or something and got stuck, left vulnerable to the bulls…. HQHSJWJNE I’m so mentally unwell I NEED FARM SEX

INTRESTED?

Synopsis: Being ignored isn’t something you like so why not disobey your owner altogether?

Notes: Oh wow this… this is true peak I love this. I took a different route with this! I still hope you enjoy it. If you still want me to do a version exactly like yours send me an inbox! No harm done

Pairings: BullHybrid!Toji x BullHybrid!Suguru x CowHybrid!Reader

Warnings: Hybrids + smut + bigboobed!Reader + milking + lactation + fem!reader + shy!VirginReader + implied chubby!reader + squirting + blowjobs + lots of typos sorry! + surprise at the end<34

PT2: HERE

I can imagine farmer!Gojo allowing you free roam of the farm as long as you stay away from the bulls that’s the only thing he takes seriously. He expects such a ditzy thing like you to listen and obey this one simple rule.

Farmer!Gojo has been extremely busy tending to the other animals on the farm that he completely neglects to milk you, even when you come to him whining that your boobs hurt he really can’t offer the time, even if you emphasize how heavy they feel, that you can’t milk them yourself.

In retaliation or at least to get some of the attention off the other animals you start wandering near where the bull!hybrids reside. You can see them but they can’t see you and damn are they big, they look ruff with messy faces that look like Gojo has been putting them to work.

BullHybrid!Toji is the first to spot you peering at them, he alerts BullHybrid!Suguru to check out the little cow seemingly lost.

Toji clicks his tongue to get your attention, you perk up, oh he’s got you now. He quietly ushers you to come closer. Suguru watches on as you do start taking little steps towards them, you look on alert: so Satoru has been spreading lies about them. That just won’t do, you need to come closer so they can clear their name!

You’re only a few big steps away from them, you won’t get any closer than this.

Suguru takes a minute to admire you, he hated Satoru for constantly keeping you locked up in your area, only he himself was allowed to see you. Even when he and Toji practically begged to meet you all answers were instantly met with a no. So getting to see you up close makes him excited.

Toji thinks you’re cute but far too innocent looking, you need to ruined and rebuilt what better man to do that than himself.

“Tits are a little full don’t you think?” Tojis the one who bluntly says that out loud. Suguru hadn’t looked but when he does they really do look full and heavy, it looks almost painful: poor poor thing.

“Want some help with em? I know you do.”

“Cmere, Satoru clearly hasn’t been doing his job too busy messing with the other female hybrids”

You feel a twinge of jealously at that statement but wanting to get back at Satoru outweighs that by a ton, so you step closer and take Suguru’s open hand whilst Toji puts his hand on the small of your back and lead you to their cabin.

You’re not sure who slips off your tank-top all you can feel and think about is big hands running all over your body, much larger and thicker than Satoru’s delicate hands. You do know that Toji is prying your thighs apart and filting himself in between them, those little shorts that leave too much of your pudgy ass and thighs leaking out immediately come off. Suguru takes your hand and has you feel up his cock, you’re damn near frightened at the size of the bull. His eyes look so lusty as they bore into yours, he knows he won’t get to have your cunt today so he’ll settle for your mouth.

Toji takes off your too tight shorts that show off the pudge of your ass and the thickness of your thighs, he takes the panties off as well, a moment of solace passes through as he stares at your glistening cunt, he’s waited far too long for this, too many attempts with Satoru at getting the chance to meet you and way too many no’s.

Toji is the reason you aren’t allowed near them, the day you got here he couldn’t stop staring, the next week he couldn’t stop staring it got to a point where ever cautious Satoru started only allowing you to roam the front, never the back. He prods at your sticky cunt with his tip, nudging your clit that elicits a soft moan out of you.

Everytime he touches your hole it’s already trying to suck him in, you’re a greedy one he can already tell. And he isn’t one to not let you have it, he can acknowledge that you won’t be able to fully take him without hours of prep so he’ll only give you a little past the tip. When he begins pushing inside he already feels how hot and warm you are.

You gasp when you feel him, your needy little body trying to explore that bit of pleasure from the stretch. He spreads your legs further holding them down on either side of you. Suguru taps the tip of his cock on your pretty lips, signaling for you to open them, you obediently listen and begin sucking the pre off.

“Fuck.. just like that..” he groans, his pretty black hair cascades around his body so beautifully, why was Satoru keeping such men away from you?

Suguru grabs a your boob and squeezes it rather hardly, a spurt of milk leaks out enticing him to do it again, a sigh of relief can be heard slipping calmly from you.

In a whiny tone you urge Suguru to keep doing that, it feels really good.

Toji is using all his restraint not to filt himself to be balls deep in your pussy, the creamy feeling of him only being able to push in a certain amount and pull away is driving him crazy, but he isn’t going to stop in fear that this will be over too soon, no they’re going to savor this and savor you.

Toji leans down and takes the other boob not occupied in his mouth, sliding the honeyed taste all over his tastebuds.

“Ah-mnnhh..” you push his head deeper, coaxing him to drink you till your dry. The other bull is making sure you’re paying extra attention to his sensitive slit, making sure you’re lapping up every drop that comes out.

Toji leaning down has his chest sometimes bumping against your little sloppy clit, it pushes you over, a loud yelp rippling through the air as you squirt just a little, that clearly won’t do! They’re sure they can pull even more from you, it seems you’ll be here for a while :(.

BOUNS:

When you come back to the main house with a shirt that isn’t yours, smelling like sweat and sex Satoru is fucking livid. He gave you simple orders to not mess with those bulls and you choose to disobey? He’s also baffled that his sweet girl would do something like that, he thought you were better than that.

“Toru, I had been asking you for over a week to help me!”

Attitude? Raising your voice at him? Who the hell are you and what have you done with his girl?

You move past Satoru and go to your shared bedroom, his breath hitches in his throat when you come out dragging the cover and a pillow and head towards the spare room.

“I-“ he attempts to get a word out before the door is slammed right in his face.

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silkscream · 7 months ago

Text

natural devotion

ੈ✩ synopsis: gojo finds you, his ex-wife, in a sketchy dive bar. he almost doesn't recognize you.

ੈ✩ cw: smut (minors dni, ageless + blank blogs will be blocked), previous arranged marriage, ex-husband!gojo, clanleader!gojo, rough bathroom sex, semi-public sex, drunk sex, oral, fingering + penetration, light choking, gojo is.... weird idk how to explain. he's just strange and cold and possessive and so odd

ੈ✩ wc: 3.2k

ੈ✩ a/n: literally nobody asked for this. also it's unedited. sorry

Gojo thinks he sees a ghost when he sees you.

At least, he thinks it’s you.

You don’t see him yet, so he takes the liberty to scan you over more thoroughly. You’re not wearing anything like the simple, modest attire he remembered you donning around his estate. Instead, you’re in a form-fitting crop top and the tiniest mini skirt Gojo has ever seen. He’s not sure if it even classifies as a skirt.

Interesting.

He takes a breath as he sits down next to you, interrupting your conversation with the bartender to offer his card. You turn to look at him and you laugh.

“Put hers on my tab,” Gojo says.

“Always the gentleman.”

“You know I’ll always take care of you. Even if we aren’t married anymore.”

You could scoff at that, but you decide to be polite. He’s as candid as he’s always been. It used to humiliate you, but you aren’t the same docile little wife you used to be. You also realize his gesture could be interpreted as tender, which isn’t something you were ever used to in your marriage.

He was a cold man and it was a marriage of convenience.

Or perhaps he was only cold to you. You would watch how he would interact at social gatherings and clan parties, his charisma infecting entire rooms. Toothy grins that shone as brightly as his hair. Always loud, animated, and magnetic.

To you, he was mostly indifferent.

He was never outwardly mean, but he was constantly occupied with missions. It almost felt as if you weren’t married at all. You enjoyed speaking to him when he was around, though. There were moments when you could almost picture yourself being his friend, but then he would be away and come back cold.

When you asked for a divorce, he complied without a blink. Even after you were free from becoming an incubator for the Gojo clan’s next heir, something in your chest ached at how easily Gojo signed the papers.

And now, he’s tipsy in a bar with you and more tuned into your presence than ever. When he looks at you, there’s a lingering that you convince yourself you’re hallucinating.

Small talk with him is odd. He’s much more complicated than that, but here you are, discussing trivial things right now. If he’s remarried yet (he hasn’t). If you honed in on your cursed technique (you have).

It’s terribly odd. Like talking to a stranger that you’ve only met in a dream.

“I thought you’d have better taste in bars,” he drawls, sipping a Cosmo. It was annoyingly endearing, the way he wasn’t the kind of man to have a glass of whiskey despite acting like it.

“I could say the same to you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a regular. This place is full of perverts.”

“Does that include you?”

Gojo grins. “Not like some of these guys. You would’ve gotten roofied if I didn’t sit down. And your outfit certainly isn’t helping.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you scoff.

“It is one. You’re a sight to behold. Never saw you in anything like this when we were married.”

“Your clan would have my head. I assume you would, too,” you mutter.

His eyes are taking you in, flickering between your face and your body. It would make you uncomfortable if you weren’t already three beers in.

“I wouldn’t be angry. I just don’t promise that I would’ve kept my hands to myself.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“I think this is the most forward you’ve ever been to me.”

“You were so timid back then,” he smirks. He places a hand on your knee, his thumb tracing the skin. “Such a nervous little girl. There were times I assumed you were cheating on me, the way you were so rigid with me.”

You remember being obedient and quiet. Perhaps rigid, but you had only followed his lead, pushing yourself away from him just because he was doing it to you first. You know you shouldn’t apologize or feel guilty for your lack of intimacy with him, but the way he teases you makes your face heat up.

“I wouldn’t cheat on you,” you frown.

“Good,” he smiles. It almost seems genuine. “I wouldn’t have let anyone have you, anyway.”

Your eyes widen in slight surprise.

Why did you let me divorce you, then?

His fingers are tracing circles into the skin of your thigh absentmindedly. The flutter in your chest threatens to pull on your lungs when you notice.

“You’re so different now,” he notes.

“Not really.”

“I don’t just mean the way you look, by the way. Your eyes are sharper. Posture better. Not a meek little thing anymore, huh?”

You could flush at how he belittles you, but the praise gets to your head.

“Huh. You’re the opposite. You look and act the same as when I last saw you.”

He laughs. “I always liked when you talked back, you know. Anyone ever told you can be a bit of a brat?”

You raise a brow. “Yes.”

His breath smells sweet. Tongue like a candy apple from the sugared liquor in his glass, you were sure. You don’t wince when he gets closer to you.

“Yeah? And how do they deal with it?”

You bite the inside of your cheek before entertaining him.

“Everyone’s a little different,” you mumble.

You miss the flicker of jealousy in his eyes. You’re too distracted by the shape of his mouth.

“What do you think I’d do?” Gojo tilts his head as if he’s taunting you.

“I don’t– what?” you stammer.

“You’re a smart girl. Use your imagination.”

He grins again. Everything about him is sickeningly sweet. It’s not a side of him you’ve ever seen directed at you. There’s almost a fondness there. You would only see it before in rare moments, usually when Gojo was a little drunk. You suppose he could be drunk now and you’re almost grateful despite yourself. He would always get a little handsy, especially if you were dressed up for his clan events. He’d have his hand only on your leg, crawling up the skirt of your dress. During times like those, he felt like a real husband.

They were always such fleeting moments. Even years after the divorce, certain memories could still make you dizzy.

Your mouth goes dry. You compose yourself.

“Sorry. I, uh, have to use the bathroom.”

“Gonna use your imagination in there?” Gojo jokes.

“Something like that,” you mutter back, if only to humor him.

You don’t realize the hole you’ve put yourself in once you utter the words. The invitation you’ve given him. Unfortunately, you’re also still reeling from the conversation, so you forget to lock the door of the handicapped bathroom.

To be fair, Gojo did try to convince himself not to follow you for the entire three minutes you were gone. But he’s never been that good of a man. It was your fault for being so damn tempting in the first place. But he had tried to be good even in the very beginning – he was polite, kept his hands to himself. Bought you anything you wanted.

He even let you leave him. After seeing you tonight, he now knows it was a grave mistake.

“Satoru.”

“Hey.”

He closes the door gently and locks it. Leans against the door with his arms crossed as if waiting for you to do a magic trick from the way he’s looking at you expectantly.

“Why are you–”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to follow you,” he tuts.

Okay. Fine. He had a point.

“This must be exciting for you, yeah? Seeing me lose it over you?”

You can’t form words. Despite the fire in your belly, you aren’t completely sure what his angle is here. He steps forward and backs you into the wall. He could pin you to it, easily.

His hands rest on your thighs, riding up the length of the pathetic excuse you call a skirt.

“You’re trying to kill me with this,” he huffs. “Just making everything so… difficult.”

He almost sounds disappointed in you. There is a rush of desperation flooding your brain like a knee-jerk reaction. You can feel your heart about to burst.

“Sorry,” you mumble. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.

“I was really trying to behave, too,” Gojo sighs. “Wouldn’t want to scare my ex-wife away with how much I missed her. Christ.”

“You– what?”

“Yeah, baby. How could I not miss this face?” He strokes your cheek. You’re convinced he’s been possessed by someone else, maybe. Mistaken you for a different stranger.

Your knees are already going weak. He leans in to whisper in your ear. The hand stroking your cheek holds your chin, squishing your face slightly.

“Didn’t you miss me?”

“I… I did,” you whisper.

“Good,” he smiles softly. “I like knowing you still think about me.”

The proximity is driving him insane, but he’s always liked to play with you. Sometimes he would be a little mean on purpose, but never enough to be considered bullying. He just enjoyed watching you squirm back then — it was adorable how dedicated you were to playing the part of a doting wife. He wanted to see you crack, maybe beg for his attention, but you were always too stubborn.

His cock throbs knowing that you’re putty in his hands now. Melting against him, soft and willing like a blooming flower. God, he needs a taste. He nibbles on your earlobe and grins when he feels your breath hitch.

“I kind of wanted to just take you right there on the bar. Let all those creeps see how good I’d fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter rapidly at his words. He has pinned you to the wall now. You’re close enough to feel him press against you, bullet-hard. A little more teasing and he’d pull the trigger.

He kisses down your neck, mapping it out with his teeth. He’s barely touched you and you feel like an elastic band about to snap.

“S-Satoru–”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You pant lightly. You’re preening into his touch. Lightning makes roots down the center of your spine. You forget what you wanted to say.

“What is it? You want me to take care of you?” He pulls back this time to look you directly in the eyes. His expression softens just a second at the lovestruck look in your eyes. Tender and glistening.

You nod slowly.

“I need your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” your voice shakes. “I want you to take care of me.”

He hums, pleased. The desire in his face is so new to you despite having been his wife. He’d only fucked you once before, on your anniversary. You were too tempting and he, admittedly, was tired of punishing himself by not allowing himself the pleasure of having you.

He could see you now, sprawled on the tatami mat, how you smelled like cherry blossoms. Flashes of images reeling in his mind, every little sound you made. He’d fucked his fist to the memory of it all too often after you left him.

He felt honored to have the real thing in his hands right now.

He kisses you like he needs you to breathe. You feel blood rush to your ears, the music from the bar muffled. All you could hear were the sound of his grunts, the slickness of his tongue in between your lips.

He spins you around abruptly, bending you over the sink. Hand on your throat, teeth in the tendon of your shoulder.

“Look at how pretty you are,” he rasps.

You whimper, feeling his hard cock rut against the curve of your ass. He laughs when he swipes his hand underneath your skirt, the fabric of your underwear already wet.

You gasp sharply when he eases a finger in without any resistance. He swallows the sounds you make, craning your neck towards his face with his hand while the other works another finger in. Your stomach flips, all boiling heat when he curves his fingers in just the right spot. As if he’d done it a dozen times.

“Dirty girl,” Gojo mumbles. “Getting off to her ex-husband's fingers all the way up in her cunt. In a fucking dive bar bathroom, too.”

When you whine, he only scissors into you harder and laughs. It kills you how much it turns you on, even while knowing he’s being cruel. You would fantasize about it all the time back then. Needed him to make you a real wife so you could forget yourself. You close your eyes, groaning.

“S-Satoru, I–”

“You’re not gonna cum just from that, are you?” You hear a grin in his voice.

“Fuck, please —”

His fingers leave you, making you whine in protest. The sopping mess of your arousal trickles down your inner thighs.

“Not yet, baby. Want you to cum in my mouth.”

Gojo drops to his knees and flips up your skirt, pulling your soiled underwear down your legs at the same time. You cover your mouth to keep from moaning when you feel his tongue prodding at your cunt.

“I always regret not tasting you on our anniversary,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re sweeter than I imagined.”

“Imagined?” you squeak out.

“You thought I stopped wanting you just because I signed a piece of paper?”

“I didn’t – oh, fuck —”

You’re distracted by the plunge of his tongue into cunt. He sucks at the hood of your clit and you feel yourself jerk involuntarily. He’s fond of your sensitivity. He used to want to take advantage of it.

You let a particular loud whine and he hums, lapping up every drop of your arousal. He sucks at your clit in earnest while he brings his fingers back to you, immediately reaching for the spot he knows will make you see stars.

You cum so hard that you nearly bang your head against the sink faucet. Your head is spinning from the impact of it, dizzied on the high that came from a clan head in your cunt. The alcohol wasn’t helping.

He’s quick to get to his feet and kiss you so you can taste yourself. He tugs your hair and you arch for him like a taut bowstring.

“Feel how much I want you, baby?” You can feel his dick against you, something like shame flooding your system at how much of a mess you were. Getting his nice slacks all damp with your slick.

“Please,” you beg.

He doesn’t think twice once he hears your plea. He unbuckles his belt quickly and slides down his pants. He collects your wetness in between your folds to stroke his dick.

It feels like he’s gouging your stomach when he fucks into you. Bigger than any man you’ve had, still. Gojo likes that he was your first and he’s decided now that he will be your last.

“Tight,” Gojo mutters. You know it’s a compliment but your face heats up nonetheless. His hand around your throat is only more confirmation of his want.

He smacks your ass with his other hand, looking down to admire the reddish mark he left. Brute. He grins when you squeeze him tighter after it. He notices your eyes struggling to stay open and gives a particularly hard thrust just to see your jaw go slack. Eyes in half-moons, boiled by the heat of your thumping heart. Blood pumping to every soft spot in your body, your brain.

“Satoru,” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby?”

“F-Feels so…”

You inhale sharply, eyes widening when his hand snakes down to pinch your clit. Your hair’s wrapped his knuckles now. A ribbon around a wedding gift. He liked when you used to wear ribbons around your neck. Liked imagining you all wrapped up for him.

Satoru was so beautiful when he did anything, but he was angelic when he was fucking you. Cheeks all carmine, mouth wide open. It was something you wanted to get used to.

“You keep clenching, Jesus,” he grunts. Teeth at your nape, at your shoulder. Blue eyes staring at you in the mirror.

“Satoru, I’m close,” you whine.

“Hold it.”

“I– I don’t know if I can.”

“You can. You’re a good girl, even if you are dressed like a little slut.”

You whimper at that, your cunt pulsating at his words. Muscles strung out like a wet rag. You nearly cry when he pulls out of you, manhandling you to turn. He picks you up to set you down on the cold sink counter, the porcelain soothing the bruising on your ass.

He groans as he pumps himself slowly, admiring the way his tip catches on your entrance. You squirm a little, impatient, and he kisses you. It feels invasive, almost, from how rough he plays with you, sucks on your tongue. He takes the opportunity to ram into you, enjoying the way the pitched whine rolling out of your mouth gets tasted by him.

“Missed my cock, didn’t you?” he smirks. “Still the best you’ve ever had, right?”

“Y-Yes,” you sob.

His gut fucking melts.

Your mascara was getting smudged, not smudgy like he’d see in porn, but blending in the rim of your wet eyes. Dew-drop lashes.

“Feels best like this. Wanna see your face when you cum for me,” he pants.

Your hands are on his shoulders, clinging onto him. He’s so much bigger than you, especially like this — your legs spread, his big hands gripping your thigh hard enough to hurt a little. You moan. Your voice sounds girlier than usual, wounded. You don’t recognize yourself.

“Oh, it’s too deep—”

“No such thing,” Satoru snickers. “You’re – hah – so good at this. Good girl.”

“S-Satoru, it’s too–”

“You love it. Tell me.”

“F-fuck — I,” – you struggle mindlessly, voice strained – “I love it…”

“I know, baby,” he coos. Kisses your forehead, which is hilariously domestic and gentle considering the mean pace of his hips.

He grabs your chin and makes you look up at him. You’re so fucked out. He’d ask you to take a picture if he wasn’t so focused on making you cum.

“You want to cum, don’t you?” he taunts.

“Please, please, please—”

“Okay, honey,” he chuckles. “You can cum now.”

Your moan is louder than expected as your cunt squeezes him impossibly tight. You can feel all the warmth rush out of you. You really are a sight to behold, which is why Satoru cums immediately after you. You feel like you might pass out.

He kisses you all over your face, mumbling praise as you come back to your body. It’s all most nonsensical, but you swear you hear I love you. Your half-lidded eyes close as he envelops you with his arms, mascara streaking his shoulder.

He opens his mouth to say something but gets interrupted by a succession of loud knocks.

“Other people need to piss!”

Satoru scoffs, pulling away from you to slide his pants back up and buckle them. He mouths something to you that you don’t understand and leans down to grab your underwear to give to you.

“Just a second!” Satoru yells. “My wife is sick, had a bit too much to drink. Almost done.”

“Wife?” you whisper, bewildered.

Satoru eyes soften in amusement. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

#gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo x reader #jjk smut #jjk #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you #ree.writing

6K notes · View notes

chuluoyi · 7 months ago

Text

✎ mission: baby steps !

- gojo satoru x reader

the three times gojo tried to make his baby love him (and how he miserably fails)

genre: full crack, dad!gojo being a sore loser, your baby being mean (he only wants peace, really), and obviously, fluff !!

note: a little thing for father's day ehe <3 i know i said i'll work on smut in the polls next but uhhh, this comes first ok?! :') i just love the idea of gojo vs baby don't mind me *sobs* and all the scenario here come from the tiktok/reels you've sent me!

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

There are many things that come with being a jujutsu sorcerer, and when you are Gojo Satoru, those things seem to be multiplying like bunnies.

This essentially means less time with his wife and baby. Look, he could finish missions fast, but when sent to other cities, even he couldn't abuse his teleportation powers all the time to return to Tokyo.

And so, as much as he hated it, he couldn't fault his baby boy for forgetting him.

"Look, it's papa," you rocked your son with a smile, consoling him as he wailed right after Satoru held him. "Don't cry, don't cry! Papa just got back from a long mission, he's not scary!"

"Is he scared of me?" Ouch. The thought prickled him. It somehow felt sourer than seeing Principal Gakuganji's face.

You hummed, seemingly (or comically?) deep in thought. "Hmm, in baby's point of view: a big, bad man suddenly picks him up, of course he's scared."

"I'm not a bad man!"

Okay, he wasn't having this. Satoru adored his baby to bits and he would want him to at least know it. It's settled then—he would be taking paid leave just to spend some time with his baby.

This would be his mission for the next three days!

DAY ONE

The day started off great. Baby Gojo was relatively calm, a bit fussy here and there but Satoru could definitely handle him.

"Look, a plane is coming!" he said playfully, moving the spoon in the air to attract his baby's attention. "Open your mouth wide!"

Baby blinked at him with the straightest face ever. His two blue orbs were the very same as his father, and yet they held disinterest so great that it was a wonder Satoru didn't notice.

He then playfully smooched baby's face, but he scrunched up, cringing in response.

And later, another achievement unlocked: Satoru successfully got his son to sleep for his afternoon nap!

"You're so cute, sigh." Satoru poked his baby's cheek lightly. "You look like me, but when you sleep, you totally look like your mama..."

He might not say it out loud, but one of his favorite sights lately was seeing you sleep next to your son. Both of you looked so precious and vulnerable, so alike, and it made him warm.

And whenever he looked at this little creation between you and him, he also got the urge to poke him so bad.

So he did. Only this time, he poked him a little too hard.

And how wrong that move was.

His son immediately cracked his eyes open, his lips quivered, and then his whole face scrunched up, followed by—

"WAAA!"

"Oof! Wait— I'm sorry!"

Long story short, he refused to be held in Satoru's arms, so you took over and your husband could only watch you with dissatisfaction.

"Won't you let me hold you?" he asked despondently, pulling up a pitiful face and batting his eyelashes. "I have the warmest hugs! Mama can vouch for that!"

"Satoru, he doesn't want you."

DAY ONE RESULT : FAILED

DAY TWO

Okay, his baby would love him today. Satoru was sure of it.

He had ordered this baby ride-on toy via home shopping and not only that, he would play with him!

"Here we goo~! Honk! Honk!" Satoru steered the little vehicle with his son at the backseat, hyping him up and even made a weird sound that was supposed to resemble a... train?

You watched them both, giggling. Your husband looked positively ridiculous as he was too big for the small vehicle, but still persisted in entertaining your clueless baby behind him. "Oh my, Satoru, you're trying way too hard."

"I have to!" he retorted, sending pout and a glare at the same time. "You can't hog him all the time, he's my son too!"

"Well, good luck~ as it happens, your spawn isn't easy to impress."

"Just so you wait—!" Satoru begrudgingly shot you a look, eaten up by your taunts, not noticing the wall in front of him. "By the end of today, he'll— whoaaa!"

He was about to crash into the said wall, and you were prepared to jump to save your baby first. But then, Satoru did the next best thing to stop it—jumping out of the ride-on, rolling onto the floor... and crashing into the bookshelf that some of the things fell. "Ow!"

"Are you okay!?" you immediately picked up your baby before checking him over. However, Satoru's eyes were transfixed on your shared munchkin.

"Meh heh~"

And you too when you heard it— your baby was wiggling, all smiles, seemingly amused by the sight of his papa lying there pitifully. Satoru was aghast.

"Y-you have no filial piety!"

DAY TWO RESULT : FAILED

DAY THREE

Today, Satoru had gotten inside the playpen and brought a bunch of toys, planning to entertain his son with all of them.

"C'mon, don't throw that!" he pursed his lips when his kid flung the lego away. "Don't you want to play together with me?"

No. As if saying that, the baby crawled away from him. He seemed to have a target in mind though.

"Oi, what are you doing?" Satoru was puzzled, but he was in for a surprise when the child rose slowly.

"Oh, you're pushing yourself up..." he stated, observing how the baby, still wobbly, clutched on the edge of his playpen for support.

A huge grin spread across his face then. "Aww, look at you!" he gushed with pride. "You can stand already! Ooh!"

And suddenly, the sight tugged at his heartstrings. This was the first time he had ever witnessed such a milestone. He wasn't here when he first started teething or crawling, and now that he was here when his son was standing... he wanted to see more of this.

"Now, can you take a step?" Satoru moved closer to him, and the kid turned to him with those clear blue eyes and a little frown, seemingly unsure. "Go! Go! Come to me!"

He didn't think he would actually try to walk. But he did as baby let go of the support, alas suddenly he slipped—

And fell flat on his face.

"—! Are you hurt?!" Satoru immediately plucked him off the floor, horrified, and pulled him close when the baby started to sniffle. Soon, he began to wail inconsolably.

"Oh no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—!" he didn't even know why he was apologizing, but seeing his baby so frightened made his chest tighten. "Stop crying, oh wait—let's find mama!"

You were engrossed in your evening TV series when Satoru came barging to the living room with your poor son while being hysterical. "Help him!"

"What happened?!"

"He fell! He fell!"

Of course, your main concern was to comfort your baby, and so you reached out to take him from your husband's arms, only that...

"Huh...?" even Satoru was stunned when his son clutched onto his shirt, continuing to cry but refusing to let go, burying his little face into him.

Suddenly, he felt warm, he felt needed, and most of all, his desire to protect him was so overwhelming that he couldn't help but squeeze him closer.

You looked between the father and son, feeling giddy at the sight.

"He wants you," you finally smiled, patting baby's back. Satoru glanced between you and his precious pumpkin, seemingly taken aback as he blinked several times. When the fact sank in, he felt like a mush and pressed a kiss on his head.

The clown was convinced that his kid hates him and you are the savior. So, the fact that this little innocent being wanted him to comfort him... it made his heart flutter.

"Sorry, kid," he sighed into him, smushing his face to his little one's. "Don't cry, yeah? You're making me sad too."

"Satoru... are you getting glassy-eyed?"

"...am not!"

DAY THREE RESULT : DUBIOUS OUTCOME

"He's asleep..." you placed your baby between you and Satoru on the bed later that night, he was now so peaceful, out like a light.

Satoru turned to face you and the baby, looking at both of you with a yawn, but a soft smile lit his face when he saw how you pecked his son's cheek lightly.

These three days made him almost forget that curses still existed out there. Spending time with his son blurred that fine line between reality and a perfect daydream.

"He is still so little, but he screams so loud," he mused, poking the baby's cheek gently. You swatted his hand away, worried he might poke too hard again.

"You keep teasing him, that's why."

"—? He keeps playing me, is why!"

You two burst into quiet giggles then, and you couldn't help but reminiscing about the journey from when you first found out you were expecting, through the first ultrasound, and all the way to delivering your son.

And it seemed like Satoru had an inkling of what you were thinking when he suddenly blurted:

"Thank you, for everything you do," he whispered then, his eyes crinkled so softly at you.

You playfully huffed to hide your misty eyes, and in that moment, Satoru knew, that you too were glad for this life you two shared.

. . .

And that, in and of itself, was enough for him to thank all the stars for bringing him to meet you in that most beautiful spring of 2006.

Epilogue

It was morning, and baby was awoken by... sounds.

He looked to the side to find his mama there— your hand on his tummy to prevent him from rolling.

And then he turned to the other side to find his papa... who is perfectly still, but emanating this low sounds with each breath he took.

The longer he heard it, the more irritated your munchkin felt. So he rose, put his fists together, and came down on him—

Whack!

"—?!" Satoru groaned when something hit his face, and he opened his eyes only to see his son readying his punch again—

"W-why are you hitting me!" he was mortified. "H-help! Sweets, wake up! He’ll murder me!”

OVERALL MISSION RESULT : FAILED

5K notes · View notes

ghstzzn · 18 days ago

Text

roommates for dummies!

pairings: lee heeseung x f!reader, jay park x f!reader, jake sim x f!reader, park sunghoon x f!reader

synopsis: desperate to get off of your bestfriends couch, you decide to reply to an ad online in search of a roommate. sure, you were skeptical about living with four men—but if anything, just desperate. it wasn't long before you started to completely regret this decision. however, some things just might be worth the stress and anger.

part one! wc: 5.7k

tags/warnings (for this part): SMUT. theres no fivesome happening (sorry..), threesome(s), fingering, rough sex, unprotected sex, pullout method, oral ( m rec), deepthroating, cum eating/cum play/just cum stuff ig, voyeurism, degradation, name calling, some praise, manhandling, sex standing up idk just trust me, no aftercare, silly bit at the end, heeseung thinks he's sooooo funny! that's it for this part i believe.

🍊: havent posted smth fr in awhile kind of nervous. not much happens except sex but thats the point of this. by the way this is one of three/four parts ♡ enjoy and Uhhhhhh uhhhuhhh uhhhhhhhh

masterlist / part two

MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

you savored every second you spent outside of your new home.

sure, you were beyond grateful to have a place to live. in fact, you were lucky considering how quickly you got in this situation. losing your old place due to unforeseen circumstances, a.k.a, your ex boyfriend kicking you out of his apartment after you caught him cheating on you despite you paying more than half of his rent.

though, you figured his new girlfriend could handle that portion now.

you crashed on your friends couch for a few days, actively searching for anyone looking for a new roommate. she assured you that you could stay as long as you needed, and there was no need to rush, but you were stubborn and had quite the false sense of being independent.

which is why you clicked on the first ad you saw. a nice five bedroom house, the spare having its own bathroom and it was closer to campus unlike your last apartment. you couldn’t find much information on the poster, but you were desperate so you quickly dialed in the number on screen and waited while it rang.

you were taken aback when a male voice loudly boomed from the other side. you pulled the phone away from your ear and double checked the number— it was typed in correctly.

“hello?” he spoke again. “hellooooooo-”

“uh, sorry.” you cleared your throat. “i saw an ad online that you were looking for a new roo-”

the male cuts you off, “yeaahhh. man, was wondering when someone would respond.” you cringe at the way he interrupted you. “you lookin’ for someone else? no offense but you sound a little… y’know, like a girl.”

you let out a sigh, nodding even though he couldn’t see you, “i’m calling for myself… i wasn’t aware you were a man but– actually, i’m a little desperate.”

“yeah? desperate?” he chuckles. you raise an eyebrow at the response. “alright, can you meet me here then?”

caught off guard once more by the sudden eagerness of the stranger, you stuttered out a quick yes.

“cool. i’ll text you the address n’ shit.”

the phone hangs up, not sparring you a moment to respond. you blink as you stare at your phone, watching as you receive a few messages from the number you had just called.

at least you had other options if this didn’t go as planned.

jake spun around in the barstool at the kitchen island, letting out a puff of air as he waited patiently.

“you waiting for something?” jake turns his head towards the voice. jay walks through the kitchen, chewing on some kind of protein bar.

the antsy male leans forward against the counter, “our new roomie. she said she’d be here ten minutes ago.”

“oh.” jay responds before stopping in his tracks as he actually lets jakes words enter his brain. “wait, what? new roommate? she?”

“yeah man,” jake lets out another huff. “she’s late.”

“no, run that back.” the other male draws circles into the air. “when the fuck did we get a new roommate? and why is it a woman?”

“we have a new roommate?” another voice rings through the kitchen.

jake turns around in his chair with a sigh, “yes guys! jeez, you all need to learn patience– she’ll be here soon.”

“she?” the voice, belonging to heeseung, questions.

“that’s what i’m wondering!”

“ladies please, one at a time.” the male stands from his seat. “we have a new roommate, yes. she’s a woman, also yes.”

heeseung furrows his eyebrows, thinking for a moment before jay speaks up once more, “don’t we get a say in this? or at least some type of interview?”

“is she hot?” heeseung chimes in immediately after, receiving a scoff from jay.

“totally.” jake snickers. “her voice told me enough about her. sounded so nervous too, it was cute.”

“you don’t even know what she looks like?”

“you seriously only think with that dick of yours.” heeseung comments, shaking his head.

“says you!” jay frowns at the other roommate.

the doorbell rings twice, drawing the attention from all three males. heeseung straightens his posture, quickly checking his appearance in the reflection of the stainless steel refrigerator. jay finishes his protein bar in one bite and clears his throat.

jake rolls his eyes at the two, “careful now, don’t pop a boner in front of her.”

he practically skips over to the door, almost giggling out loud. he pulls the front door open just before you ring the doorbell once more. “was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

you look him up and down, quite shocked at the attractive face he had.

“uh, yeah, sorry about that.” you respond, clearing your throat. “traffic was heavy.”

“that’s okay, babe.” he opens the door wider, inviting you in, not even hiding the way his eyes immediately land on your ass as you walk in front of him.

your gaze immediately fell on a taller man with red hair, who you assumed was heeseung (you weren’t viewing this house without stalking the people who resided in it), now wearing a beanie and leaned over the counter with his chin resting on his hand. he shot you a crooked smile and waved his fingers at you.

“hey roomie.”

jay looks at the man in disbelief; and so do you.

“i’m actually just here to tour and interview… right?” you turn to look at jake who shrugs.

“i mean we all agreed you could move in.”

“since whe-”

jake cuts jay off and steps closer to you, “you said you were desperate right? you don’t seem like a weirdo or a bitch so just give us a move-in date and you’re good.”

you squint your eyes at him, confused and questioning this entire thing. your friend's couch doesn’t seem like a bad idea, she even offered to renew her lease for a bigger space in a few months.

“we promise we won't bother you or anything,” he continues, “you have your own bathroom and the door has a working lock. swear on our lives you’ll barely see us.”

before you could even respond, the front door opens and slams shut. a taller man walks past you and jake, clearly locked into whatever was on his phone. he continued to walk past the kitchen before stopping and spinning around.

“new roommate.” heeseung tells him. the other male lets out an “oh” and nods his head at you before walking away, probably to his room.

you let out a sigh and the three remaining boys turn their attention back to you.

“can i just see the room?”

bothering you was the only thing these fools ever did.

the front door shuts with a slam and you’re immediately greeted by heeseung sprawled out on the couch scrolling through his phone, completely ignoring the mess leftover from their small house party from last night. the one that kept you up half the night despite begging them to turn in early for the sake of your sanity.

you run your hands through your hair, frustrated that the house looks exactly the same as it did early this morning. well, save for the leftover food that heeseung managed to put in the fridge. kicking off your shoes, you make your way into the kitchen and grab the trash bag that was left on the counter and start tossing all the empty beer cans and disposable cups in.

heeseung looks up from his phone to find the source of the angry slams and movements, smirking when his eyes land on you.

“woah there,” he calls out to you, “wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?”

you look up from the trash bag, throwing a can in it with so much force it somehow bounces out, only fueling your anger, “save it.”

heeseung chuckles, standing up from the couch and stretching while letting out an obnoxious groan. he walks around the couch and leans against the back of it.

“are you gonna help or just stand there?” you motion towards the mess on the counters.

“no, yeah, i think i'll just stand here. i’m kind of loving this scene with you in the kitchen.”

you look at him, disbelief written all over your face, “so you’re lazy and a misogynist, nice!”

“what? no,” heeseung looks almost offended at your accusation. “no, babe, i’m not a misogynist– i literally love pussy. i could prove that to you right now if you’d like.”

“not a misogynist, just horny. got it.”

your roommate only shrugs and pulls out his phone once more. the carefree attitude of his was only adding to the frustration building in your chest. you cross your arms and glance around. “where are the others?”

heeseung hums, you only assume he’s using the full power of his brain as he recalls the whereabouts of the other three roommates, but really he’s only focusing on how your tits bounce ever so slightly with every angry movement if your arms.

“jake’s asleep, jay’s attending a group meditation and sunghoon… should be home in a few. why? miss them?”

you wanted nothing more than to take the metal scrub pad near the sink and scrub at the stupid smirk on his face. instead, you nod and take a deep breath.

the door opens just on cue however. sunghoon walks in, kicking his shoes off in two different directions with a bag of full of bottles clinking against each other. the noise of the liquor bottles only added to your rage.

“really? more alcohol?” you comment and point towards the counter where a few unopened and opened bottles sat. “you have all of this– plus the entire mini fridge full of drinks.”

sunghoon raises a brow at you, “okay. but that’s liquor for functions, not me.”

you wave your hands in front of you. it made zero sense to you.

the taller male looks at sunghoon, “what’s wrong with her?”

“man, i don't know.” heeseung replies with a sigh, “she came in here all pissy and started slamming shit.”

they were having a conversation about you– in front of you.

“what? why?”

he shrugs again, “like i said, don't know. maybe she should follow jay to one of his meditation sessions.”

you roll your eyes, “you’re not funny, heeseung.” he lets out a snicker. you grab a rag from the counter and chuck it in his direction.

sunghoon whistles at the action and sets the bags he was holding onto the counter.

“i’m seriously regretting this whole living arrangement.”

heeseung pouts and crosses his arms over his chest dramatically, “hey! we aren’t that bad to live with.” he protests, though his tone is playful. “at least give us a chance to redeem ourselves. look, we’ll help clean up the rest of the mess.”

you sigh and nod, it’s the least they could do but you won't protest. turning around, you glance at sunghoon, who was now storing away the liquor he had bought and the leftover bottles.

“...except, it looks like you’ve finished.” heeseung grins. “thanks, darling.”

you shoulders fall in defeat, “i fucking hate you.”

he chuckles loudly as you study the room. he was right. you had completely cleaned the kitchen, minus the few liquor bottles that sunghoon had just stored away.

“no, no. she missed one thing.” sunghoon calls out causing the two of you to whip your heads in his direction. he crouches down and picks up the can that bounced out of the trash bag earlier and tosses it in the trash. “hah, how funny is that? it was right next to the bag too.”

heeseungs no longer holding back his laughter. you question whether or not the dude is blasted out of his mind right now because you definitely didn’t find a single thing about this funny.

“hey, chill.” sunghoon butts in, “i’ll wipe down the counters and shit.”

you turn to face him, “did you by chance buy any cleaning supplies while out?”

“no, why?”

heeseung laughs louder, wiping at his eyes.

“i really don’t understand what could possibly be so funny about any of this.”

his laughter eventually dies down, finally shutting up. “sorry, sorry.” he clears his throat. “but seriously, thanks for cleaning up. you’re a real one for that.”

you hum and let out a sarcastic sure, heeseung nods and walks past you, patting your shoulder causing you to scrunch your face in disgust. you turn to follow his figure with your eyes, but you catch sunghoon staring at you.

“what?”

“hm, nothing. just wondering when you’re gonna snap out of your little tantrum.” he responds calmly, leaning against the counter. “it’s getting old, to be honest with you.”

you bite your lip, holding back a response to him. you watch as heeseung wipes his hand on a paper towel, throwing it on the counter right after.

sunghoon sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “seriously, what’s the big deal? nobody here is forcing you to clean up after us.”

“but it’s all the time,” you groan. “the constant parties and get-togethers you host while i’m trying to sleep after a long day or studying– then having to come out and clean it all up because you three are nowhere to be seen? i can only deal with so much.”

his expression hardens and heeseung leans against the counter with a bored expression, “well, maybe if you’d let loose for once and joined in on the fun every once in a while, instead of holing yourself up in your room like a hermit, you wouldn’t be so uptight.”

“fuck off.”

sunghoon scoffs, “my point exactly. you’re so uptight and bitchy— it’s not fun. you aren’t better than us for that.”

“sorry i don’t want to be involved in your weird ass parties.” you respond with a shrug.

“such a princess,” heeseung giggles, “always complaining, never participating. seriously, they aren’t as bad as you make them seem.”

sunghoon nods in agreement, “yeah, i’m telling you that you’d be able to tolerate us a lot more if you cared to let go of that boring, angry personality of yours and showed up.”

you throw your hands up, more than done with the conversation. “whatever, i don’t care anymore. just… just clean up a little more. it’s all i ask.”

heeseung pouts exaggeratedly, eyeing the way you surrender in defeat “oh come on, princess. don’t be like that.” he tries to sound apologetic, “we’re only messing around with you.”

“yeah! we don’t care if you prude around alone in your room!” sunghoon adds, “but just for you, we’ll clean up after ourselves, your highness.”

“you both are childish.” you spit out, biting the inside of your cheeks as the frustration threatens to spill out in the form of tears.

heeseung grins, not at all put off by your insult, “childish? rich coming from the girl who’s about to cry from a little teasing.” he taunts, voice laced with amusement.

you scoff in response, turning around so you could leave the situation and escape to your room, but sunghoon has other plans as he steps right in front of you. his arms automatically wrap around your waist to steady you, his face mere inches away from you as you look up at him, shooting him a glare.

“where do you think you’re going, princess?” he flashes you a knowing smile, voice low and teasing.

you attempt to lean away from his face that only seems to inch closer, jumping slightly when the back of your head comes into contact with heeseungs chin. “to my room– away from the two of you.”

“oh, don’t let us stop you then.” heeseung grins from behind, his cheek nuzzling against your hair.

“let me go then?”

“but we weren’t done,” sunghoon attempts to feign a pout, but his smirk grows stronger as he studies the way your body reacts to him, “we still have to thank you for cleaning the mess up.”

heeseung hums against your ear, “seriously. how sweet of you, doll.”

“you can thank me by leaving me alone.” you mumble, though you do nothing to back away from the situation. you couldn’t deny the way your heartbeat sped up from being sandwiched between the two, or the way your core pulsed from the way sunghoon traced small patterns into your side.

sunghoon chuckles, all knowing of what was running through your mind, “aw, but where’s the fun in that?” he asks, hands sliding down to your hips, giving them a teasing squeeze. “we love spending time with our favorite roomie.”

your hands fall on top of his, unsure on whether or not you should remove them from your hips. his eyes follow the movements of your hands, letting out a soft chuckle as he watches the way your mind struggles against the need you feel for the two.

“mm, not so fast baby.” heeseung purrs, his hot breath hitting the shell of your ear. “what did we say? gotta give you a proper thank you.”

“how?”

sunghoon smiles, looking at heeseung before turning his attention back to you. “they say actions speak louder than words,” he responds. “we’ll make sure to make it very clear just how grateful we are for you.”

you gulp as he responds, your thighs clenching together at the tone of his voice. the gaze in his eyes told you exactly what the two men wanted from you, the way they looked at you as if you were prey.

heeseung grows impatient from behind, his face nuzzling against your skin as he peppers kisses down your neck until he reaches your shoulder, biting the skin causing you to let out a gasp. he chuckles darkly before tucking his finger under the thin strap of your tank top and letting it fall off your shoulder.

he lifts his head and switches to your other shoulder, resting his chin on your shoulder as he travels his hand down your torso, reaching the waistband of your shorts.

your automatic response is to grab his hands but sunghoon shakes his head and grabs them, linking his fingers between yours and bringing them up to his shoulders. he leans in closer, his breath ghosting your cheek.

sunghoon begins planting soft but deliberate kisses against your skin, following the trail that heeseung had left earlier, kissing and sucking the bite mark left by the other male.

the man behind you takes the chance, shoving his hand down your shorts that he had undone moments before while you were distracted. he grins when he doesn’t feel any other fabric beneath your shorts.

“isn’t that just convenient?” he grins, giddy at the fact that you weren’t wearing underwear.

“w-wait,” you stutter out, suddenly aware of where you were standing.

sunghoon grips one of your hands, guiding it over his chest, “shh, it’s fine.”

heeseungs hand dips lower, his middle finger sliding through your slit. he lets out a groan before removing his hand from your shorts but quickly yanks them down, letting them fall to your ankles.

you let out a small yelp due to the quickness of the male. he glides his finger from your dripping hold, gathering your slick and moving to your clit, tapping it a few times before pressing down.

“can’t believe you’re already this wet just from a little bit of touching,” he groans against your shoulder. “really thought we’d have to ease you into this– but you wanted this bad, huh?”

sunghoon smirks against your neck, lifting his head, wanting to see your face as heeseung pleasures you with his fingers, “c’mon, don’t tease her. poor girl probably hasn’t been touched properly in awhile.”

“is that true?” the male behind you questions softly but teasing, “were you just waiting for one of us to fuck you stupid?”

their teasing voices combined with heeseungs fingers massaging at your clit cause you to let out a soft whine. one buck of your hips has sunghoon reaching down and holding your hips in place for heeseung to continue his attack on your sensitive bud.

“you don’t even have to respond,” sunghoon mutters, “look at the way you’re whining and squirming.”

heeseung slips a finger in your core, pumping a few times before slipping another one inside of you. the feeling of your warm cunt walls wrapped around his fingers is enough to send him reeling, he grinds his hips into your ass with a grunt.

the male in front of you has to tighten his grip on your hips, rolling his eyes. you let out a loud moan when heeseung curls his fingers inside of you, he brings his other hand to cover your mouth.

“don’t wanna wake jakey up, do you?” his voice is low, hot breath hitting the side of your face. you shake your head desperately as he continues to finger fuck you, scissoring and curling his fingers, hitting the sensitive spot inside of you with ease.

“look at her, hee.” sunghoon mumbles, admiring the way you look between the two men, “so pretty like this, isn’t she? if i knew this was a good way to get her to shut up, i'd have done it earlier.”

heeseung chuckles darkly, lips trailing against your neck once more, “she’s so fuckin’ greedy too. literally dripping down my hand… aren’t you, baby?”

you let out a muffled whine and nod your head shamelessly.

“yeah? you’re doing so good like this,” he continues, “but i think you need more.”

heeseung pulls his fingers out of you and removes his hand from your mouth. you’re about to question him but he’s pushing you forward while pulling your hips back against him. sunghoon holds you steady as the male behind you undoes his pants.

“take your time, hee.” sunghoon comments, slowly losing his patience. “jay’s gonna be home soon.”

“‘m fucking trying,” he mutters in response, successfully freeing his hardened cock with his one hand. “hold her still and shut up.”

sunghoon rolls his head back in irritation and tightens his grip on you.

“you’ll need to cover her mouth too. i’m not sharing her between you and jake today.”

your taller roommate doesn’t respond again but brings his hand up to your mouth with a smirk. you whimper softly through his hand when you feel heeseung slide his tip through your wetness, gathering it on his cock. he rocks his hips a few times, teasing your clit before catching onto your hole and slowly pushing in.

“fuuuck,” he hisses. “she’s so damn tight, sunghoon.”

“just fuck her,” sunghoon responds impatiently, he tilts his head down at you. “that’s what you want right, babygirl?”

you let out a muffled grunt when heeseung bottoms out inside of you. he waits only a few moments before pulling out almost completely, then pushing back inside of you with more force and speed.

the two men have you perfectly held in place, controlling the movements of your body as heeseung speeds up his thrusts. each rock of his hips draws out a moan from you, covered by sunghoons hand.

heeseung groans softly, his pace never slowing as he takes all the pleasure he can get from your body. “she’s seriously so tight.” he growls, his grip tightening on your body. “feel that? feel how well you wrap around my cock, baby?”

your eyes squeeze shut from the pleasure. your cunt continues to squeeze around his cock as he pounds into you. sunghoon watches the way his roommates cock disappears inside of you, the way your juices glisten everytime he pulls out before slamming back in.

his own cock twitches in his pants, he’s so painfully hard and getting impatient. sunghoon wishes it were just him here instead of heeseung, wishing it were him being the one to fuck you– and only him. you let out a high pitch whine as heeseung speeds up his pace, his tip hitting your g-spot deliciously. he brings a hand down to rub at you clit, causing you to jump from the overwhelming pleasure.

“mm, she jus’ gets tighter.” he slurs, drunk on the way your pussy sucks him in. “you like that, don’t you? shit.. y’gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”

your eyes are shut, in a complete daze from the way his cock is fucking you. sunghoon smirks at the sight, in love with the way you’re fully enjoying every second of this.

“minutes ago you were about to rip our heads off,” he coos, “now you’re over here drooling on my hand over some cock. just a little slut, aren't you? maybe i was wrong about you being a prude.”

heeseung’s barely keeping it together behind you as his hips meet your ass with haste, hissing and groaning with each thrust. he’s uncoordinated and sloppy yet still hitting that spot deep inside of you, throwing your body towards sunghoon, who keeps a bruising grip on you as the other male pounds into you.

your past self would be embarrassed to see you now, yet, you couldn’t feel an ounce of shame at the moment. it feels as if heeseung’s fucking all the frustration out of you.

it’s dirty. the way the two men have you sandwiched in the kitchen— straight out of a cheap porno. every time you start to think about jay or jake strolling in and catching the three of you, it only makes your core throb more with need.

“what are you thinking about?” sunghoon whispers, leaning closer, offering his chest for your head to lean against. “hmm, baby? you thinking about something else while fucking yourself on heeseungs cock?”

the male mentioned lets out a loud groan, gripping your hips and pulling you back harder against him. you could tell he was close, as were you. your hands tug on the fabric of sunghoons shirt, attempting to pull yourself up. but with his hand on your mouth, you can’t let them know so you rely on your body language.

“gonna cum for me?” heeseung grumbles, leaning closer to you. his thrusts are deep and rough as he chases his high. “c’mon, cum on this cock…”

you feel your cunt flutter around him as you hit your peak, a muffled squeal leaving your mouth as you finally cum. heeseung pants, giving you a few more thrusts before pulling out completely and fisting his cock until he’s cumming all over your lower back and ass.

sunghoon removes his hand from your mouth causing you to take a deep breath, he wipes his hand on his pant leg which goes unnoticed by you.

“jesus-” heeseung breathes out from behind you, hand gripping the counter. “fuck, that was good. why didn’t you tell me you felt this good before?”

you don’t reply to him– you just continue to lean against sunghoon as you regain all composure. the tall male keeps a hand on your waist as the other slowly unbuckles his belt. your other roommate redresses himself after using a paper towel to wipe himself down, giving your ass a small smack in the process.

“yo,” sunghoon calls out to him, earning a raised eyebrow in response. he cocks his head behind him. “keep jake in his room, yeah?”

“now?”

the man you were still using as support scoffs, “yes, dude. now..”

heeseungs stands there for a moment, looking at you as you finally turn around, slowly reaching to pull your shorts up. he clicks his tongue and walks off with a groan.

as soon as his footsteps fade away, sunghoon yanks your arm away from the article of clothing and pushes you against the kitchen counter. you gasp when the cold countertop makes contact with your skin. “s-sunghoon!”

he smacks his lips and pushes your sticky lower back down to keep you still, “you seriously thought i was about to let you walk away? after you made me watch him fuck you like that?”

he lifts his now cum covered hand off your back, studying it for a few moments. “not gonna let me have any fun? especially after you used me like a fucking wall?” he grips your face with his other hand, leaning over you as he shoves his fingers in your mouth.

the thick salty flavor hits your tongue immediately and you close your lips around his soaked fingers, the rest of the cum on his hand completely coating your chin and jaw.

“you like that?” sunghoon chuckles darkly. “you know how pathetic you look right now?”

you groan around his fingers as he rocks his hips against you, grinding his bare cock in your slick. he doesn’t waste a second before shoving himself inside of you causing you to bite down on his fingers from the sudden full feeling once again.

sunghoon hisses in response, pulling out before roughly thrusting into you. the corner of the counter is digging into your hip but you couldn’t be bothered to resituate yourself. he pulls his fingers out of your mouth and snakes his hand in between your thighs, pressing against your clit as he starts to pound into you. his other hand is on the back of your neck, a tight grip as he uses it to stabilize himself.

your own cum is dripping down your thighs as sunghoon’s cock forces it out with each thrust. it’s truly a struggle to stay quiet, your moans are coming out in rough whimpers and deep breaths. you lay your upper body flat against the counter and hide your face in your arms to help muffle your sounds of pleasure.

though it wouldn’t even matter if anyone could hear your cries because the sound of wet skin slapping against each other could surely be heard from the other side of the neighborhood.

“fuck, you’re taking me so good right now. heeseung loosened you up for me, didn’t he?” sunghoons voice is low and rough, almost stuttering over his words. “so fuckin’ greedy for cock– look at you.”

if it weren’t for your arms, your face would be squashed into the hard countertops from the sheer force of his hand around the back of your neck pushing it down. sunghoon doesn’t notice, nor does he care about his roughness because truly all he cares about is cumming.

you can hear the door slam and you try to lift your hand, in sheer panic, but sunghoon shoves it back down with a grumble.

“t’sup?” sunghoon lets out a sigh and throws his head back.

“nothing,” the voice, belonging to jay, responds. he throws a few envelopes on the counter and sighs. “another noise complaint– like dude, who fucking cares? they act like the cops are gonna bust us or something.”

never in a million years did you think you would be getting backshots while two people had a completely casual conversation as you were between them.

sunghoon groans, his pace barely slowing, “my parents own half this fuckin’ neighborhood.”

“that’s what i’m saying! these complaints are useless.” jay responds, an annoyed tone lacing his voice. “is that– y’know what, i’m tired. clean the counters when you’re done.”

and with that, jay is walking away. you only hope he’s heading to his bedroom. however, your entire body is hot with embarrassment yet you feel yourself about to cum any second.

“fuck– sunghoon! s-slow down.” you barely cry out as you cream around his cock. he rolls his eyes, not that you could see, before pulling out completely.

you take a deep breath before he grabs you and spins you around, pushing you to your knees. your hands fly to his thighs, trying to catch yourself before bruising your knees.

sunghoon spares you a wicked smirk before tapping the tip of his cock against your lips, in which you invite him in with zero hesitance. he doesn’t start slow, immediately pushing his cock to your throat, enough to bring tears to your eyes before pulling out to let you breathe.

and he does it again. and again. until you're coughing around his cock.

“yeah, just like that, baby.” the male sighs, hand gripping your hair. he lets you take another deep breath before shoving his cock deeper down your throat. “look at you gagging– fuck, this is so good.”

he repeats his actions until his cock is twitching with the need to cum. sunghoon gives a few thrusts before pulling back slightly and cumming all over your tongue and throat. his release was almost too much for you, but he didn’t care that it was dripping out of your mouth, or that you were borderline choking on it.

“swallow.”

you try to shake your head no but he only tugs on your hair, “you can.”

shakily, you cover your mouth as you gulp, swallowing his sticky release. sunghoon chuckles, completely satisfied.

“you’re so fucking easy, you know that?” he cooes. his thumb, sticky with heeseungs earlier release, wipes at your tears. you can only stare at him as he continues to degrade you. “oh, don’t be ashamed, princess, it’s perfect for us.”

you wipe at the corner of your mouth before grabbing your shorts that are laid close by. grabbing the counter edge above, you pull yourself up, not at all wanting to ask for sunghoons help. he leans against the counter, fixing his belt, completely uninterested in you.

slipping the shorts on felt useless in front of him. what was there to hide at this point?

“i’m gonna shower.”

“yeah, sure. i’ll try not to use any hot water for the next hour.”

you give him a nod. well, this is fucking weird. but you honestly would rather take this than it be awkward. genuinely, you would rather not have him force himself to give you soft and sweet aftercare.

“jays cooking tonight!” sunghoon calls out to you as you head back to your room. you roll your eyes and push your door open.

you:

hypothetically, i have this friend who wanted to move out of her current place because she HATES her roommates but she just fucked 2 of them…. at the same time and suddenly doesnt want to leave

from: chaewon 💓

what the FUCK did u just say to me

you:

so basically im fucked

🍊: @filmnings @deobitifull @leov3rse @hooniehon @roslayy @strxwbloody @cutiepatootiejungwon @jakeswifez @yuriknows @d-dilemma (bold couldn’t be tagged / taglist now closed!)

2K notes · View notes

enthusiasticharry · 14 days ago

Text

the one where YN gets a job as a bartender in a motorbike club's bar, and Harry runs the club.

author's note: suprise!! i'm back again!! i promised i wouldn't keep you waiting and i'm not. this is the first part in my biker!harry mini-series which i started a while ago and only just got around to finishing! let me know what you think and what you'd like to see in the next instalments!

word count: 11.6k of sexy biker!harry (that's it, that's all).

WARNINGS: strong language, smut, bike riding, a bar fight and talks of a motor accident.

let me know what you think of clover here!! mwah <3

1979

“Look, sweets, I’d hire you on the spot if I thought it would be a good idea,” Mick spoke from across the bar, towel over one shoulder and another in his hand drying a glass, “But it just isn’t, I’m sorry.”

YN sighed, dropping her hands down on the bar. This was the fourth one she’d tried, and so far, she hadn’t had any luck. She wasn’t asking for much – just a job to help pay for her student loans. She had graduated a year ago and bounced from job to job, and yet none of them seemed to fit. It wasn’t necessarily her dream to work in a bar, but she hadn’t a single clue about what her dream was. She had a first-class honours history degree (which she adored getting) and yet not a single idea of what to do with it.

She couldn’t think of the future at this moment, she needed to think about the now and if she wanted to continue to live in her small apartment and eat — she needed a job.

Clovers had been her last hope. It was the last bar in town that YN was yet to try, and despite its less-than-positive reputation – it was always busy, and that meant money coming in. As she turned to look around the bar, which was already quite crowded for it being early on a Friday night, she couldn’t help but imagine the cash that was funnelling through the establishment, and how she wished she could get at least some of it.

“Can I get you a drink, sweets?” Mick spoke again, offering her a soft smile, “It’ll hopefully soften the blow a little bit.”

YN smiled at the man and nodded, “Thank you. Whisky, please.”

Mick got straight to work, placing the glass in front of her, dropping an ice cube into the glass and pouring her a more than generous shot. Just as she fumbled with her purse to pull out some bills to pass to Mick, he shook his head and held his hand out to stop it. She smiled in thanks and watched as he turned and walked away, going to serve the next customer who was standing a few feet away from her.

YN picked up her drink, and just as she was about to take a drink the door beside her opened. Her lips parted, her eyes watching as a group of what seemed to be fifteen or so men, all clad in heavy leather or dark denim walked into the bar.

Of course, YN knew about them. Anyone who lived here knew who they were, but it was the first time that she had seen them this up close. The most she had ever experienced with them was the low rumbling of their engines from a distance, or possibly them riding past her but that was only ever one or two. It was their jackets that often set them apart from the rest of the riders in the town, the very specific Clover’s Riders jacket that every member adorned and what seemed like all times.

The men were loud as they stepped in, most of them heading towards the bar whilst others went to some of the other members who were already seated in the bar. YN’s eyes never left the door until the last one had made his entrance, and she just couldn’t seem to draw them away.

He was younger than many of his counterparts, probably resting at an age near YN’s or possibly a few years or so older. He was clad in the same heavy denim that many of the others wore, but they seemed to sit on his body much easier. The curls of his hair were tousled in every direction it seemed, but YN found herself wondering as to what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.

With a shake of her head, she turned back to her glass and lifted it to her lips. She took a large gulp of the liquid, allowing that to slip down her throat before she finished the rest of it. Mick was long gone from being anywhere near her, working at what seemed like double speed to keep up with the orders that the gang of men were giving him, and she felt as though that was probably her cue to leave. She would have to brainstorm other options for work, seeing as though this just hadn’t called through.

Sighing, YN pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder and pushed up from the stool she was resting on. Just as she turned around to make a beeline for the door through the bodies that were crowding the room, she was stopped by a body in front of hers.

“Woah, woah, little darling where do you think you’re going?” It was one of the riders, standing in front of her with a grin on his features.

“Home,” she said with a shrug.

“So soon,” The man looked over his shoulder to some of his friends who were standing close by, “Me and my buddies here didn’t even get to say hello.”

“Right, okay, hello,” YN nodded to the man in front of her and those behind him, “Really have to get going.”

The man extended his arms so that she couldn’t carry move from her space in front of him, “Let us buy you a drink little darling, I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ve already had one, thank you, and it was very enjoyable,” YN offered them another small smile, “Now please move out of my way so that I can go home.”

“Hey, none of that,” The man shook his head, “Stay with us, I promise we’ll make it worth it.”

YN hummed, tilting her head from side to side lightly, “I’ll pass but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone else to make the night worth it.”

And with that, YN pushed past the man and beelined for the door. She half expected him to grab her, but from the hoots and hollers of his friends, he was too embarrassed to do anything else.

The bar that YN had worked out whilst she was completing her degree had taught her a thing or two about how to deal with rowdy men, and whilst the firm but clear approach worked in most cases, YN wasn’t afraid to resort to other means if necessary. It was all a respect thing, and more often than not if you deal back to them what they deal to you – the situation usually sorts itself.

YN had just rested her palm against the wood of the door when she heard someone call her name. She saw Mick standing there, leaning over the bar to catch her attention.

“Saw you deal with those guys,” He nodded his head over to the men whose attention had been taken by another woman in the bar, who seemed to accept their advances more than YN did, “When can you start?”

YN’s face broke out into a smile and took a delighted step towards Mick, “Whenever.”

“Right now?” He raised his eyebrows at her, motioning to the men who were calling his name for more drinks, “Have a feeling we’re going to be swamped tonight.”

YN nodded and immediately dropped her purse down behind the bar and rolled the sleeves of her cardigan up.

She turned to the men who were now staring at her with their mouths slightly agape, “What can I get you?”

It was a Thursday night and YN had been working at Clover’s for around a week at this point when Mick decided that she could handle a night on her own. After being thrown into what very much was the deep end on her first shift, there had been time the next day for Mick to show her the ropes properly and anything she would specifically need to know.

Mick said that he normally wouldn’t leave such a new person on their own so quickly, but he had an important family issue that he couldn’t get out of and that she had shown enough trust that he wasn’t worried. It was a Thursday, so it wasn’t going to be too busy but even so, those who were going to be there would be Riders, and they would protect their bar from anything.

It was nearing nine, and YN would probably say that they were at a quarter of their capacity, the majority of them being riders who had been there for the last few hours or so. YN was lucky she supposed. They never ordered anything more complicated than a beer, at most a whisky or a bourbon and this was their bar so there were never any arguments about paying for the drinks.

There was a lull in the orders, so YN decided to take it upon herself to dry some of the glasses she had washed in the previous lull. This job was not for the weak she would say that, but YN would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it. She loved people watching and mixed with the hum of the jukebox it was the perfect combination for her.

The door to the bar opened again about twenty minutes, and in walked that same man that caught her attention a week or so ago, on that first day she was here. He looked the same, apart from he was clad in a mixture of denim and leather this time instead of just denim, and a large bruise was sprouting from under his left eye. To YN, it was obvious that the cause was a punch, for there was nothing else that could cause a bruise such as that one. He walked into the room, ignored the hoots and hollers from some of the other men and took a seat right in the middle of the bar.

YN threw the towel she was holding over her shoulder and walked towards him, resting her hands on the edge of the bar, “What can I get ya?”

The man didn’t stray his eyes away from where they were planted firmly on the wood of the bar, “Beer, and a whisky.”

YN nodded, reaching over to pop the lid of the beer, “Do you want ice in the whisky?”

The man just hummed, so YN got straight to work making his drink for him. It was different to that of the other men in the bar — watching him. Whilst they were loud and rowdy and always had something to say to someone – he was silent. He just sat, with the company of his only himself and drank his drink.

Snapping YN out of her gaze (which had been on the man for a few beats too long) was a call of her name from just down the bar. She walked over to where it came from, a man called Taylor who YN had become quite acquainted with in the last few days or so.

Most of the men (not all, obviously) that she had become acquainted with during the last few weeks were lovely. They loved to have a quick natter with her whilst she made their drinks, some of them flirted with her but she didn’t care (it was part of the job) and nobody bothered her. If one or two of the men when they were drunk got a little handsy or started to say things which would be deemed inappropriate, the other lads would circle her and make sure she was okay. She felt safe, which she was quite surprised was the case.

“A piece of advice,” Taylor spoke over the bar as YN started opening the bottles of beer for him and his friends, “Harry over there always orders the same thing, and he’ll drink the whiskey last before he leaves.”

“Thank you,” YN nods with a small smile across her lips, unable to stop her eyes beating over to him for a second – Harry.

“He’s a quiet one,” Taylor continues speaking, grabbing a few bills out of his pocket to pay for the drinks, “But harmless, I promise. To be fair, you’d think the man who founded the club would have more to say.”

YN’s eyes widen, she had no idea that Harry was the one who founded the club. She hadn’t suspected it at all.

“He founded it?” She asked with a slight raise of her eyebrow. She wasn’t trying to pry, but there were things that she wanted to know, and Taylor already had that buzz that made her know that he would be willing to answer any questions she had.

“Yeah, it was him and a few others,” Taylor shrugged, attempting to pick up the three bottles of beer all in one go, “A few years ago now, and it only grew from there.”

YN nodded once more and watched as he walked back to his table. She put the bills that he had given her for the drinks into the register and put the tip she had been given into her apron.

There was something about that man that had caught her attention from that first day, and yet she couldn’t put her finger on it. Now, it made sense. The aura that he had when he walked into the room, as well as the way he sat and held himself – he had a strong presence in the group without even trying.

YN had more questions, but she knew it probably wasn’t the best to pry right now. Instead, she just got on with everything that she had to do. She served drinks and cleaned up after herself right up until close. YN hadn’t realised when Harry had left, but he had slipped out without a single person realising.

She hummed as she swept the floors, tried her hardest to count the cash right the first time and put it in the safe before continuing with her other closing jobs. The chairs were off the floor, as much of the stickiness in the room that YN could remove was gone and the doors were locked and checked.

Once she had stepped outside, and locked the door to the bar behind her, the late hour catching up with her very quickly – she realised at that point she wasn’t alone.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that he was standing there, resting against his motorcycle with a cigarette dangling from between his lips. YN was confused but continued to lock the door and make sure that nobody could get inside. Then she turned, and that was when she saw Harry looking directly at her.

“Can I help you?” She muttered, fidgeting with the keys she was holding in her hand.

He inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, holding it for a second or so before he exhaled, “Heard you were asking questions.”

YN’s heart drops slightly, heat pulsating around her body, “Am I not allowed to ask questions?”

He ran his teeth over his bottom lip, placing the cigarette back in his mouth, “Can’t stop you from doing that, but any questions you have about me, you can ask me yourself.”

YN just pursed her lips and nodded, “Okay then… do you always stalk women when they’re leaving work?”

Harry didn’t seem shocked by her words, or react in any way to them at all, which was surprising to her. But, then again, she hadn’t seen much of a reaction out of this man this entire time she had known of him.

“Only the ones that have worked in my bar for a week.”

“Your bar?” YN widened her eyes, “Thought Mick owned it?”

Harry shook his head, “I do. Mick’s my employee, and so are you.”

“Do you not trust me or something? Think I’m walking away with pocketfuls of cash?”

“I would already know if you’d done that, and you wouldn’t be working here anymore,” YN just nodded, “But this side of a town can be sketchy at night, and you never know who could be lurking.”

YN just scoffed, turning to walk away from the man, “Thank you, but I can look after myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry shrugged, climbing onto his bike, and kicking the stand-up. YN could hear the engine turning on, the loud rumble filling the empty street.

YN continued walking, expecting him to speed past her but he didn’t. The low rumble continued down the street, even when she turned – the sound turned too. It was frustrating and annoying. All YN wanted to do was to get home, have something to eat and get in bed. Instead, she was having to deal with what was becoming an annoying rider, who couldn’t seem to leave her alone.

This continued for around ten minutes, and with each second that passed YN was getting more and more annoyed. Just as she turned onto the edge of her street, the apartment she shared with her roommate Ashley coming into view in the distance, she decided that enough was enough.

She stopped and turned around on the pavement, Harry pulling in on his bike to stop just in front of her. YN sighed and placed her hand on her hips.

“Do we have a problem?”

Harry rested his hands on his bike still, but was facing her, “No problem.”

“Then why are you following me home?” A small chuckle escaped her lips, “You know those strange people you were talking about earlier; you do know you’re acting like one of them?”

“You’re one of us now,” He shrugs, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world – it certainly wasn’t for YN at all.

“That means you follow me home?” The confusion grows with every moment in YN, and yet Harry doesn’t seem the slightest bit worried.

“You didn’t want a ride,” He pulls his carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one up, “Had to make sure you got home safe.”

“Right,” YN just nods, “Well, I think I can manage on my own from here. And, if I’m all of a sudden one of you should I expect my jacket in the post? Or do you do collection?”

With a final scoff, she turned and walked away from the man. This time, when the engine started, YN didn’t turn to look at Harry and instead carried on to her front door. It was only then that she turned to peer over her shoulder, just in time to see Harry speed past her and into the night.

She had an incline that this job was going to be interesting, but she had no idea just how much.

It wasn’t necessarily a normal working pattern that YN had found herself in.

Sleeping for most of the day and being awake all night wasn’t necessarily the big girl working pattern that she had aspired to when she was younger, but for the time being she was enjoying it. It did mean that when Ashley returned from her nine-to-five working as a receptionist (YN couldn’t think of anything worse to be honest), YN was just getting ready to start her day.

YN was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a half-eaten sandwich clutched tightly in her hand. She wasn’t too hungry, but she knew that if she didn’t eat something before, she left for work she would regret it later on. The second that Ashley stepped through the door and threw her bag down on the floor, she threw YN a quizzical look.

“What?” YN asked, wiping the mayo that rested on the curve of her lip off with her thumb.

“Do you happen to know anything about the smoking-hot rider staring at the apartment from across the street?”

YN’s entire face dropped, “What?”

Ashley walked over and dropped down on the other side of the sofa, reaching out to steal one of YN’s chips from her plate. Ashley seemed slightly unfazed by the newfound stalker YN had acquired, and that stressed the girl out significantly.

“What do you mean?” YN pushed herself up, making her way over to the window where there he was. Resting against his bike, cigarette resting from his lips sat Harry, staring at the front door to the building with an unreadable expression on his face,

“He’s been there since this morning,” Ashley adds to the conversation causally, running a hand through her hair which she had just pulled out of its undo, “At first, I thought he was waiting for Sandy, you know, from 2.B but then I saw the jacket and realised he must be here for you.”

“He’s not here for me,” YN shook her head, slapping the curtains shut and walking back over to her friend, “He’s stalking me, I can’t believe you’re not more stressed about this.”

Ashley just shrugged, “Worse people to be stalked by, I suppose. He’s one of Clover’s, he’ll be harmless.”

“No, Ashley, he’s not just one of Clover’s,” YN sighed, running a hand over her face before scooting around the apartment to grab her belongings, “He is Clover.”

It was Ashley’s face that dropped this time, “What do you mean?”

“That’s Harry,” YN pulled each one of her pumps on her feet, “He founded the gang!”

“You’re kidding,” Ashley all but screams, “Jesus YN, I knew I was concerned about this job, but I think you’ve done pretty alright for yourself.”

YN just shook her head. She grabbed her jacket, and her bag and made her way over to the door.

“If I go missing, you know who’s responsible,” With that, YN turned away from her friend and rushed out of the door.

She took the stairs down from her apartment at double speed, almost tripping over her feet multiple times. She pulled her jacket on just as she got to the front door. Just before she was going to push it open, just stopped and hesitated for a second. One deep breath in and out was all it took to compose herself, and then she pushed the door open.

Harry spotted her immediately, throwing the cigarette he had in his hand a few metres away from his bike, where a collection was beginning to grow. YN made sure to check the left and the right of her before crossing the road, not quite fancying becoming roadkill this early in the day.

“You’re lucky my neighbours didn’t call the cops on you,” Is the first thing that slips from YN’s lips, before she realises how stupid that sounds.

For the first time since she met him, a small smile crosses Harry’s lips. She had amused him, and oh did she want to do it again.

“You know you can’t stay out here all day,” She follows with, “I’m going to the bar now anyway.”

“I got something for you,” Harry pushed himself up off the bike and that’s when she saw it.

A denim jacket, smaller than the others that she had seen but still carrying the ever-so-known Clover’s Riders logo on the back. That four-leaf clover was known all over town, and towns for miles in every direction and now it seemed YN had one of her own. It would open paths for her but also close them as well. She knew that the second she accepted that jacket, things would change all over again.

“I don’t even ride, Harry,” She sighed, shaking her head slightly, “I’ve never been on a bike in my life.”

He just shrugged once more, “There’s always time to change that.”

YN toyed up her options, and it took a lot less time than she had thought it would to swipe the jacket from his hands. She shrugged off the one she was wearing and slipped her arms inside the material. It was the perfect fit, exactly what she would have chosen for herself. Harry beamed another smile at her and swung his leg over his bike once more.

“C’mon,” He tilted his head at her, “I have something I want to show you.”

“I’ll be late for work,” YN shook her head, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from throwing her leg over the side of the bike and using Harry’s shoulder to help steady herself as she got on.

“You’ll be fine,” Harry spoke, and that’s when YN realised that whilst yes, she was probably going to be late for work, she was also on the back of the owner’s bike – so the trouble couldn’t be too grave, “Hold on tight.”

YN did as the man said, wrapping her arms around Harry’s waist. The second that the engine started, and Harry kicked the stand-up they went flying down the road, and she realised in that exact moment why he said tight. YN’s body lurched forward into Harry’s, her cheek resting against the leather of his jacket, and her hands tightening around him.

Once the initial fear had worn off, and YN finally peered over the man’s shoulder – she would be lying if she said that it didn’t feel in a word freeing. The wind through her hair, the chill of the speed at which she was going laced with the feeling of Harry pressed so closely against her. Sure, she had been scared but now she knew that there wasn’t anything to be scared of. It wasn’t a scary thing, instead, it was something to be enjoyed.

YN’s lips curled upwards, a slight giggle leaving them as she noticed they went speeding through a red light. Many, and by many YN meant most, of the riders had a back pocket full of speeding tickets, and lights that they’ve jumped and yet none of them seemed to care. It was as though all of the law-abiding parts of their brains didn’t function when they were on bikes. On second thought, even when they weren’t on the bikes the law-abiding parts of their brain didn’t function.

Harry pulled over just as they joined the road which took them out of the city. They had completely passed Clover’s, and YN hadn’t the faintest clue of how late she was for work at this point, but it didn’t matter. It would take a lot for this smile to leave her face today. Once the bike came to a stop, YN used Harry’s shoulder to push up off of it.

Harry sits on the bike, but his eyes never leave the girl. The way she almost looked like a baby deer as she got her grounding once she was off the bike, the way her hair stuck out in every and all directions, and most importantly the beaming smile that never left her face. For the first time in a long time, there were no thoughts in YN’s head. There were no worries about growing up and getting a proper job, or stress about money – it was completely and utterly freeing. She supposed that was why there were so many of the riders and she supposed they were all chasing that feeling.

“You’ve got to teach me how to ride,” She sighed, the blissful smile never leaving her lips.

Harry just nodded, “Whenever you want.”

“Really?” Her face widened in excitement.

Harry shrugged, “You’ve gotta know how to ride if you’re going to be a rider.”

YN just nodded, and almost jumped back onto the bike. Harry didn’t say anything when she wrapped her arms back around his waist, not a single gap between their bodies but it just felt so comfortable. Harry kicked the stand down once more and sprang straight into action, turning slowly around on the road before speeding up the second they were on the straight back to the town.

All YN knew was that she was going to savour the feeling of the wind in her hair.

It was another Saturday night, and it was packed in the bar.

YN was so thankful that she could stay behind the safety of the actual bar and not venture out into the rest of the room. The men had just come back from a ride, and they were all excited and loud and wanting nothing but drink upon drink upon drink. She had been there from earlier on in the day today, and when Mick showed up later in the evening, she hadn’t managed to utter a single word but hello to him since.

All she could think of was the fact that once the rush had died down, it would be her time to go home and rest. In what felt like a very long few months of working every day (at first YN hadn’t minded, but she was slowly getting more and more burnt out) it was finally time for her to have a day off. Mick had graciously said to her the other day that he could handle Sunday on his own, and those words felt like gold slipping from his lips. She didn’t have a single clue of what she was going to do with her day, all she knew was that it was going to be relaxing.

She just had to get through this night first.

At first, the night seemed fine. Everyone was in good spirits and there was nothing more than a few drunken disagreements that sorted themselves out. YN had taken that as the opportunity to make her way over to where Harry was sitting and replenish his beer while he was there. It was then that the door was thrown open, and the entire atmosphere in the room changed.

What had at first been a lovely evening had changed within the second, and it was all because of a man that she hadn’t recognised. He didn’t have a rider’s jacket on his back, and that should have been YN’s first clue that this man was going to be in trouble. This was a riders’ bar, and those jackets were almost like a rite of passage. Without one, people stuck out like a sore thumb.

It became even more obvious to YN when the man beelined straight over to where Harry was sitting. He didn’t sit and instead leant over Harry, so his focus was on him. YN stayed close, but she didn’t want to make it too obvious that she was listening. She wasn’t the only one either – she could see other riders peering over at them from where they were sitting.

“You said if I did it, I’d get my jacket,” Those were the first words that came out of the man’s mouth – not even a greeting of hello, “I did it. Where’s the fucking jacket?”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second or so. Instead, he lifted his recently replenished beer to his lips and took a swag. He was doing as he always did – taking his sweet darn time.

“I said I’d think about it,” Harry mumbles, shrugging slightly as he did, “I’ve thought about it… and no.”

The man smacks his hand down onto the bar top, the sound echoing throughout the room. It silenced everyone, and all eyes turned to the two men. YN’s eyes looked towards Mick with a panicked expression on them but he shook his head, hoping that would calm the girls down.

“That wasn’t the fucking deal,” The man spits, coming right up into Harry’s face but it didn’t seem to deter the man at all, “The deal was to drop the shipment, I get the fucking jacket.”

Harry finally turned to look at the man, his stern expression never wavering, “Do you think I want someone like you, someone that doesn’t listen wearing one of my jackets?”

The man didn’t like that response, and it seemed as though as quickly as YN could blink her eyes the man was grasping the lapels of Harry’s jacket and pulling him up from the stool. He was then pushed straight into the bar, a slight grunt leaving his lips as he did. There was the initial sound of beer stools scratching on the floor, and other Riders were reading to split the two men up but all it took was Harry lifting one of his hands and they all stopped in their places.

“I don’t want someone who’s that willing to fight one of his men wearing a jacket.”

That was all it took for the other man to make the first punch. His arm pulled backwards, and his fist hit Harry straight across the jaw. The skin immediately went red, but Harry didn’t look like a man who had just been hit straight across the jaw. The bar stayed silent, obviously waiting for whatever Harry’s retaliation was going to be.

What YN, and certainly a lot of others in the bar hadn’t expected was Harry to reach behind him, to where his empty beer bottle was sat and hit the man over the head with it. The man fell to the ground, his grip on Harry letting go instantly. Harry lifted his hand, wincing when he noticed that a shard of glass from the broken bottle had lodged itself in his skin.

He just sighed, rubbing his forehead with his uninjured hand, “Get him out of here.”

Three of the men who were watching closely immediately listened to him, walking over, and picking the man up. They carried him out of the bar and were back to their drinks in what seemed like minutes. It was as though nobody truly seemed to care as to what had just happened and were more excited to get back to their drinks truly as though nothing had happened.

YN watched as Harry threw back the glass of whisky that had sat on the bar waiting for him (courtesy of Mick). That seemed like something that YN would have to take note of. With that, he dropped a few bills on the counter and stormed out of the bar. YN watched this and immediately started to pull her apron off her body.

“Mick,” The older man hummed from the other side of the bar, “I’m going outside for a break. I’ll only be a minute.”

The older man just threw YN a look, obviously having spotted who had left the bar just before she wanted to, “Be careful.”

YN just laughed, throwing the latch open, “I’m always careful.”

The second she stepped outside; she was shocked to see that Harry’s bike was still there, but he wasn’t sitting on it. There was a slight chill in the night air, and YN looked from left to right to try and spot him, but he was still nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t until YN made her way towards the alley that followed the side of the bar that she finally realised where he had gone.

It was dark, but not dark enough to miss the figure leaning against the wall with a cigarette hanging from his lips. YN wrapped her arms around herself, wanting to conceal at least some of the warmth from inside. As her shoes crunched on the path, Harry’s eyes turned to look at her. He was ready for it to be someone else, and it was almost as though when he noticed that it was her – his features seemed to relax.

“How’s your hand?” She asked, coming to a stop right in front of him.

He raised his palm towards her, “It’s been better.”

YN winced to herself slightly as she looked at his hand, seeing the shard of glass still sticking out of the skin. Whilst she didn’t have a first aid kit on her body at this exact moment, it was good that she knew where one was.

“Come with me,” She nodded, walking further down the alley to the bar’s back entrance.

YN didn’t even turn to make sure that he was following her, she just knew that he would be. She held the door open for him, and the one that opened to the office of the bar (where Mick spent most of his time during the day, sorting the books out) and pointed at the chair by the desk.

Whilst Harry sat down without a word to her, YN reached up to the shelf above them and brought the first aid kit down. Harry’s eyes watched her as she pulled tweezer, gauze, and some antiseptic to clean and dress his wound. It was all very silent, and still but caring.

“Can I?” She asked, checking sure it was okay to touch his hand.

Harry nodded, placing his hand in hers. To YN, she wasn’t sure if she was truly touch-starved that feeling of his hand in hers felt truly intimate. She got to work straight away, pulling the glass out with the tweezers ever so carefully before wiping the surface of the cut. Even though YN knew that it would have stung, Harry’s face didn’t show anything, only one raised an eyebrow slightly.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” She mumbles, face still full of concentration on making sure the wound is fully clean before she wraps it.

Harry just nodded, “You see wounds like these before?”

YN nodded, “I’ve worked in bars before – of course, I’ve seen wounds like these before.”

Harry just nods, allowing YN to move his hand at her ease to ensure that it is wrapped tightly and securely. He opened his mouth once she had finished, as though he was going to ask her something, but he closed it straight away. She wanted nothing more than to tell him that he could ask her anything that he wanted to, but she didn’t want to scare him away.

“You’re all set,” She offered him a small smile.

“Thank you,” The words sort of felt foreign, but very sincere coming from his lips, “I… you didn’t have to.”

YN just shrugged, “Wasn’t going to let you bleed out – would’ve been bad for business.”

Harry offered her a small smile at her attempt at a joke, “I’m sorry about what happened in there as well… usually we try to keep those sorts of things out of the bar.”

“Harry,” His name came out of her lips softly, hoping that would be the thing to tell him that it was okay. That she wasn’t angry at him, “I know… it doesn’t bother me – I promise.”

He just nods, “I knew that, you know.”

YN furrows her eyebrows, “What do you mean?”

“That first day,” He reached out to her, and did the last thing that she would ever expect – grabbed her hand, “The way you dealt with some of the lads… I knew you were different.”

“It was you…” The words slipped out of YN’s mouth before she could truly register them, “You saw me that day.”

It all made sense. YN had noticed Harry that very first day that she’d appeared at Clover, and whilst originally Mick had said no, he had changed his mind and said yes. To YN, it had looked and seemed that Mick was the one who had made that decision, and yet it made sense that it was Harry to be the one who changed Mick’s mind. Harry, if he had been sitting at his barstool would have been a metre or so away from that conversation – and he would have heard every word that had been said.

“I did,” Harry nods, claiming every thought that YN had to be true, “I saw you, the way you spoke to them, the way you stood your ground and god, YN, I was hooked.”

That was the first time that YN had heard Harry speak her name, and she was addicted. She wanted to hear it over, and over and over again. He noticed the slight shift in her and used his legs to roll the chair he was sitting on closer to where she was resting against the desk. Then he slipped his uninjured arm around her body and pulled her down to him. She straddled his knees, relishing the feeling of his body beneath hers.

“I…” Her words came out as a whisper, “I felt the same.”

Relief. That was the look on his face – it was a true relief.

“You did?”

“God, Harry,” YN giggles, shaking her head, “I tried not to, but I would be lying if I said that most of my thoughts haven’t been filled with you. Wanting to know more.”

“You can know anything,” His thumb slipped underneath the thin material of her shirt, a heat spreading across her entire body from that one single touch, “Ask me anything, everything – I’ll answer. Whatever you want to know?”

YN pondered that for a second. She could have asked him anything, and yet there was one thought which was present in her mind more than any of the others. An hour ago, this question would have been risky – she just wouldn’t have asked it. Yet, in the safety of this room – away from peering eyes, or anyone who could make assumptions as to what it meant – she wanted nothing more than to ask it.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

Harry exhaled a breath, lifting his hand to rest against her cheek, “More than anything.”

YN nodded.

“Harry…” He hummed at the call of her name, “Kiss me.”

His thumb danced from her cheek, down to her lip. He ran it across the skin of her bottom lip, pushing down slightly so that her lips parted for him. The only sound in the room was YN’s heavy breathing, a response to the teasing that was on display right in front of her.

Then his face inched forward, and his lips were on hers. It didn’t take long for his tongue to slip past her parted lips, dancing with her own. This closeness to someone, the vulnerability – YN had missed it. She pushed her body forward towards Harry’s, slipping her hands in the curls at the nape of his neck. His hands, never mind the bandaged one which would have still caused him pain, rested upon her denim-clad arse. They found their home resting there, and YN wasn’t about to move them.

Harry pulled away from her lips, obviously needing oxygen as much as she did. But he wasted no time in dropping his attack down her neck, his teeth nipping the skin there. YN’s hands still rested in the curls at the nape of his neck, and heavy breaths parted from her lips.

“Harry,” She gasped as he started to suck at the sweet spot where her neck met her collarbone, “I need to get back to work.”

“No, you don’t,” He mumbled, and YN just rolled her eyes.

“I’ve deserted Mick,” She continues, “He might need help.”

“Mick’ll be fine,” He pulled his head up, resting on her chest as he peered up at her, “And anyway, I’m your boss.”

YN shook her head, “I need to go.”

Harry groaned but finally nodded, “Ride home with me?”

“Of course,” YN pecked Harry’s lips one last time pushed herself up from him and walked out of the room.

Harry’s eyes never left her the entire time.

“Harry, no, I’m going to tip over.”

When Harry had dropped YN at home last night, he had muttered the words that he would see her tomorrow. Before she could clarify that she wasn’t working, he had sped off on his motorcycle into the dark of the night. YN should have known, though, that Harry knew she wasn’t working. It became even more clear when Ashley shouted at her from the kitchen at around midday today, telling her that her Rider was waiting for her.

Instead of the annoyance that YN felt the first time, there was a skip in her step this time. She had taken some time that morning to make herself look that little bit more presentable and waited for him. After their kiss the previous night in the office, and the slight peck that he had given her when she had climbed off his bike yesterday.

When she had bounced over to him earlier, a smile beaming on his face she didn’t have a single care as to what she would be doing that day – all she knew was that she was going to enjoy it. Even when she climbed on the back of his bike and asked where they were going – the smile never left her face. He refused to tell her, though, saying that it was a surprise.

“Harry, I don’t want to,” YN shook her head, hands grasping tightly onto the handles of the bike, “I’m going to fall off, or I’m going to crash your bike.”

What Harry had planned for the girl was to teach her how to ride. Whilst at the start YN had wanted nothing more than to learn how to ride, now that she was sitting on Harry’s bike without him there – she was terrified. Harry was standing close to her, cigarette dangling from his lips and an amused expression on his face.

“You’re not going to fall,” Harry shakes his head, “I’m right here… and I promise I won’t let you crash.”

“You can say that Harry, but you can’t promise,” YN was sitting on the bike, with her feet resting on the ground and absolutely no attempt at all to move.

He threw his cigarette on the floor, moving over so that he could wrap his arms around her waist, his hands coming to rest upon hers on the handle. He turned the engine on, and even though it was YN’s hands on the handle, Harry was controlling it. They went very slow – they had to so that Harry could walk at the side of them.

“I’m going to let go,” Harry spoke after a minute or so, but YN shook her head.

“I’m not ready,” YN pushed her body into his slightly, “I’m going to crash.”

“There’s nothing for you to crash into,” Harry peels one of his hands off of hers, “I trust you… you’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t as though he was lying. Harry had driven them out to a deserted road just out of town. Close enough away that they’d be home at a normal time, but far enough away that there wasn’t any traffic which would interrupt them. There wasn’t anything but stone and grass around them, and whilst if YN came to a haphazard stop, it wouldn’t be the most comfortable thing ever – there wasn’t a lot of damage that she could do to Harry’s bike.

Harry let go of her other hand, and she was doing it. Granted, she didn’t go over 2mph, but she was still riding the bike on her own. She wasn’t comfortable enough to attempt to turn yet, so she just came to a slow stop a few metres further down from where Harry was. She kicked the stand down and climbed off the bike – turning towards Harry with a smile on her face.

“I did it!” She bounced over to Harry and wrapped her arms around his neck, his coming to rest around her waist.

“Never doubted you,” He leaned down to place a kiss on her lips, pulling her body flush against his. Before anything more could happen, the sound of crunching on the road, as well as the sound of a siren interrupted them.

YN’s heart started to beat rapidly at the sight of a police car inching towards them. Whilst YN had dealt with police before working in her previous bars, she hadn’t ever been out in the open with her and only one other person when talking to them. Knowing that Harry also ran a motorcycle gang added another level of worry to it.

Harry just pulled YN with him, going to rest against his bike. He looked completely unfazed, whilst YN truly was shitting in her boots slightly. The police car stopped right in front of them, and as the door swung open to the car, Harry lit up a cigarette and brought it up to his lips – again, making it aware that he was completely unfazed by what was happening.

“Styles,” The officer sighed, slamming his car door behind him shit as he walked towards the two of them, “You’re not an easy man to find.”

“Hmm,” Harry just hums, inhaling from his cigarette, “I had no idea you were even looking for me… I wouldn’t have just stood in the middle of the road if I knew.”

The officer chuckled, placing his hands on his hips, “We had reports last night that you attacked a man.”

Harry shook his head, “Couldn’t have been me.”

“It happened at your bar,” The officer took a step forward towards Harry, “Had reports that you hit him over the head with a beer bottle.”

Harry just chuckles, “Officer Thompson, I don’t have time for this he said she said bullshit. If you’ve got something to say to me, I think you should say it.”

The officer just hummed, “Where were you last night?”

“I was at the bar,” Harry nodded, “All night.”

YN started to panic from beside him, but she tried not to make it obvious. Harry must have complete and utter trust in his riders to not say anything to the police. It made sense now to YN as to why that man hadn’t been given a jacket. He had instigated the fight, and yet he had run straight to the police with it. He was a coward and a rat.

“Can anyone corroborate this?”

“I can,” YN was surprised at how strongly her voice came out, “I was there with him all night, I work there.”

The officer hums once more, his eyes dropping down to focus on Harry once more. YN realises that it’s then that the officer has spotted his bandaged hand. YN’s mind starts to spiral slightly, hoping that one of them will be able to come up with something quickly.

“What, uh,” The officer couldn’t hide the smile on his face, obviously thinking that he had found him out, “What happened to your hand, Styles?”

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, so YN interrupts. She giggles slightly, knowing exactly what type of character was going to be believable for this officer. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I’m so sorry, officer, that was my fault,” YN took a small step towards the officer, but not far enough that she wasn’t in arms reach of Harry, “See, I’m real clumsy. And yesterday, I dropped a whole crate of beer and Harry heard the crash, and he helped me clean up – unfortunately, he cut his hand in the process.”

The officer’s eyes moved between Harry and YN. There was no way at that point for YN to try and guess what he was thinking – or what he was going to say. Then, when the officer’s face broke out into a smile just the same as YN’s, she knew she had convinced him.

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss, and I hope you have a good rest of your day,” Then the officer turned to Harry, and the smile on his face dropped, “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Styles.”

“And I’ll be looking forward to it Officer Thompson.”

Harry rested against his bike the entire time, whilst YN had her arms crossed against her chest. They didn’t say another word to each other until they watched the car turn around and drive away from them. It was only then that YN turned to Harry, who was running a hand over his face. Sighing, YN walked over to him, grabbing his hands (but making sure to be careful of his injured hand).

“You didn’t have to do that,” Harry shakes his head, pulling her hands up so that he can place a kiss on the back of them.

“I know,” YN nods, “But I wanted to.”

Harry rests his chin upon their connected hands, “I wanna take you somewhere.”

YN would be lying if she said that she hadn’t thought about where Harry lived once or twice because she had. He had been to her apartment a few times to pick her up, and whilst she hadn’t necessarily wanted to be that forward and ask him where he lived, there was a part of her which wondered about it.

It was a strange circumstance. Where does the leader of a gang live? Where does he rest his head at night? Where does make his coffee in the morning? Whilst YN wouldn’t necessarily admit it, she was an inquisitive person.

When Harry’s bike came to a stop outside of a garage, one that seemingly had an apartment attached to the top of it – it all made sense. Yes, the bar had to be doing well, with how many people were in it daily. But there had to be another way that Harry was making money, and it seemed as though this was it. She wondered if this had anything to do with the shipments that the other man had been speaking about.

He kicked the standout and gave YN the space the climb off before he did. He walked over to the shutter, unlocked the padlock, and threw it open. The apartment didn’t look too big, but the shop itself was huge. She had expected a car, maybe a few bikes – but she hadn’t expected rows upon rows of bikes lining the side of the walls. In the middle, YN could see the different stations where Harry and some of the other members worked.

“Are these all yours?” YN asked, her finger reaching out to run across the glossy black exterior of one of the bikes closest to her.

“Most of them,” Harry shrugged, dropping the shutter closed behind the two of them after pushing his bike inside, “Me and a few others, we buy them and restore them, make them better to sell on.”

“God, Harry,” YN turns to him, an expression of what could only be described as amazement on her features, “This is amazing.”

He just offered her a small smile, taking small steps towards her until he was close enough to wrap his arms around her middle. YN giggled slightly, resting her head on Harry’s shoulder as he pulled her closer to him.

“Pick one.”

The features on YN’s lips dropped again, “What?”

“Pick one,” Harry repeated, “A bike.”

“Yeah, I gathered that, Harry, I’m just confused as to why.”

He just shrugged, leaning back against the workbench near the two of them. YN turned around so that she was facing him, and Harry at once pressed his hands against her waist. It was funny to YN, to see the big, scary, gang member was so soft around her, and they hadn’t necessarily known each other very long.

“You said it yourself,” He shrugged, his hands pulling her between her body between his open legs, “If you’re gonna be a rider, you’ve got to ride. Seems like you need a bike to do that.”

“Yeah, but I’ll buy one,” YN spoke, as though it was the most obvious thing in the word, “When I have the cash for it.”

Harry shook his head, “No need, rather have you on one of these. Tested them myself, they’re all safe.”

YN just shook her head, propelling her body even further forward so that she could wrap her arms around Harry’s neck and press her lips against his. It was a clumsy kiss, with both of their teeth clashing and smiles upon their features but they did not care.

“Thank you,” She mumbled against his lips, pressing a flurry of chaste kisses to them afterwards.

Harry shook his head, “No need – pick one, baby.”

YN pushed her body up and started to walk up and down the rows of bikes until she spotted it. It was about halfway down the row, a bike with dark green glossy accents, looking nothing but sleek with the dark metal of the engine. It was the one that she wanted, and the second she was standing in front of it she knew it was hers. With that beaming smile across her features, YN turned and launched herself at Harry, wrapping her legs around his waist and his arms around his neck. His hands came to rest on the plump skin of her arse over her dark denim jeans. Even though YN suspected that she had caught him off guard, he didn’t show it on his face.

“How can I ever thank you?” She asked between a litter of kisses to his lips, a boyish smile crossing his features afterwards that YN wants nothing more than to bottle up and remember forever.

“That smile of yours is enough,” Harry nods at her, pressing another full kiss to her lips.

YN tilts her head to the side, turning to look at Harry with a slight smirk crossing her features. His eyebrows furrowed as though he already suspected she was coming up with something in her head.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“Maybe…” YN starts, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip, hesitating, “Maybe there’s another way I can thank you.”

Harry’s eyes widened, as though he was finally catching on to the thoughts swimming around in YN’s head.

“We don’t have to,” Harry shakes his head quickly. “I promise I’m not expecting anything from you.”

YN just shakes her head, leaning forward to place another kiss on his lips. Her hands tugged at the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I know you’re not,” YN offers him a smile, “I want to. I promise.”

Harry shook his head, a groan emitting from his lips as he tugged her even closer to him if that was possible. YN giggles at his obvious joy at her statement.

“God,” He rests his forehead against hers, “I know it’s wrong, but I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Harry turns, as though he’s going to walk out of the garage, but YN stops him. He furrows his eyebrows at her, and she just giggles once more.

“Want it here.”

“What?”

“Want it here, want you on the bench,” Harry groans once more, moving to drop her down upon the workbench that he had been rested upon earlier.

“Are you sure I haven’t dreamt you up?”

“Nope,” YN shakes her head, “I’m real.”

YN threads her fingers back through the curls at the nape of his neck, bringing his face back to hers. It doesn’t take long for their lips to connect once more. It wasn’t sweet or light. It was rough, as though both of them were finally able to do what they had both been thinking about.

Harry’s hands start to move down her body, resting on the hem of her jeans. She can feel his thumbs pressing down into the skin of her waist, and when it registers in her brain what he was trying to do YN pulls away, shaking her head.

“Not yet,” She lightly pushes his body to the side so that she can jump off the bench, “I haven’t thanked you yet.”

“You don’t have to,” YN’s hands rest on the lapels of his jacket, waiting for his nod before she pushes it off his shoulders.

“I want to.”

It takes just one swipe for Harry to pull his shirt over his head whilst YN’s hands come to rest upon his belt buckle. YN’s eyes widen at the sight of his exposed chest, as well as the tattoos that litter his sin. YN knew that Harry had tattoos; she had seen the ones on his arms multiple times, but it felt different to see the ones on his chest.

Her fingers work quickly to pull Harry’s belt buckle open, working on the button and zip of his jeans next. YN drops down to her knees, pushing Harry back slightly so that he’s resting against the workbench. Harry peers down at her, his chest heaving up and down in anticipation. Her hand rests upon the grey material of his boxers, palming his already semi-hard cock through the light material.

“You like teasing?”

YN shrugs lightly, “I have no clue what you mean.”

Harry laughs, watching her intently as her fingers loop into the band of his boxers, pulling them down to expose him to her. YN finds herself unable to pull her eyes away from his cock. She knew it had to be big from palming him through his boxers but seeing it before she made her mouth water and pressure to build in the pit of her stomach.

She placed a light kiss on his tip, which was already red and leaking from his obvious arousal. YN smiled, giving it a lick from the base to the tip before she used her hand to give it a few tugs. YN was confident in her moves, even though she had only done it a few times before in her life. She gained more confidence from the moans leaving Harry’s lips; they were deep and quiet, but she could hear them, and they caused her to squeeze her thighs together in hopes that it would give her some relief.

“YN… please,” It almost sounded as though he was pleading with her to do something, and YN almost moaned at the sound.

YN wraps her lips around the tip of Harry’s cock, beginning to bob her head up and down. One of her hands rested upon his thigh, whilst the other wrapped around the base of his cock, helping her with what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. Her tongue lightly grazed his tip, earning a louder moan from Harry that egged her on further.

“Fuck… YN.”

Harry’s hands came to rest in her hair, helping her to move her head up and down his cock. It was a light tug that caused YN to moan around his cock, and she could feel Harry resisting from bucking his hips to meet her. Instead, she continued to bob her head, speeding up in hopes that it would help him recover from her teasing.

“YN gotta pull away,” Harry says after a minute or so, his grip on her hair tightening, “I’m gonna cum.”

YN doesn’t stop, however, instead, she keeps going until she hears him moan louder and start to cum down her throat. When she looks up at him, his head is thrown back, and his eyes are closed. She works her head up and down until he’s finished, only pulling away then. When she looks back up at him he has a look in his eyes that makes her assume that they aren’t done.

YN giggles as he puts his hands on her waist and pulls her up so she’s standing, immediately placing a kiss on her lips, seemingly not caring about the fact that his cum was on them. YN’s legs nearly gave out then and there, and she had to place her hands on his biceps to steady herself.

“Did that show my thanks?” She asked, tilting her head to the side innocently.

Harry wraps his arms around her thighs once more, picking her up effortlessly.

“Damn right, it did,” Harry starts to walk over to the door that she suspects goes into the house, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

It was quiet at Clover’s, a lull mid-afternoon on a Friday before everyone picked their spots for the night. YN had spent an hour or so cleaning and drying the glasses that had been used earlier in the day, making sure that they were to have enough for the night ahead.

The repeated motion of washing and drying gave her time to think, and more often than not, she found herself daydreaming about her morning, which she had spent in Harry’s bed, wrapped up in his arms. The two of them had been pretty inseparable before, but after he had gifted her the bike, it had seemingly gotten even worse, if that was possible. It had been weeks since that day, and YN could probably count on one hand the nights she had spent alone since then. Harry waited every night for her after work, and even when he couldn’t she would return to his house and wait for him there.

They hadn’t spoken about what they were necessarily, but that didn’t matter to YN. She didn’t need a label to know how she felt about Harry, and she assumed Harry felt about her also. For the first time in a long time YN was happy, and even though she was only a bartender and that useless history degree of hers wasn’t doing much – she wasn’t yearning for something else, for something better. YN truly felt as though it couldn’t get any better than it currently was.

The door to the bar pushed open, and whilst YN thought it was probably a rider coming in for a drink, she was shocked to see that it was Mick, obviously dropping in to start his shift. Thankfully, since YN had taken the day shift she didn’t have to stay until close tonight, meaning that she could spend more time in bed with Harry to end her week.

“Hey, YN,” She offered Mick a smile, “Just lemme drop my shit in the back and then you can go on break.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

Once he was back out, and she had passed over what she was doing to him, she made her way outside with the sandwich that Harry had made for her earlier. She was going to make her lunch, but Harry insisted that he make it for her. YN smiled at the memory of her sitting upon his kitchen counter, clad only in one of his t-shirts and a pair of pyjama shorts. They had laughed and joked and, at one point, had a break to dance around the kitchen to the song that was playing over the radio.

YN hadn’t had many relationships before, two at most she could think of, but they were never like this. They always felt transactional to YN. But with Harry, it truly felt as though they were two halves. There was a level of domesticity that YN loved more than anything with him, and every little task that they did together meant so much.

Once YN had eaten her sandwich, her thoughts filled with Harry and their morning. YN pulled her legs underneath her and began to read her book, knowing that she could get a chapter or so read before her break was over. It was a book about the Tudors she was reading, something that had been a passion of hers during her degree. It had been a while since she had read anything, but she supposed that the want came from her peace and happiness being restored.

She had just finished a chapter on Henry VIII’s Economic policy when she heard noise from the front of the bar. It was loud, and the voices that were speaking were quick, but it was muffled, so she couldn’t quite decipher what was being said. Putting her bookmark into place and closing the book, she pushed up from the chair and made her way towards the bar.

Mick was standing there, with three or four others in front of him. They looked panicked, and their words reflected that.

“Tell me again,” Mick placed his hands down on the counter, “I can’t tell a word you’re saying when you’re talking that quickly.”

“An accident, Mick,” It was Taylor who spoke, “There was an accident. We were riding along, and this truck came outta nowhere, sent him flying.”

YN moved towards them, her heart immediately starting to thump within her chest.

“Who?” Her words came out quickly, all of the men’s heads turning towards her, “Who went flying?”

“YN… I…” Taylor took a step towards her, his entire face dropping.

That was when she knew.

Her palms started to sweat, and her body felt heavy. There was a dizziness inside her head, and for one second she thought that she was going to fall to ground.

It was Harry.

“Where is he?” Her voice cracked as she spoke, the tears finally starting to collect within her waterline.

“YN…” Mick started.

“No, Mick,” She shook her head, “Where is he? Tell me where he is!”

Taylor took another step closer towards her, “I don’t know. The woman in the store across the street from where it happened phoned an ambulance, I left before they came. If I hazard a guess, they’ll be on their way to the hospital by now.”

YN nodded and before she knew it she was stalking her way outside and towards her bike. Ignoring the tears that were clouding her vision she climbed upon. Just as she was about to start it, a hand touched her elbow. It was Mick. She almost broke down crying there and then.

“Don’t,” Mick shook his head, “You can’t drive like that, darlin’. Let Taylor take you. Please.”

“He has to be okay,” YN shook her head, the sobs starting to wrack through her body.

Mick nodded, helping her off the bike, “He will be. But, if you wanna get there safely, in one piece let the boys take you.”

YN nods, walking over to Taylor’s bike and hopping on behind him. Mick gave her hand one last squeeze.

“Send him my love, okay?” Mick spoke and YN nodded, not trusting herself to be able to reply in that moment.

Taylor started the engine, and before she knew anything, they were hurtling down the street. This time, though, she wasn’t thinking about the wind in her hair.

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