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neverthatsirius-jo · 2 days ago

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[present jo note: read this last night with my notes app open so i could go annotating hope u don’t mind i wrote a lot :p]

if u couldn't tell it's very inspired by early 2000s romcoms

wooo, just as im in my romcom watching era. perfect 🥳🫶

James was nothing to fawn over.

?! ?! ?! ?!?!2€/ ?!;@/€:@

"Was it professional when I was your first kiss?" He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, feeling the plaster wall graze your back through your work blazer.

"It was spin the bottle and we were twelve, it's ancient history. And do you mind? I know you're some kind of god around here but I have a reputation to uphold,"

YOU WERENT FUCKING LYING THIS IS SO ROM COM GAAAAAH

"Not Lily! Have I missed my chance forever?"

this made me giggle teehEe

"She doesn't like beer, thinks it tastes like piss." You whipped your neck around at the familiar voice, mouth dropping open at the sight of James Potter.

i would murder him. my face would be so red

"Are you thick? I only said that because I fancied you!"

"What do you mean you said it because you fancied me? That is not normal!" You whirled around, accusatory finger pointed his way.

"I don't know! I thought I was supposed to! It wasn't cool to be a sap!" James argued back, running a hand through his already tousled curls.

ilovethemilovethemilovethem

thinking of u :P <3

GODDDD WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE JAMES POTTER NOT BEING REAL

"This photo was taken when we were twelve or thirteen years old at someone's party. That night, as you tend to do when you're young and bored, we played spin the bottle and ended up being each other's first kiss. I'm sure you're all wondering why I'm telling this story now, and it's because ever since that night as I have recently realised, almost a decade later, I have been embarrassingly, stupidly in love with her."

giggling and crying all at the same time

"And though I've done some incredibly dumb things over the years, somehow she's managed to like me back -- at least a little. So I'm setting the record straight right now, she is not 'sleeping to the top' or trying to get a secret scoop out of me because I'm the one who's been chasing after her for twelve years.

"I know I've been rambling on for far too long so I'll wrap it up here, but I just wanted to end this little conference with a warning that if I see any more disgusting, hateful articles about her, you won't be getting another comment from me again. So nice to see you all!"

😔😭🥳✨💗👹 i cant

11k WORDS? WERE BEING FED FOLKS. i feel like a squirrel with her supply of nuts for the winter HAHSH WHAT AM I SAYING SOMEONE SHUT ME UP (preferably james potter and with a kiss thanks)

summary: loved this, gia. it was very rom-com, very cutesy 💗🫶✨

our names in the paper - footballer!james potter x fem!sports journalist!reader

wc: 11,151

cw: swearing, fade to black but suggestive moments?, smoking, slut-shaming, kissing

info: r and james are about 24, set in 2007ish solely for the romcom vibes. james is the equivalent of like David Beckham in his prime, all pics are for vibes only, not reflective of r's appearance etc

me: i've been working on this for soooo long i am so happy it's finally done!! if u couldn't tell it's very inspired by early 2000s romcoms and i am honestly so proud of it so praying it doesn't flop LOL

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

"James, James! Over here! What's the defence strategy this season?"

If you had to hear James' name one more time you might scream. Unfortunately, you were locked in a room with nothing but that. Worse, you were part of the problem.

"Mister Potter, what do you think about your striker's goal-to-game ratio falling rapidly this season?" You called, begrudgingly hoping for a moment of the soccer star's attention. Fortunately (or unfortunately), his glittering eyes settled on you, singling you out from the room of hungry journalists.

"I think that you miss one hundred per cent of the shots you don't take," He said, smirk turning to something challenging, "And as long as my team is training and working together, I'm not gonna cry over a bit of spilt milk or missed goals. And, as far as I'm concerned we're still winning games, aren't we?" You rolled your eyes, scribbling down his answer nonetheless.

You continued the catfight of trying to get answers for your newest article, keeping the balance of vying for James' attention and showing him you didn't care for him personally, unlike the other journalists you were pushing against. The conference room was full of men and women who wanted to be James or be with him. Aside from the professional questions, there were certainly several invitations to the pub thrown around, and you were sure you saw one woman try and give him her cellphone number. You rolled your eyes again at that, James was nothing to fawn over.

He might be a big shot now, but you'd known him almost all your life. The two of you had gone to school together and had bickered through every interaction since then. James had always wanted to be a football star, and you a journalist. You'd never believed in him and vice versa, both of you taking every opportunity to tease the other or cut each other down. Maybe it was just clashing personalities, two people too ambitious to be friends. The rivalry had lasted past school, and unfortunately, the two of you often crossed paths in your respective careers.

The press conference wrapped up soon after your question, and you ended up lingering in the room trying to finish your notes. James was still over at his podium next to his coach, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and arduously texting on his flip phone. Seeing you hovering by the door he called your last name, sauntering up behind you. You rolled your eyes and braced yourself for the encounter.

"Potter." You smiled curtly, moving to leave.

"You don't have to call me 'Mr Potter' during the conferences, you know. James is perfectly fine, everyone else calls me that."

"Just trying to stay professional," You said through gritted teeth, aware his coach and a few others were still around you. It could cost you your job to snap at him.

"Was it professional when I was your first kiss?" He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, feeling the plaster wall graze your back through your work blazer.

"It was spin the bottle and we were twelve, it's ancient history. And do you mind? I know you're some kind of god around here but I have a reputation to uphold," You whispered, glancing around anxiously. James laughed at your distress which only annoyed you further. Maybe he could get away with anything, but you had to fight for your place in your field as a female sports journalist, you couldn't afford to take it lightly.

You couldn't help the physical reaction to being trapped between James and the wall though, your breathing shallow and quick, face tilted up slightly to look at him. You felt a bit like prey, caught in the predator's territory and resigned to imminent death.

"Let her go, will you? She's just doing her job," Remus Lupin said, entering the conference room with his nose crinkled from the smell. You couldn't blame him, sweaty players and hungry journalists didn't make any kind of utopia together.

"I wasn't doing anything!" James cried, hands up in surrender, "Come on love, I was just giving you the scoop, right?"

"First of all, if you were giving me 'the scoop' right now I'd certainly be accused of sleeping to the top by all the blokes waiting out there," You gestured to the group of other reporters still lingering in the hall waiting for any scraps of information, "And secondly, I work for the bloody Sunday People, not the BBC. I honestly think they'd rather I just write about your 'dashing good looks' or a drug scandal than your games," You complained, falling back into the ease of conversation now that Remus was there. He'd been at school with the both of you, growing up to be a physiotherapist, but was always much more palatable than James.

Both men laughed at your plight.

"If you ever need a more detailed look at my dashing good looks just ask, sweetheart. I'd be glad to show you, you know, for your articles." You rolled your eyes at James' attempt to be charming, snapping your notebook shut.

"Alright, I think that's my cue to go," You said curtly, smoothing out your work trousers. "Remus, I'll return Dracula next time I see you; I'm almost finished." You remembered you'd had his novel for quite a while, sparing him a smile on the way out.

"You lend her books?" James asked incredulously, hazel eyes curiously following your figure down the hall. Remus just shrugged, patting James on the shoulder and attending to his actual job, checking up on the players after the match.

James was still hung up on the fact when he returned to the apartment he shared with Remus and Sirius, flabbergasted as he hung his coat on the rack.

"Since when are you two close enough to be sharing books?" He cried as he paced through the kitchen, "Have we not all been in agreement that she is stubborn and hard-headed and annoying and has been since school?"

"No," Remus shook his head, "You decided that, and I daresay she feels the same about you. I've always rather liked her."

James was unexpectedly dumbfounded at the realisation that you weren’t the common enemy he thought you were. Even Sirius didn’t seem to dislike you, always stopping for a chat when you were around the stadium and giving you extra comments with a flirty wink.

James didn’t need to think about you for another few weeks; his team hadn’t played one week and you’d been assigned other matches for the others — he read your very amusing pieces on lawn bowls and chess-boxing, partly because he knew you’d hate the assignment.

You were blissfully apart until one Saturday night. You were out with your friends and a few coworkers and James was out with his. He’d started in the local pub while you were at a fancy cocktail restaurant for Lily’s bachelorette party, however, your groups crossed paths in the depths of a nightclub.

Maybe you were getting too old for them, waking up with sore backs and knees after nights of dancing, but it didn’t mean you wouldn’t give it a red hot go. And with a few cocktails in your system, nobody could convince you it wasn’t a good idea.

You'd been shaking what your mother gave you for the better part of an hour before it was your turn to get another round, telling the girls you'd be back before stumbling through a sea of sweaty bodies.

Some gross man who was definitely too old for you obstructed your path, grabbing your arms to make you dance with him. Your face crinkled in disgust of its own accord, trying to wiggle yourself free. He continued to encroach on your space, forcing you around despite your persistence. Finally, a man's hands landed on his shoulders, yanking him away and subsequently freeing you from his grasp. The momentum sent you tumbling in your strappy heels, right into something warm and solid. You cringed, having been there before. You turned slowly to meet your unwitting saviour, huffing when you realised it was James.

"Oh, fuck off," You grumbled, mostly to yourself, producing a quick apology to not seem totally impolite.

"Alright?" Sirius asked, revealing himself as the one who'd gotten you away from the creep. You shrugged, fixing your hair.

"Been better," You told him, preparing to leave before seemingly their whole team had surrounded you, all greeting you loudly. You weakly waved at them, feeling dreadfully underdressed and professional. You were used to seeing them in the stadium and press conferences where you were much more modestly dressed. The strapless mini dress wasn't giving you the same layer of protection.

"Right," You said when there didn't seem to be any more productive conversation happening, "I'm off to the bar then."

"Let me buy you a drink, to make up for the freak," One of the players, Frank, said. You smiled but shook your head.

"I'm buying for several, it wouldn't be fair. It's Lily's bachelorette." You directed the last sentence to those who knew her, the football and journalism professions having considerable overlap due to events and the never-ending scandals and interviews. James covered his face in mock-devastation.

"Not Lily! Have I missed my chance forever?" He moaned, earning some shoves from the rest of the group. You and Lily had been friends since uni, and you'd introduced her to the boys at one of the terrible house parties you'd endured over your three years studying. James had developed a thing for her right away (no one knew how much of it was serious and how much was for comedic value) and had been loudly pining for her ever since, despite her long-term relationship with Dirk Cresswell, an economist who worked in the building down the block from your office.

"I think you missed your chance the first time," You retorted with a snort, a little drunk to have any ferocity in your tone. You both made a face at each other, ignoring the laughter of those around you. You dismissed the group and danced away, shaking your arse over to the bar.

A few rounds later and you were not in your best shape. The girls had been absolute menaces, feeding you shots and deceiving colourful cocktails that actually held like seven standards in them, and you were certainly feeling the effects. You excused yourself from the group to find a loo, bile rising in your throat as you pushed past dancers, not even sparing a comment for James as you saw him.

That confused both James and his friends, becoming used to your insistent teasing over the years. He exchanged a look with Sirius, following you through the crowd and to the bathrooms.

He figured something was wrong when you burst into the gender-neutral bathrooms, not bothering to lock the door behind you. James and Sirius silently fought about who was going to follow you in and check on you; James found you insufferable, Sirius had severe emetophobia and would probably throw up himself if he had to be close to you vomiting. James rolled his eyes, it was his responsibility. Sirius clapped him on the back gratefully, leaving him to return to the others. James sighed, reciting some affirmations before he cracked the door open, calling out to you.

When you responded with a disgusting wretch, James slipped inside, gagging a little as he saw you leant over the toilet bowl, bare knees on the grimy tile floor.

"Alright?" He asked for lack of anything better, unsurprised when you replied with another gag.

"I feel ill," You said pathetically, head hung low in the bowl which James knew you would resent tomorrow. He laughed quietly, getting closer to you.

"No shit, idiot," His tone was light as he began to rub your back softly, making sure your hair was away from your mouth. You vomited a few more times, your body reacting in violent hurls as James tried to be both soothing and as far away as possible.

When your stomach was finally empty you slumped against the toilet, cheek pressed against the cool porcelain.

"Woah," James pulled you up to a sitting position, "That cannot be good for your skin. Let's get you home, okay?" You nodded petulantly, letting yourself be led out through the club, James telling Lily he'd make sure you got home (and congratulated her on the upcoming wedding).

"Can we get some gum or something? My throat tastes like vom." James looked down at you from where you were lodged into his side, legs shaky as you wobbled down the street. He sighed and steered you in the direction of a convenience store, picking out strawberry gum for you since it tasted better than mint, your words. Good you thought when he paid for it, the football star can shell out 2 pounds, makes more than you anyhow.

You chewed happily, stumbling down the pavement as James held onto you, keeping you upright.

"You're so muscly," You said, somewhat in a drunken haze.

"Thank you?" James laughed, patting you softly on the forearm he was holding. To be fair, you weren't quite sure if it was a compliment either. Your words were admittedly oddly nice but your tone made it confusing, drunk thoughts not completely translating to sober dynamics.

You meandered for a few oddly peaceful minutes, neither of you starting an argument or picking a fight. It was a nice break from normal, the two of you even sharing some peaceful small talk -- discussing a movie you'd both seen recently.

Of course, nothing good lasts.

"James!" A voice yelled from the other side of the street, a short man with mousy mannerisms. James groaned beside you.

"Peter Pettigrew," He whispered to you, trying to pull you along faster, "We used to be mates but turns out he was just using me to get team secrets out into the papers." You whipped your head around to look at him. Oh! You knew Pettigrew, unsurprising given you both reported on essentially the same topics, but he had a bad name even in your circles. He was closer to a paparazzi than a journalist, going for the cheap stories and ad hominem approaches rather than searching for any meaningful insights. Simply put, in an already sleazy career, Peter Pettigrew was the bottom of the barrel.

"Later, mate. I'm in the middle of something right now." James put his arm around your shoulder, better shielding you as he tried to make a getaway. The telltale flash of a camera reflected off the grey pavement, making both you and James whip your heads around to face Peter, looking hardly ashamed of himself. After a moment of shock, you both covered your faces, stumbling down the street as fast as you could manage. The damage was already done.

Suddenly you didn't feel as drunk, navigating the cobblestone streets with unanticipated nimbleness. James might've had the athlete's advantage but you were on home turf, leading him through local shortcuts and to the front door of your apartment building.

On the journey over you'd attracted a few more photographers all fiending for a scandalous picture of James, a small mob forming as you tried to punch in the door code despite your shaking hands. James was right behind you, front pressed to your back, holding his Adidas windbreaker out in a position to shield your face from the prying eyes.

You slammed the door shut, the nosy questions and camera clicks immediately muffled. James let out a long sigh, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Neither of you spoke for a while, processing what had happened.

"Make yourself at home then." You cringed as you surveyed the state of your flat; clothes flung over chairs and dishes still in the sink. Your only option for living alone was cramming all your stuff into what was essentially a shoebox, so any amount of mess made the place look chaotic.

"Nice place," James said and you immediately rolled your eyes, snatching up a stray bra strewn across an armchair. "No, I mean it! It's cozy. Very you." He gestured up at the colourful, mismatched glassware in a kitchen cabinet and the beaded curtain separating your bedroom. You blushed slightly; you didn't often take men home, your flat staying a girly paradise just for you.

You put on the kettle, comforted by the familiar sounds of water beginning to boil. James sat awkwardly on an armchair near the window, anxiously peeking out from behind the curtain every few minutes. His reactions told you the paparazzi were still loitering outside.

James took his tea gratefully, surprisingly still agreeable despite all the terrible things that had happened in the course of a few hours.

"Do you have a back exit or something? Somewhere I can slip out and get home?" You shook your head with a grimace.

"Only the fire exit, but that still goes out near the front. Otherwise we're surrounded by other buildings."

"You must be exhausted after everything. Head off to bed, I'll wait until the gits outside fuck off then lock the door behind me. We don't have to ever mention this again if you don't want." The orange lamp light made James' eyes look unfairly soft, highlighting the golden flecks amongst the brown. You steeled your nerve and shook your head.

"I'm not that bad of a host," You tried to joke, "Besides, don't you have training tomorrow? You're already up later than I'm sure you intended to be. I couldn't live with myself if I ruined England's star player by making him stay up all night, you take my bed and go to sleep." You were both very carefully trying to keep things light, not wanting to spend any more of the night miserable and fighting.

"Well, I'm not taking your bed, that's just impolite. I'll take the couch, if you're being so generous as to let me stay." He had a cheeky smile on his lips as he said it, both of you dancing around the fact that in any other circumstance James wouldn't have been allowed within fifteen feet of your flat.

"That couch? No way." You pointed at the teensy vintage sofa sitting in front of the boxy television. It had space for maybe two and a half arses to sit on it, maybe horizontally extended legs if you were short-ish, but there was no way the goliath James Potter was getting any decent sleep on it. "You take the bed. I'll survive the couch tonight."

"Don't be stupid, I can't sleep in your bed. If not the couch I'll take the floor."

"Speaking from a purely medical standpoint, I haven't cleaned these floors recently enough for it to be safe to have your face in such close proximity. Take the bed, Potter."

You bickered for a few long minutes, both of you trying to outdo each other's respect as host and guest, respectively. You didn't miss the irony that even when you and James were getting along you were fighting.

"I'm not letting you go without, that's final." You turned away to go fetch a pillow for your night on the couch when James said something you never ever thought you'd hear from him.

"Then sleep with me."

"Excuse me?" You all but shrieked, immediately cringing as you thought about your poor neighbours.

"Look, it's basically morning, we're both shattered and I'm sure your bed is much comfier than whatever alternative you're planning. We can even go full pillow-wall if it'll make you feel better." You stared at him for several moments, lips actually agape. Never in your life did you think James Potter would be asking you to share a bed with him, and never in your life did you think you'd be considering it.

"Fine."

Twenty minutes later and you were both ready for bed. You'd found James an old pair of an ex-boyfriend's long abandoned pyjamas, stuffed in a bottom drawer. They were slightly too small to accommodate all his muscles, the t-shirt sitting a few inches above the pants' waistband, giving him a very '90s crop top and exposing his happy trail.

You were almost definitely more embarrassed than James. You were in a similarly aged pair of pyjamas, a cartoon of Spongebob over your chest. You couldn't tell if you'd prefer to be in the lame pair that you were wearing or a cute pair -- no, it would probably look like you were trying too hard. Which you weren't. You didn't care about looking cute in front of James Potter, why would you?

He was already in bed when you'd returned from your skincare routine, face fresh and moisturised, and though you knew he was going to be there, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of James Potter in your bed. Tucked up to the chin under your frilly floral grandma sheets, he looked the picture of cozy.

"Don't bloody touch me, I mean it. I want to feel alone in my own bed," You snapped, sliding under the covers, pulling the doona similarly high up to your chin. You turned over to the centre of the bed to find James already on his side looking at you. You let it be for a moment, surprisingly enjoying the sleepover vibes you'd created.

"Okay this is weird now, the pillow's going up." You slammed a long decorative cushion in between the both of you, secretly smiling at the sleepy giggle James let out.

The first time you awoke it was hazy, still early in the morning with golden sunbeams streaming through your curtains. Warmth enveloped you, keeping you cozy despite the winter morning outside. You shifted to burrow deeper into your blankets when a groan came from behind you, startling you more awake as you recognised the feeling of muscular arms wrapped around your middle. It suddenly all came back to you, James walking you home, the paparazzi, you making an absolute fool of yourself. However, James was a portable heat source and extremely comfortable so you let yourself ignore everything that had led up to it, allowing yourself another few hours of blissful sleep.

The second time you woke up James was gone. That wasn't surprising given he definitely had early morning training, but you would reluctantly admit that it was a little lonelier in your bed than it usually was.

You didn't leave the house for the rest of the day, finally cleaning your apartment after much too long. Turns out all you needed was to be embarrassed in front of a guest to get you motivated.

Monday morning you weren't hungover anymore, but you were mourning the weekend that had passed much too quickly. Still, things were running smoothly enough; you didn't miss the tube and had snagged a seat, and your makeup was looking absolutely grand. You were absolutely thriving.

That was, until you crossed the threshold of the Sunday People offices and the jerks from the politics columns started bothering you, as if a Monday morning wasn't punishment enough.

"Meet anyone nice over the weekend, sweetheart?" One crowed from his desk chair, looking positively dickhead-ish in his too-small button-up.

"Or still on the clock maybe? We know you're always hunting for a good story." The combination of both remarks confused you, but you strutted past them with a quick glare in their general direction, your clicking heels producing enough attitude that you didn't need to say anything.

As you approached your own desk area, you had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that everyone was looking at you. You couldn't think of why, but subtly wiped the edge of your lips in case it was foolishly smudged lipstick.

You even swore you heard one of the royal writers -- an awful woman maybe twenty years older than you -- say something about your 'promiscuity' and 'unprofessionalism'. You didn't know where it was coming from. You weren't friends by any means but you usually just stayed out of each other's way, you didn't throw around insults at your workplace. You glanced down at your outfit but nothing seemed especially revealing, the same button-up and pencil skirt you always wore if you weren't doing field work.

You were really starting to wonder why everyone was looking at you when even Lily was sending you pitiful glances. You had just made up your mind to say something about it when your boss came striding towards you, anger emanating in a way which only middle-aged men can do.

"What is this?" He slammed a Daily Mail tabloid down on your desk. The office was dead silent. You looked down at it, wholly confused as to what it could be -- your last article was approved without any troubles.

THE 'INSIDE' SCOOP? POTTER GETS COZY WITH REPORTER ON NIGHT OUT

And there, right under the brazen headline, was the stupid picture that Peter Pettigrew took. The two of you out on the street, you tucked into James' side with his arm around you. Your face wasn't totally visible, but anyone who already knew you would recognise the figure and fashion.

You could feel your face drop as you read the article, a barrage of slut-shamey insults and reports of how intimate you and James were out on the streets of London -- all entirely false, of course. When you'd finished reading the piece the whole office was staring at you, waiting to see how you'd react.

"It's a lie," You said quietly, trying to stop your hands from shaking as they rested on your lap. There was a pregnant pause as your boss processed what you were saying, clearly confused. None of your coworkers dared to speak.

"Bullshit," He replied, face blooming red as he decided you weren't being truthful. "That's you and that's James, there's no denying that. The whole bloody country will be able to see you two getting cozy on the street. How do you reckon this reflects on me, having your name and workplace published alongside your completely unprofessional affair?"

"I understand that it looks bad, but it's not what you think at all. J- uh, Potter was just helping me get home after a chance encounter because I wasn't feeling well, then he hid at my place because of all the paparazzi. Nothing happened." It was a weak explanation, even you could tell, even though it was completely true.

The arseholes over in Politics were already sniggering to themselves and you wished you could have ripped them a new one. Instead, you were cowering underneath your brutish boss.

"It's your word against Pettigrew's, and only one of you's been printed. You've been publicly humiliated and we're getting bad press for it."

Your boss had left you with the threatening promise that the issue would be brought up with your superiors and the whispered opinions of every single person you worked with. You choked out an excuse to get out of the office, taking the lift up to the rooftop to cry.

You had peace for a few minutes, getting the most embarrassing of the sobs out alone.

"Did you actually sleep with him?" If it was anyone else you probably would have snapped, yelling at them for being so insensitive. Marlene said it with such earnest curiosity and sympathy that you turned to face her instead. You were met with her and Lily, your very best friends who you were feeling especially lucky to work with at that moment.

"No!" You told them the full story, about getting sick at the club, James just being polite and walking you home, and Peter Pettigrew's terrible betrayal. Both women listened attentively, taking it all in.

"I thought you hated Potter," Lily said finally, "How'd it get that far in the first place? Usually you'd have ditched him in the first five minutes of being in his presence."

"I don't hate him." You studied your hands intently, observing the peeling red nail polish you should have reapplied yesterday. "I think he's annoying and obnoxious and I've always hated that he's never believed I could be a serious writer, but I don't hate him. He has his moments. Besides, why would I waste energy on hating Potter when I could hate Pettigrew with all my heart?"

"What a snake," Marlene spat, lighting a cigarette as she got comfy next to you. You and Lily both nodded. Peter was not only now a backstabber, but he'd been becoming increasingly insufferable over the years you'd all been writing.

He started out quite nice and was in your periphery of friends in the same way Remus and even James were, but as he'd gotten the job at his shitty tabloid magazine he'd become downright intolerable, always twisting what you'd said both in official articles and when gossiping with other friends. You had all had enough a few years ago and stopped inviting him places. Clearly, he'd held onto the grudge.

At his own work, James was facing the same rumours, though not nearly to the same peril. As he rocked up to his home pitch for the morning training session he was received with catcalls and high fives which made him nervous. No one was ever that happy to be working out on a Monday morning.

"Thought you hated her, mate."

"Maybe all she needed was a good shag to get the stick out of her arse."

"Woah! Can we take it back a few steps and not talk about women that way?" James sent a look over to one of his teammates.

"Sorry bud," He held his hands up in surrender, "Thought you wouldn't mind since you're always moaning about her." James' eyebrows knit together as he tried to piece together what the men were talking about, finally giving up and asking for a plain explanation.

He was met with a copy of Peter's article, outlining the flirty touches and 'electric chemistry' the two of you shared. Scanning it quickly James felt his face screwing up in disgust. Never mind that it obviously wasn't true, what a disgusting violation of privacy. He'd only recently launched into the spotlight, working his way up into the Premier League and then team captain in the last few years. He still didn't know how to handle the fame, especially invasive press like this.

His first priority was setting the ruth straight for his team, explaining exactly what happened and outlining strict instructions not to bring it up the next time they saw you.

"This is going to be a lot worse for her than me," He said, ending the conversation there.

He was correct. Rumours only spiralled from Peter's article. You'd stupidly created Google Alerts for your name; as a journalist, it made sense to keep track of where your writing was being shared. One day of this nonsense and you had all alerts silenced, not wanting to ever visit the internet ever again.

Apparently, this alleged affair was the most interesting thing young British people had ever experienced. The football star and the sports journalist. As you packed up to leave at the end of the day you were feeling sick to your stomach, already overwhelmed by the attention you never wanted on you.

Your face blanched as you approached the dizzying glass windows, a mass of reporters swarming the door. You didn't have to think hard to know they were waiting for you. You retreated to the restroom where they couldn't see you to rearrange your exit appearance. Pulling your coat tight against you and scarf up to cover the bottom half of your face, you plugged your iPod nano in to appear busy (and touched up your eye makeup for the inevitable photos that would make it back into the news cycle).

Physically and emotionally prepared you braved the crowd again, moving through with a polite but firm shove, making yourself a path down to the tube. You only snapped at one particularly rude paparazzi, giving him an instruction of where to 'stick it' as you hopped down the stairs to your station.

You ate a haphazard dinner by your computer, obsessively clicking through the various articles (and now personal blog posts) that had mentioned you. Every link made you feel worse about yourself.

The articles themselves were bad, most of them degrading you and congratulating James. Some had even produced old school photos of the both of you, even a few from your uni days when James was just starting out professionally and you were attending similar parties.

The articles were one thing, at least they usually had to be somewhat impartial. The blog posts by James' fangirls were downright cruel, calling you a slag based on a singular photograph and dragging your name through the mud.

You were drawn from your doom-scrolling by your cellphone ringing, Britney ringtone at least drawing a smile from you.

"Hello?"

"Get off the internet," Sirius Black said from the other end of the line.

"How'd you know?" You exited the webpage dutifully, already feeling the weight of the world's ugly words lifting from your shoulders.

"I figured. First time being written about isn't easy."

"It's certainly making me grateful I've never been so bitchy in my articles," You produced a hollow laugh, "I don't know how people can say these things about someone they've never met."

"That's why we like you," He said, "Mostly, at least. You stick to the sport and not our personal lives."

"Don't inflate my ego, Black, it's just because I don't like you guys," You joked, your mood already blooming back to somewhat more chipper.

"That's what I've been telling him!" You heard Remus call from further away, probably the other side of their living room. Sirius made an offended noise.

"Is Potter there?" You changed the topic, swirling your mouse around the window aimlessly, too afraid to check your work or personal notifications.

"He's out right now, calling someone official -- a publicist or lawyer friend. He's tearing his hair out about this, he feels awful for you." Both men explained, bickering about who exactly he was talking to.

"Yeah, I'm noticing only one of us is getting called a slut." You rolled your eyes even though they couldn't see you, balancing your cell between your shoulder and ear as you made a cup of tea. Sirius' barking laughter crackled through the speaker.

"Don't worry about it, love, everyone knows The Daily Mail is full of shite. Besides, I got that all the time."

"Yeah, in school! Not when you have a grown-up job to save face at!" Sirius conceded, apologising lightly. You shrugged him off; he was not the target of your anger at all.

"James'll be back soon, do you want to stay on the phone?" Remus asked and you answered without hesitation.

"No. I don't want to talk to him right now. We'll just find something to fight about, it's not worth it."

"He wants to make things better," Sirius offered, "He feels terrible."

"Maybe when I'm not so angry at the world." You left them with the offered compromise, hanging up to pity yourself for a few more hours before bed.

You didn't end up being fired over the incident, your bosses couldn't find a good reason to cite, but everyone in the office knew you were on thin ice. Most weren't afraid to highlight that fact. You were really starting to hate the Politics guys.

You just tried to keep your head down, diving into your articles and trying to keep in the higher-ups good graces. Amidst the drama though you'd been taken off all football coverage for the time being, banished to the irrelevant 'sports' you never even knew existed.

The week had taken you out of London to cover bizarre rural events like cheese rolling and bog snorkelling; not uninteresting but a big change of pace to the Premier League drama you were used to.

It did take your mind off of James and the media shitstorm for a day or two though. Being in a small town was much preferable to London, at least for the moment. The paparazzi weren't going to make the drive to find you for a single day when there were plenty more interesting figures to find in the city.

Plus, you were meeting the most interesting people. Though it was no Premier League final, everyone around was so wholly invested and excited by the competition that you couldn't help feeling the same, despite your initial hesitation.

Throughout the day it was just you, your notepad, your camera and the few thousand people who came to participate and observe. You'd already met and interviewed the woman who made the cheese, the previous year's winner and you were waiting impatiently to see who'd prevail now.

The paper was paying for you to stay overnight so you could chronicle the post-event celebrations, and you'd never been so glad to be working late. The key players in the day, organisers and competitors had all convened in the town's old pub, basically heaving under the weight of you all.

You held up your beer with the others despite hating the taste, grateful to be included in their toast to the day. You laughed as you tried to down it quickly, wanting the taste out of your mouth as soon as possible without refusing such a kind gift. Holding the pint up in the air victoriously you accepted the cheers of those around you, including the lovely middle-aged lady who made the ceremonial cheese and the man only a year or two older than you who'd won earlier.

"Finally letting your hair down!" He laughed and you smiled back, trying to remember his name. A glance down at your notepad said Drew. "Can I get you another?" You hoped he didn't notice your eyes widen, not expecting attention like that, not when you were allegedly working no less. You opened your mouth to agree when someone else answered for you.

"She doesn't like beer, thinks it tastes like piss." You whipped your neck around at the familiar voice, mouth dropping open at the sight of James Potter.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You asked, jovial politeness abandoned.

"You didn't remember that my family comes to watch every year?"

"Respectfully, why the fuck would I remember something like that?" You snapped, moving to leave and follow the much nicer Drew to the bar. James grabbed your hand lightly, stopping you from leaving.

"Wait, can we talk please?" You just looked at him for a long time, considering how much patience you had after a full day of work, then shrugged half-heartedly.

He led you outside and away from the crowd, both of you letting out a huff as you noticed the change in temperature.

"I liked your story on the bog snorkelling -- interesting stuff," James broke the awkward silence and you rolled your eyes aggressively.

"As if you read my pieces."

"I do!" He insisted, silently refusing the cigarette you offered. "I've read all your pieces, honest."

"But... huh? You're the one who always said I'd be a shit writer, I've spent years trying to get the negative internal James out of my head! You absolute dickhead!" You shoved his chest, turning back towards the door to return inside.

"Are you thick? I only said that because I fancied you!"

James' words rang heavy in the air, the street otherwise silent. You stared straight ahead of you for a moment, his words settling on top of you as you focused on the orange street lamp.

This whole time, this whole time, you'd been fighting the image you believed James had of you, striving to be better, never being satisfied, for nothing. This whole time you and James had been bickering and trading insults for nothing? And all his flirting... James' annoying charm and ironic compliments and innuendo-filled teasing were all genuine, after all this time? Suddenly your whole world had turned on its axis.

"What do you mean you said it because you fancied me? That is not normal!" You whirled around, accusatory finger pointed his way.

"I don't know! I thought I was supposed to! It wasn't cool to be a sap!" James argued back, running a hand through his already tousled curls.

"Jesus Christ," You muttered, "So what, you thought all my arguing back was just flirting?" James' silence told you all you needed to know.

"Come on, don't act like you didn't like it a little bit! As I recall you were always up for the fight, weren't you? You never avoided me or ignored me. Let's face it, you enjoyed it as much as I did." He stepped closer to you, breath visible in the cool air.

"I didn't enjoy it, what the hell are you talking about? Why would I enjoy trading schoolyard insults with some arrogant, idiotic football player who discredited the one thing I wanted most in my life?" Suddenly you were inches apart, heat emanating from both of you as you fought.

"Like you never said I was stupid for wanting to be a footballer? Face it, love, you're just as bad as me."

And suddenly, despite all your better judgement and every bit of sense in your head, you were kissing him. You didn't know exactly how it had happened, and if anyone were to ever ask you you would absolutely pin the blame on James but there you were, out in the middle of the street without a care in the world.

Every one of your senses was on fire, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his soft curls under your fingers. Everything about James felt like he was made for you, like all the years of you revolving around each other, playing off the other's insult was just a lead-up, preparation for the very moment you kissed for the first time.

James' arms around you were warm, strong from years of working out and protective like a weighted blanket. One hand wrapped around your midsection and the other firmly on your neck you felt wholly surrounded by him, isolated in your own bubble of James.

It was probably a bad idea, but you weren't overly concerned with addressing that fact in any rush. It didn't come as you tilted your head to bring him even closer, it didn't come as you said hurried goodbyes in the pub and collected your coat, it didn't even come as you closed the door to your hotel room, undoing the buttons to James' shirt like they had a personal vendetta against you.

The admittance only came as you lay entangled with him, faces millimetres apart.

"Was that a bad idea?" You asked, genuine self-consciousness mixing with pragmatic anxiety.

"I mean, I quite enjoyed myself, love. Did you not?" James' cheeky smile made you snort out a giggle but you sobered up quickly, hitting him lightly on his toned chest.

"Don't turn this into a joke!" You ordered, "Have we just fucked everything up?" James just looked at you for a minute, taking in the sincerity in your voice and the depth of your eyes.

"Of course we haven't," He assured you. "Do you like me?"

"But--"

"Ah! Do you like me?" He reiterated and you paused, nodding shyly. "See? You like me and I like you. We'll figure everything else out. Start slow; baby steps."

"Baby steps," You agreed, sharing his smile. It really only hit you how much you actually liked James once you'd said it, finally noticing how he might've been looking at you the whole time.

You sent James off early in the morning, both of you needing to make it back to London quickly. You had to get your article written up and James had training. Thankfully there was no awkwardness in your goodbye; James had to rush to meet his parents to drive back by car and you had a train to catch. The only moment of hesitance came as you said goodbye, waving at each other with a giggle as James hopped down the steps. He hesitated halfway, turning to look at you with the glint of mischief in his eye that you'd become very well acquainted with.

In a moment he was at the top of the steps again, swooping in to steal another kiss. You rolled your eyes to hide an embarrassing smile, pushing him back in the direction he came.

"Haven't you got somewhere to be?" You asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. James mimed twisting a knife in his chest but continued down the stairs nonetheless, giving you one last smile before he turned a corner and disappeared from your sight. You sighed like a schoolgirl then laughed at yourself, packing the last of your things to get home.

As you sat on the train, green landscapes passed you through the window and you felt your cell phone buzz from the minuscule pocket of your work trousers.

thinking of u :P <3

You grinned, looking out at the scenery so the people around you wouldn't be able to figure out your embarrassing secret. You felt like a teenage girl again, blushing over a text from the guy you had a crush on.

Everything turned to shit in a matter of hours after returning to London.

First, James' publicist made his statement. It wasn't necessarily terrible, but it really had no regard for you. No statement declaring you both on good terms, no coming to your defence or asking for the press to respect you. James looked like the hero saving a stupid drunk girl, and you still looked desperate for the most popular footballer in the country. You were decently sure it wasn't James' fault, but it did significantly dampen your lovesick giddiness.

The office was half-empty when you arrived, kitten heels clicking against the ground. You said a quick hello to Lily, still dutifully typing away at her computer. You followed her lead, exporting your notes to your desktop computer, formatting the piece and going through edits to have it ready for the next paper.

The sun was setting, sending orange and pink streaks through the sky when the door to your boss' office slammed open, echoing above the cubicles.

"You kissed him?" He yelled and you paled, knowing exactly what he was talking about but not how he knew. That problem was solved when he slammed the magazine down in front of you, no doubt just delivered by the skittery young receptionist running back to the elevator.

FACT OR FICTION? POTTER AND REPORTER CAUGHT SNOGGING AMIDST PUBLIC DENIAL

Fuck. That could not be worse.

The whole piece was essentially dragging your name through the absolute mud now that they had the confirmation there was something going on between you and James. The whole world thought you were sleeping to the top, or for the best scoop, and everyone hated you for it.

You looked up at your boss, words dying on your tongue.

"Please tell me that's not you," He said, grasping at the thinning hair on his head. You couldn't deny it.

"I..." You trailed off, searching for anything you could say to make it better. "I didn't mean to. And I'm being completely honest when I say that the first article was all bullshit. Things have... happened since then." You were already on the verge of tears. Even on an optimistic day, you couldn't have denied that this was utterly shit.

"Jesus." Your boss muttered, beginning to pace. "Look, I like you, you know? You do good work and you're never outta line, but I reckon the higher-ups are gonna be done with you. They wanted you out over the first article but I convinced them it was all speculation. This is proof and makes us all look bad that you're sleeping with someone you interview every other bloody week. Look, I'll do what I can in damage control, but I'd be bringing your stuff home tonight. I'm sorry."

How could he have just left you with that absolute bombshell? Effectively firing you, just like that? The tears had made their way up to your waterline, sitting there mocking you as you refused to let them fall. You submitted your piece and shut off your laptop, angrily stuffing your sparse personal decorations into your shoulder bag to get the fuck out of the building as fast as possible.

The paparazzi were waiting again, of course, like that was what you really needed. You pushed past them, making sure to land an extra hard stomp on Peter's foot, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile as you heard him curse.

You sat on the tube, staring intently at your feet and trying desperately to think of anything but your current situation. You'd already been approached by someone who'd coughed out "Skank," which really hadn't done anything for your sour mood. All you wanted was to crawl into your bed and never emerge.

You wandered down the street between the metro station and your flat, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.

"Hey!" Someone called and you glanced over on instinct, senses drawn by the interruption of an otherwise quiet evening. "You're the girl who kissed James Potter, yeah?" It was a girl still in her school uniform, probably sixteen or seventeen. You thought through your options quickly and shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Wicked. How was it?" She asked, chewing on pink gum. There was an aura about her that you liked, not judgemental like everyone else you'd met. If you were still in school you thought you might've been friends with her.

"Pretty good, I'd do it again." A cheeky almost-joke between the two of you, ironic given the shit that it had caused for you.

"We were talking about it at school. Pretty shit how they've treated you. Like they all wouldn't jump at a chance to get close to 'im." You liked the way that she didn't get any closer. Just the two of you standing face to face, divided by the empty road.

"Exactly what I've been saying," You agreed, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"If it was the other way around, if you were the famous one, James would be getting congratulated for getting with you, not ridiculed by the mindless gossip columns. All my friends think it's utter bullshit, stopped buyin' 'em and everything." You could have kissed her if that wasn't tremendously creepy. In five minutes, this schoolgirl had vindicated everything you'd been saying for the past week in a way no one else had.

"Thank you," You said, with more sincerity than you probably should have had for a complete stranger. The girl just shrugged with a smile, nodding before continuing down the street, the sound of her leather school shoes growing quieter with every step.

You felt it in your whole body every time you thought of the interaction for the next few hours, warmth spreading through your chest as you were reminded there were still good people around.

Your other reminder of that fact came with the sound of your buzzer, the laughing of Lily and Marlene echoing off the stone of your building. As you let them in curiously they presented armfuls of takeout, the smell of Chinese food immediately floating through your flat.

Lily took the responsibility of setting out the food while Marlene took control of your little television, flipping between channels until she found a suitable romcom starting.

You didn't speak about what had happened, no one mentioned James Potter or the bloody Sunday People. Yet, there was an air of tenderness that let you know the girls knew exactly what was happening and how you were feeling about it.

Still, there was something bothering you. You couldn't give it a name immediately, only a tugging in your stomach while the girls were entertaining you, but persistent nonetheless.

It wasn't until you were all crammed into your bed, the other two peacefully asleep, that you could identify the sensation. It was an overwhelming desire, a need to write that you hadn't felt in ages. It was the same feeling that had pushed you to be a journalist in the first place, an inspiration you typically only felt watching a magical soccer final.

You crept out of your bedroom, switching on your computer at the kitchen table, squinting at the aggressive blue light. And when a blank Word document appeared before you, you started writing. Obsessively, feverishly, words poured out of you at a rate that hadn't happened since you'd started at Sunday People.

The words of the school girl fresh in your mind, you started an article vastly different from your usual kind. Instead of strategies and highlights you dissected your own experience of the past week, saying everything you hadn't let yourself unload to the paparazzi outside your office (though with fewer curse words than they would have received). It could have been minutes or hours that you were writing and you wouldn't have noticed, eyes glued on the screen in front of you.

You didn't realise you'd fallen asleep until Lily woke you gently with a hand on your shoulder, offering a steaming mug of tea. It was light outside, the world already up and awake. You were glad it was a weekend as the girls didn't need to rush off to work, cooking a simple breakfast for you all to share.

"What've you written?" Marlene asked, the second part of her sentence unnecessary: since you don't have a job to write for. You shrugged, taking a bite of some eggs.

"Just something I had to get off my chest. Might see if I can sell it to someone to tide me over 'til I figure out what I'm doing with my life."

"Can we read?" You made a 'go ahead' gesture, the computer already open to the screen.

A WOMAN'S UNWILLING WEEK IN THE PUBLIC EYE:

How a woman always loses.

You sat in mild discomfort as Lily and Marlene read your piece in silence, anxiously awaiting their reactions. They weren't what you were expecting.

When they turned back to face you, Lily had tears in her eyes, red tones brought out in her skin. Even Marlene looked uncharacteristically moved, not at all the reaction you were expecting. Firstly, it was completely unedited so you suspected it was somewhat of a mess from your midnight haze. Secondly, it was more of a vent than anything, getting your hatred for invasive paparazzi off your chest. You thought you'd all laugh about it then move on with your days.

"Lils, what's wrong?" You didn't mean to laugh, it was more out of surprise than anything else.

"It's just, it's so raw and real. It's so unfair," She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater.

"Jesus, you don't have to cry," You said lightly, "I'm fine! I hated that bloody place anyway."

"That's not the point," Marlene pointed out, "And Lily's right, this is really confronting stuff. It's great."

"Thanks," You mumbled, studying a lamp for something to do.

"Can we talk about James?" Your head snapped back to look at her.

"What about him?"

"Clearly there's been some... developments in your relationship, which we don't have to talk about--"

"Yet," Marlene interrupted.

"The point is that it looks like there's feelings involved now. What are you doing about them? Because if you publish that, it's putting everything out there, and even I can't tell how you feel about James right now," Lily finished.

"I don't want to talk to him," You said quickly, "I know it's not his fault but I can't think about him without getting mad. It's like I wrote; he ends up fine while I lose my job over one kiss."

"Understandable," Marlene nodded, "But if I know James at all, he'll be going crazy every minute that you ignore him."

You had much to consider when the girls left. The state of your career, your feelings for James, everything felt too big and overwhelming to make any decisions about. So, you took a nap.

The rest of your weekend was spent sending your then-edited article to as many newspapers and blogs as you could and hiding out in your flat, dodging James' calls.

Unfortunately, you liked him. You'd figured out that much. More unfortunately, he hadn't done anything to help you out in all this mess, benefiting from the press in a way that only England's favourite footballer could.

On Monday morning your piece was published. Not the biggest or most reputable newspaper, if your name hadn't still been trending it probably would have gone largely noticed. Instead, it blew up.

It had mixed reviews, of course, a tell-all so blatantly feminist would always attract its haters, but you were floored by the support it was receiving. Women were validating your experiences in a way you hadn't expected even a few days ago. It made you not so scared to leave the house anymore.

On Tuesday morning, Remus called you. You had the thought that it might have been James calling to grovel on Remus' phone, but you thought it was a smart enough idea you'd indulge anyway. If it was Sirius you wouldn't have picked up.

Instead, it was actually Remus.

"Come to the media room this afternoon," He said, evidently not wasting time with pleasantries.

"What?" You asked, caught off-guard.

"Just do it. Two o'clock."

"Remus, you know I don't have a job anymore, right?"

"Come off it, you know anyone on the team would let you in. You've got quite a name for yourself," He chanced a joke and you rolled your eyes.

"What, whore?" You retorted, only a little worried it would be true.

"I'm hanging up," Was all he said before the line went dead. You huffed, snapping your phone closed with all the attitude of a spoiled private schoolgirl.

Yet, at two o'clock you were standing in front of the media room at James' team's stadium, questioning all of your life choices.

The room seemingly went silent when you entered, dozens of pairs of eyes staring you down as you nervously stuck to the wall. You felt the derogatory, leering stares from all the sleazy men who'd been accusing you of sleeping with players since you first started in the field. It made you want to drop dead.

James made his way to the lectern up the front of the room with a cough, quieting down the chaos.

"Afternoon, everyone. I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here, I've got some things I'd like to address.

"As you all well know, I've been a frequent face in the papers lately, and not for my brilliant playing as it usually is. I recently got followed down a street after a night out looking after an old friend who happened to be a colleague of yours. Now I know that my godly good looks lead you to believe that I don't feel the same as all of you, but I do. And I'd like you all to consider how you'd feel if a man with a camera followed you all the way home after you'd been out for a night with your friends and a few cheeky drinks. It's pretty invasive if you can't imagine.

"Now, all this press hasn't really affected me. However, my dear friend has been subject to misogynistic articles, slut-shaming and harassment all because we were seen out together and a few hateful words from someone I used to consider a mate." You had no idea where this was going, but you were absolutely fascinated. James was more well-spoken, more mature and solemn than you'd ever seen him, though he still had his audience in the palm of his hand with his casual jokes. It was a masterclass in public speaking.

"If you haven't read any of my friend's pieces I would highly recommend them; she's got a brilliant voice and I personally read everything she publishes. However, I'm not here to talk about her work; I'd actually like to talk about her if you all don't mind."

What the hell was happening?

"In the midst of all these articles over the last week, I know you've all seen various pictures of us, including from secondary school. A few come to my mind, our graduation picture is a highlight, but I'd really like to talk about this one." James brandished a printed-out photo you recognised instantly.

Your life wasn't real, it absolutely could not be.

The room started to trickle out but you were stuck to your spot against the wall, frozen in absolute shock. You hardly even noticed the dirty looks you got from some of the people you'd been working alongside for years.

You spotted James in another corner, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and messing with his hair. A nervous tell.

The room was almost completely empty when you approached him, heels muffled by the carpeted floor.

"Hey stranger," You said softly, feeling way out of your depth. He turned in an instant, smile lighting up his face then melting away as it was replaced with an insecure frown.

"Was that okay? I didn't want to embarrass you but I wanted to step up and do something and protect you and--"

"Have you really loved me since we were twelve?" You cut him off bluntly.

"Every day since, as I've figured out," He agreed with a slight nod, glasses slipping down his nose slightly.

"What about all the flirting with Lily? The other girls over the years?"

"So obviously fake. Distractions. It's never been anyone but you, love."

You could only stare at him for a moment, your whole world shifting beneath your feet. James' face became increasingly worried, brow furrowing more the longer you remained unresponsive.

"If you don't feel the same that's totally alright, I still stand by what I did and I don't want you being harassed for--"

You'd always thought that cutting someone off with a kiss was ridiculously cheesy, reserved for shitty Hallmark movies with grown-up child actors who never got their big break. Turns out though, when you realise that your girlish crush on the star footballer has actually been a complicated love of twelve years, you don't really want to waste any more time.

When you woke up on Wednesday morning with James next to you, body heat keeping you cozy, you were convinced you had to be dreaming. When you eventually got up to check your emails and start your day the hypothesis was only solidified by the impossible email waiting in your inbox.

The fucking BBC wanted to hire you as a football commentator and sports writer. Your dream job at your dream company. If you let out an embarrassing squeal then that was none of your business.

You were still convinced you were hallucinating the whole thing until James came in with his biggest smile and that look in his eyes that told you he probably had a hand in getting your name on the BBC desks.

Even a few weeks ago you would have been mad at him, assuming it was mocking or he had ulterior motives. But it wasn't a few weeks ago anymore, and James Potter's whole, endless heart belonged to you. You weren't letting that go anytime soon.

#jo’s readings ◡̈#james potter x reader #gia <3 #i did not know what chess boxing was wth bog snorkeling either ?? cheese rolling ??

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ladykailitha · 21 hours ago

Text

The Au Pair Boy Part 4

And this story is back!!! Sorry about last week, but I really wanted to finish the rockstar AU.

In this we get, Chrissy and the girls being cute and everyone gets to know each other a little bit more.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Chrissy stayed the first day to help with the meltdowns but was a little surprised when Steve let them just lie on the floor.

Steve caught her raised eyebrow and huffed a laugh. “Sometimes the best way to deal with a temper tantrum is to ignore it. Plus, their dad just left for what is not short amount of time. He’s not coming back tomorrow or even next week. He’s going to gone for months. I think they deserve a little floor time, don’t you?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Huh. I never thought it of it like that.” She walked over to the girls and laid down next to them.

When Steve came back from making breakfast, he found both girls wrapped around Chrissy and all three of them sound asleep. He went back into the kitchen and carefully wrapped up their sandwiches. Lunch could wait.

It was some time later before any of them stirred. Joan was the first. She sat up and looked around. The sun had changed position so the room was darker. She spotted her sister and Chrissy, still asleep.

She wandered the house before she spotted Steve in his room reading.

“Well hello there,” he said gently. “Are you the only one awake?”

She nodded and crawled up on his lap. “I want Daddy, but I can’t find him.”

Steve set down his book and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Remember, Joanie, Daddy’s at work now, but he said he would call as soon as he plane landed. Has he called yet?”

Joanie looked up at him thoughtfully. “Would he call you or Aunt Chrissy?”

Steve scooped her up and started carrying her down the stairs. “He said he would call Chrissy tonight, then me every night I’m working. Which is why I’m taking back to her so you don’t miss his call.”

“Daddy is going to come back right?” she asked, his voice small. “Not like Papa?”

“Your daddy would never leave you like your papa did, Joanie,” Steve murmured. “He loves you too much.”

“Then why did he leave?”

Well he wasn’t sure how to answer that in a way she would understand. “Your daddy got a once in a life time opportunity to get back together with his band. He had work with four people’s schedules. But he loved you so much that he made sure that he had someone he could trust with you and Janie, okay?”

Joan nodded and wrapped her arms around Steve’s neck as he worked his way back to the front room.

Chrissy was just waking up, but Janice was still asleep. She looked at her watch and cursed.

“Aunt Chrissy said a bad word,” Joan huffed as Steve set her down.

Chrissy head whipped around to see Steve and Joan standing in the entrance way. “Oh, hi, Joanie, I didn’t see you standing there. You shouldn’t have wandered off without telling me.”

“I went looking for Daddy and found Steve,” she said pointing to Steve.

Chrissy looked up at Steve and then back at Joan. “Good job, Joanie.” She gently untangled herself from Janice’s iron tight grip and stood up. She straightened her clothes and glared at him.

“Why did you let me sleep so long?” she huffed, crossing her arms.

Steve pulled out his phone without a word and fiddled with a moment, before turning the screen around so she could see.

“Oh.”

There on the screen was a picture of her with the girls, all cuddled together in a pile on the floor.

“Um,” she said shyly, “if I gave you my number could you send that to me? I want it as the wallpaper on my phone.”

Steve nodded. She rattled off her phone number and he sent her the picture with a grin. Behind her Janice was waking up, groggy and disorientated.

“Daddy?” Janice asked sleepily. She looked around and saw only Steve, Chrissy, and Joan and immediately burst into tears.

Chrissy wrapped her arms around the little girl and held her tight. Joan waddled up to Chrissy and tugged her shirt sleeve. Chrissy brought her willingly into the hug. “It’s all right, pumpkins I think it’s past time for lunch. And I think everyone is feeling a little hangry at the moment.”

“I’ve got sandwiches in the fridge,” Steve offered jutting his thumb behind him.

Suddenly the girls pulled away from Chrissy and made a mad dash for the kitchen, Steve fast on their heels to make sure they didn’t try to get the plate out of the fridge themselves. Chrissy followed close behind, shaking her head fondly.

Lunch was a hit especially when the girls saw that their sandwiches were cut into little hearts.

“Did you throw away the scraps?” Chrissy asked as she munched happily on her non-hearted turkey sandwich.

Steve shook his head. “I cut the bread before adding anything to it, condiments, meat, cheese and then I use the bread scraps to make bread crumbs. Then I trim the cheese and have a little snacking cheese while I finish the other sandwiches.”

“Clever.”

Steve ducked his head and blushed. “Hey, girls what does your Daddy say about business at the lunch table?”

Joan and Janice shared a look and shrugged.

“Daddy usually doesn’t have lunch with us because he’s working,” Joan huffed. “Usually our nanny would fix us lunch.”

Steve looked over at Chrissy in surprise. “I was under the assumption that I was the emergency au pair, as in he didn’t have one before he left. Was that not the case?”

Chrissy shook her head. “I’m sure Eddie told you that they tend to chase off their nannies?”

“We do not!” Joan huffed crossing her arms in front of her chest and pouting.

“Yeah!” Janice said. “Miss Molly spent all the time on the phone with her boyfriend.”

“We were left unsup–unpup–unstupified!” Joan said, stammering around the big word.

“Unsupervised,” Chrissy said slowly then turned to Steve. “Molly was only the most recent run of bad nannies. One was spanking them for punishment, another was smoking weed in the house. And each time, the girls would misbehave so badly that the nannies would go running and blame the girls, only for the truth to come out.”

“Miss Emily liked to scare us,” Janice said with a whimper. “Jump out of closets and stuff. Said it would make us tougher.”

“Eddie found that one out because he came home early one day when a meeting with another producer fell through,” Chrissy said shaking her head. “She lasted two weeks.”

“Jimney Cricket,” Steve cursed. He turned to the girls. “I promise to not spank you or scare you or be on the phone with my boyfriend or girlfriend, mainly because I don’t have one.”

Joan cocked her head to the side. “You like both? Can you do that?”

“Yup!” Chrissy said brightly. “I’ve had a couple of boyfriends in the past. I just decided that girls were easier and more fun.”

Steve nearly snorted his water. He was so glad the girls were way too young to catch Chrissy’s meaning. Because, hooboy, their dad had only been away for a couple of hours and already Chrissy had gone feral.

“So you’ve had boyfriends and girlfriends?” Janice asked Steve, her head tilted the opposite direction of her sister so their heads were almost touching.

“I have!” he told her brightly. “Just not in a while. I’ve been taking care of sweethearts like you and have been too busy to date.”

Chrissy eyed him like he was a piece of meat she was thinking of serving up. Most likely to Eddie. His boss.

“But you aren’t a nanny, right?” Janice asked. “You’re an off pear? Is that rotted fruit?”

Chrissy and Steve shared a glance before they both burst out laughing.

“Au. Pair,” Steve said slowly. “Traditionally a young woman from a foreign country hired to cook, clean, and watch small children in exchange for housing and a small income. But I’m a little bit different.” He held up his finger and thumb really close together.

“Is because your a boy?” Joan asked at the same time Janice asked, “Is it because you aren’t foreign?”

Steve laughed again. “You’re both right. Though my mom is Italian, but I was born here in Indiana.”

“Just like us!” Joan said, throwing her arms in the air and almost knocking her plate and half of her sandwich off onto the floor.

“It’s all right, Joanie,” Steve soothed when she got really upset about almost knocking her plate on the floor. “You learned a valuable lesson in making sure your plate is pushed far enough on the table that it won’t get easily spilled.”

She sniffled but nodded.

They went back to eating and as Steve was cleaning up Chrissy asked him what he wanted to discuss at the table that got sidetracked by the girls.

“Just wondering when we should start looking for other help,” he said over his shoulder as he washed the dishes. “I don’t think we need to start right away for the cleaner and cook since there won’t be a lot of need for it, but a pool cleaner, ground maintenance, and gardener/ groundskeeper should be our top priorities.”

Chrissy stared at him for a moment. “Holy shit, you’re efficient. Yeah, we can start on all that shit tomorrow. I have the next couple of weeks off to help you settle the girls in. Eddie’s been gone for a weekend or two before and they’ve spent the night with me, so I’m always on call if you need anything.”

Steve smiled at her, wiping his wet hands on a rag he had draped over his shoulder while he washed.

“That’s great,” he said. “I won’t be able to keep calling on you because they’re going to need to get used it just being me.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Eddie really likes you and wants you to do well here so he’s authorized me to help you out anyway I can.”

“You don’t know what a relief it is to hear that,” Steve said, leaning against the counter. “Most parents either don’t care or are so afraid you’re trying to steal their children’s love that they undermine you at every turn.”

“Well you don’t have to worry about that with me or Eddie,” Chrissy said firmly. “Honestly it’s a relief. I’m not mom material. I never intended to be one. I like being Auntie Chris, but I’ve had to step up since Ethan walked out on them. It’s not fair to Eddie and it’s not fair to me either. So for both of us, having you come in and be that other parental figure in their lives is a huge fucking relief.”

Steve chuckled. “Duly noted.” He threw the balled up towel into a nearby basket. He liked having a place to put his used towels and wash cloths so he could remember to wash them as often as they needed to be.

“He shoots!” Chrissy cheered. “He scores!”

She waved her arms like she had pompoms in them and jumped in the air. Steve laughed.

“I may have played basketball in high school,” he said, a little sheepishly. Judging from the answers at the get to know everyone dinner, it seemed that the family didn’t do sports much and were very nerdy.

She leaned forward and put her hand to the side of her mouth and stage whispered, “And I might have been a cheerleader in high school and college.”

Steve’s interest was suddenly very piqued. “Really? That’s so cool!”

“Yup!” Chrissy said with a nod. “My mom wanted me to go pro, but I got a business degree for a reason and that was to manage the band. Eddie saved me from an emotionally abusive relationship when I went to him for weed and came out of the deal with a best friend.”

“Nice!” Steve said holding his hand out for a fist bump, which she gladly gave. “Me and my best friend met working at this hideously themed ice cream shop. We became friends when the owner tried to burn it down for the insurance but the idiot didn’t stop to think that we would still be cleaning up.”

Chrissy grimaced. But before she could respond her phone started ringing. “Oh shit, that’s Eddie!”

She went dashing out of the room, calling for the girls. Steve followed slower behind as he wasn’t really needed for the bit of that conversation.

As soon as he walked into the room and in view of the camera Eddie called out, “There he is! He survived day one!”

“Day isn’t over with yet,” Steve pointed out with a huff of laughter. “I’m dreading night time. It’s a bath night.”

Eddie and Chrissy both winced.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, “I wasn’t thinking about that when we chose today to leave. Good luck and may Poseidon keep you safe from Scylla and Charybdis.”

“Daddy!” Joan and Janice huffed. “We’re not monsters!”

“I got that reference!” Steve said, snapping his fingers. “Do you girls like Percy Jackson?”

Chrissy burst out laughing. “That would be tamer, but no, this idiot has read them straight up Greek myths.”

“Hey!” Eddie protested from the phone. “I’ll have you know I carefully edited out the worst parts and was sure not to introduce to stories like Oedipus and Circe’s island, thank you very much.”

“I loved hearing about myths and legends when I was a kid,” Steve said with a shrug. “I’m sure the girls are no different.” He turned to Eddie, “if it’s okay with you, I’d like to start reading those books to them.”

Eddie shrugged on the video. “I guess, I mean if they could handle me reading myths to them, they could probably handle that. Just not at night. Night time is for learning. They have a lot of great Sandra Boynton books I would prefer you read to them instead.”

They started talking about other things and soon it was time for Eddie to go. He kissed the screen and said goodbye to the girls.

Steve got them all dressed for some outside play that Janice loved and Joan merely tolerated. As he watched them play in the massive yard, he figured that today could absolutely count as a good day.

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @tartarusknight

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @ollieolive

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @sadisticaltarts @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @dolphincliffs @steddie-as-they-go @steddieislife

10- @kultiras @morallyundefined @themoonagainstmers

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #nanny au #rockstar eddie munson #nanny steve harrington

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 19 hours ago

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Mission Control 24

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

He’s leaving again. It’s harder now after everything. After that intruder. You shouldn’t want the soldier to stay but being alone is dangerous. He might be a threat on his own but he protects you all the same. It’s a twisted way to think of it but you could be the one he keeps safe or the one he tears apart tendon from toenail.

He’s in his body armour, his cowl under his arm. You watch him march toward the door but he doesn’t reach it. He stops and looks at you. His eyes haven’t yet fully glazed over. You sit, paralysed for a moment, before you find some strength.

You get up and cross to him, limping on your tender foot. It’s healing, slowly, but it will never be like before. You don’t know what to do. He’s blank as he looks back at you.

You reach to squeeze his wrist, “I’ll be here.” That’s stupid. He knows you’re not going anywhere. He takes a deep breath and twists his hand up, slipping free of your grasp to latch on. He grips you tightly and dips his chin. His way of saying I will come back.

He lets you go and faces the door. He pulls the cowl over his head and secures the strap. You see the shift in his posture, the tension as it nestles in his jaw. He marches on and the door opens and closes to punctuate his departure.

You exhale and hug yourself. It’s still cold and desolate. More so without him. You hate to feel that way but now, he’s all you have.

You hobble across the room and take the blanket from the couch. You sit by the fire and start your vigil. You rise only to tend to your basic needs; food, bathroom, otherwise, you doze or stare, feeding the flame so it keeps a steady crackle.

Time doesn’t exist in this place so you don’t try to track it. The day melds into the night. Nothing changes. Not until the clatter.

Your heart peaks. Adrenaline surges through the dulcet drone of your existence. You shake as you shrug away the blanket. The world hazes as the door handle turns and the hinge grind softly. Panic swells over you, a stone in your chest. You can’t breathe.

It’s another monster come to attack. You lunge for the iron poker by the fireplace. You whimper at the weight on your injured foot but it fades into a pulsing thrum. You turn to face the new invader. You’ll fight, just as hard as the last time.

You know by the footsteps alone that you’re wrong. It’s him. The soldier. You know the cadence of his gait. Your grip eases on the poker and as he appears, you let your arms fall, pointing it to the floor.

He tilts his head and stops to stare back at you. His armour is dusty, his fingertips grimy, and his boots leave water in the stead. He approaches you, step by step. He looks down at the poker and reaches to grip it below your hand.

He raises it and arcs it in a mimic of an attack, stopping it before his face. He brings his other hand around yours and moves behind you. He moves your fingers, adjusting them to clasp it firmer. He guides both your hands around the handle and he guides it back. He brings it down in a harsh slice. He does it several times.

He squeezes and backs away. He gestures with his hand. You shake your head. He mimes the motion of swing the poker. He’s teaching you how to do it right. How to hit to damage.

“I can’t--”

He wags his finger. You have to. You sniff and turn your focus to the poker. You raise it again and swing. The air whips around your effort. He nods and wiggles his finger. Again. He unhooks his cowl and slips it off. He tosses it on the couch.

He moves toward you. He surprises you as he bends and carefully moves your feet. He stands again and sets his own stance, waving his hand between the both of you. You do your best to replicate his posture. He nods and backs up.

You try again. He urges you on with another point. You keep doing it. Over and over, each time more confident than the last. You’re left breathless. You aim the pointer down into the floor and lean on it.

He stares then slowly bends his arm. A thumbs up. It’s almost comical.

Then his eyes narrow and his face grows sombre. He shakes his head. He snatches up his cowl then goes to the kitchen. He opens the cupboards and examines the contents. He hooks his chinstrap to his belt and the helmet dangles against his thigh.

He takes a milk crate from the corner and sweeps the contents of the cupboard into it. You gasp and come up next to him. What is he doing?

He’s determined. He doesn’t notice you as he continues to clear out the cupboard. You watch him in confusion.

“Are you leaving?” You ask fearfully. He stops and looks at you. His cheek twitches and his brows arch. “Are we leaving?”

His lashes flick and he goes back to shoving packets in the crate. Your heart pulses. You could ask where but you know won’t get a question.

“What do we need? Food? Blankets?” He nods as he turns to the fridge and opens it up.

“Okay, I’ll help,” you say.

He pauses and turns to face you. His face contorts and he mouths two words; thank you. You nod then hesitate. He goes to turn back and you grab his arm, releasing him as he shifts back again. You take your hand to your chin and push it towards him.

“Thank you,” you say. “This means ‘thank you’.”

He squints. He lifts his hand and looks at it then repeats the same gesture. The idea clicks in your head but you don’t know much more than that.

“Sign language,” you explain. “I only know please and a few other things...”

He makes the gesture again. You blow out a long breath and recenter yourself. You pivot as he returns to the fridge.

“Blankets, clothes, got it,” you say to yourself.

You limp out of the kitchen and grab the blanket from the floor. You’re scared and confused. You don’t know where he’s taking you or why. Still, it can’t be worse than this place.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #drabble #mission control #au #captain hydra #captain america #avengers #mcu #marvel

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moonshynecybin · 2 days ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/moonshynecybin/748065034533568512/at-this-point-all-thats-left-for-marc-is-to-get

Hi hello i was scrolling through and found this. WHAT does the date consist of? Does the sponsor (take advantage) and force them to film it for promo? Is it a silly date? Dinner date? Excursion to f1 date? Track time at the ranch date? Hilariously related to the sponsor date? Obviously marc would say yes to the filming bc he IS addicted to sponsor money:( (the sponsor is paying them A LOT for the opportunity to make this a commercial)

this would be after vale bidding at the marc date auction sorta soft launched the reconciliation (if vale announces it like it’s a JOKE that SUPRISES everyone i think it makes it a more bearable ego-loss in his brain lol) then wellllll the next move from the valentino rossi i have reconciled with one of my historic rivals playbook, as we have recently seen, is a track day at the ranch. inviting him back into that circle. still publicly with a bit of an upper hand because it’s his territory, still enough plausible deniability of professionalism, but it’s marc and marc will whip everyone’s entire ass without a thought for how that will go over at dinner, and it’s a short drive to get to vale’s bed at the 2004 yamaha m1 beside it. perfect compromise, they’re both happy, so i think it’s very much scenes of marc carving through the academy nastystyle on that dirt bike and open mouth laughing at one of vale’s bad jokes and cele following behind with his little gopro as they do crazy shit into corners and then them talking for so long that they’re the last to shower (on purpose they do this. on purpose. they are gross on purpose.) and giving each other sloppy handjobs pressed up against the tile after everyone else has trundled off to dinner to eat their phallic meats. night ends with psychosexual mindgames by the bonfire and marc getting drunk on the expensive ass bottle of wine that vale had flown in just to watch his eyes SPARKLE in the firelight

#f1 race also fun but they would be more sponsor/celeb than person and the ranch has justttt enough personal privacy/control to straddle it #motogp #callie speaks #asks #rosquez

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climbthemountain2020 · 2 days ago

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Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met - Chapter 23

Ch. 23 | Ao3

Thank you, as always, to the best friends and betas ever, @popjunkie42 and @witch-and-her-witcher

NSFW today :)

Early the next morning, Feyre woke to the gentle brushing of Rhys’s knuckles against her cheek. She had been dreaming of early mornings in her old manor, waking up to the sharp but comforting smells of new spices. It always meant her father had returned from a trip, bringing new things for the kitchen staff, who were always enthusiastic about getting started.

“Darling, wake up.”

“What? What’s happened?” Her heart was in her throat as consciousness surged inside her, whipping her back into existence, the memories of the previous night raining back down over her. She could still smell the spices in her nose, as though the dream hadn’t entirely faded away. But she was torn fully into the present, panic guiding her back.

“Nothing, Feyre. It’s okay, shhh.” His hands firmly pressed her back into the mattress, grounding her and settling her until she could breathe again. “It’s okay, I’m here.” He turned his face into her hair, laying back down beside her and pulling her body close. She relaxed as much as her mind would allow.

“What time is it?”

“Before dawn. I wanted to wake you and see if you wished to go to Calla’s cell. It may be the only chance we have to do it.” She nodded, pressing her eyes tightly closed, the tears already burning there again. He was right. If she wanted to see it, collect any of what Calla had left in the world, it had to be now.

She nodded grimly, gripping harder to Rhys’s arm where it wrapped across her chest. He was dressed, as though he’d already been awake and out.

“I love you, Feyre. I will be with you every step of the way.”

“I love you, too.” The words flowed freely between them now, settling warmly as they always did around her heart and fluttering across her ribcage. It had changed nothing, despite her bargain with Vilja, the inky stars still pressed into her shoulder.

It didn’t stop her from wanting to hear it as often as she could.

She rose from the bed, feet hitting the cold stone floor as she went to the wardrobe to find clothes. She paused as she passed the table, her bloodied, leather wristband still lying on it. The blade had been drawn back in, but the blood would stain, just like the guilt on Feyre’s soul.

“I can get rid of it, if you’d like. I just didn’t want to assume since it was a gift.” He was behind her, arms wrapping around her middle as he rested his chin on her shoulder. She eased back into him, letting some of the unsteadiness in her be settled by his body holding hers.

She closed her eyes, breathing through the cataclysmic ache in her chest. “No, don’t throw it out. I just–I don’t know yet.” He pressed a kiss to her temple then went to wash up, leaving her to turn away from the table and find her clothes. This would be her new reality, and she had to find a way to cope with it. She would start by making amends, salvaging anything that she could find in Calla’s cell and give her the send off that she deserved once they left this place.

If they left.

When Rhys winnowed to the dungeons, it was pitch black, the candles no longer lit in Calla’s absence. They’d landed in Calla’s cell instead of Feyre’s this time, the door on it still open. Feyre tossed a small flame into the single candle near the top of the wrought iron doors, the light hitting the room around them and casting it in low light and deep shadows. The walls of dirt and stone were jagged with crags, throwing shapes that deepened the darkness. The pallet was just as rucked as it had been the last time she’d been down here. It was like Calla was still alive, as though she hadn’t left only to never return. Feyre could almost pretend that Calla was just doing chores somewhere down the hall.

Feyre felt Rhys’s shock before she registered what she was looking at, the wall in front of her swimming in and out of clarity as her eyes focused. As her vision adjusted, she recoiled, stumbling back a step and taking in the wall with the hole that she and Calla had spoken through. It was covered in scrapes–in markings. From ceiling to floor, no part of the stone had been left untouched. She couldn’t see it before when they spoke, the other walls free from any changes, but this wall…there were tally marks to count the days, framed by strange markings and pictures. Spirals reached from top to bottom, raining down and trapping figures below, crushing them beneath the heavy gashes in the stone.

There were stars at the top, framed by what appeared to be the tops of trees, as though one was looking up at the night sky from the forest floor. Feyre traced her fingers over a crude image of the Spring manor burning, flying creatures like the attor flying around it in the air. Farther left there were creatures with pointed ears crouching over the bodies of what looked like humans, their stomachs ripped open. The fae were covered in blood and holding what looked like human hearts.

Feyre stepped closer to the wall, taking it all in as she ran her fingers over the carvings. If these tally marks were correct, she’d at least been doing them since the day they’d arrived. She took tentative steps along the walls as she brushed her hands across the shallow cuts in the stone, her chest twisting with the realization of how long this might have been going on.

Gods, when did she even have the time to do this?

She didn’t look like she’d been sleeping.

He was right–she hadn’t. Had she slept at all since they’d come here? Had she–

She paused when she heard a crunch beneath her feet. Stepping back, her shoe lifting from the floor ahead of her, she bent to examine the ground. The light wasn’t enough to work out what she’d been looking at, so she called the flame into her hands, holding it down low. There were sharp rocks, scattered as though tossed down haphazardly for use. They were covered in what looked like rust– perhaps Calla had dug them from the dripping wall.

She moved farther towards the back of the chamber, wrapping back around until she neared the pallet where Calla had slept. It was messed up still, the straw rumpled on top of the small platform as though they’d torn her from the bed when they came to get her. Feyre leaned down to pull some of the straw that had fallen back to the top. As she did, something caught her eye. There, on the side of the platform not visible from the doors of the cell, the straw had been pushed up as though to hide something. No one would have seen it when they came to get her, but Feyre had noticed it coming from the other side.

There’s something here.

She felt Rhys’s hand on her shoulder.

What is it?

She brushed the remaining straw back to display a massive hole in the wall, only a body’s width across, but it stretched the entirety of the way behind her bed. Just enough room for a person and nothing else. There were gouges, both deep and shallow, covered in that same strange rust as the rocks at the bottom of the carvings. The heavily packed dirt of the mountain side had been chipped away by hand…or by stone.

A vision of Calla’s bloodied, dirtied hands flashed across her mind, and she understood.

As Feyre’s comprehension caught up to her, her breath caught in her throat. The rocks hadn’t been covered in rust. They’d been covered in blood. Calla had injured herself digging into the wall, recording the last of her thoughts in this world and frantically making what appeared to be the beginnings of a hopeless tunnel. Or a place to hide. She had slowly and methodically cracked that massive rock open, painstakingly pulling the jagged edges out one by one, and used them to start digging.

Rhys backed up.

It’s not very deep.

Deep enough to hide.

She held her fire up to the wall; it only went about seven inches in. But Calla was thin. With the hay there, she could have hidden, could have bought herself time, maybe. Had that been her goal? Or had she simply lost touch with reality entirely?

Feyre had stood in the other cell and spoken to her, had looked her in the eyes and thought that they would make it out of here. All the while, Calla had been over on her side carving and losing her mind. She may as well have been a world away. All those times that they’d been down here to look for her and found her cell empty…had she been gone, or had she been here, hiding in the walls? Feyre shuddered as she remembered the few times she’d had to wait to see Calla pop into view. Had she been steadily carving, hiding from Feyre just out of sight? Feyre felt sick. She had had no idea what she’d been going through, what she’d been doing– she’d known it was bad, but she hadn’t seen how bad.

She hadn’t wanted to see.

Feyre hadn’t been enough. She was only human, too. Call had needed more, a whole unit of support behind her. And she hadn’t gotten it.

The sob broke through her right as Rhys felt it coming and held his hand over her mouth to quiet the strangled wail emerging from her. She’d thought that she had cried all the tears she had the night before, but looking at these walls, at this desperate attempt at an escape–the actions of a frantic animal as it threw its last efforts out to save its own life. Calla’s last thoughts in this world existed now only on these walls, and Feyre felt like her soul was twisting its way out of her body.

Rhys held her, his arms banding around her and his fingers firmly across her mouth as her chest heaved. He seemed to understand, and let go just as she turned and vomited into the straw on the floor. Her body retched, refusing to hold the horror of everything she’d discovered, everything she’d seen and endured here.

The guilt and the trauma and the desperation all culminated here, in Calla’s last days and death. How long had she been falling apart? What had finally broken her? Or had she been broken long before they came here? Long before she’d even come to Spring?

They had brought her here. They had sacrificed her.

Rhys patiently cradled her as she cried, the well of tears withering once again as shame and regret took their place. It would be a long road to recovery, if a recovery over something like this was even possible.

Would it make you feel better to know that you held out much longer than I would have in your shoes?

She sniffed in his arms. What do you mean?

I mean that you are a much better person than I am, and with a much better heart.

Feyre scoffed, rubbing her sleeve along her nose.

I watched you in there with her. You did everything you could to stop this. You begged her. You easily could have killed her at any time, and still you let her bring you to the edge of death before you acted, Feyre.

She had. She had given everything, waited as long as she could. She’d almost died waiting. It hadn’t changed the outcome.

You will carry this forever, love. But you will also find ways to cope. And if it helps to hear it, I would have done the same for you.

It did help to hear it. The guilt would weigh her down, perhaps forever, but she knew the truth beneath it all. It hadn’t just been her life on the line as she and Calla fought. She had to push forward, had to remember what she was still here fighting for.

If they succeeded here, she would have millennia to make herself suffer for what she’d sacrificed. But if she wanted that time, she needed to earn it– to focus on what she’d come here to do. She was the only thing left standing in Amarantha’s way, and she would not break. She would let the bright light in the promise of their future together help her keep it together, keep her strong.

Calla had no personal effects, no items that were worth taking with them. Feyre wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse. She took one of the stained rocks in hand and found an empty portion of the wall. On it, she carved simply the name Calla . She didn’t want to say any words, didn’t want to drag this out. There would be time to grieve and time to mourn if she succeeded. Instead, she bowed her head, placing her hand on the name on the wall, covering all that was left of her once-friend except memories.

“I’m sorry.”

She allowed a final tear to fall, then let Rhys take her hand as they left the cells behind.

+++

As Feyre and Rhys landed back in their room, they froze in time with each other. An envelope had been shoved under their door in their absence, and the terror Feyre felt was echoed in Rhys’s tightening grip on her hand. He tensed beside her as they stepped forward to greet whatever was waiting for them inside it.

Feyre noticed first that the envelope was different–not the thick folded parchment with scarlet wax and lettering of Amarantha. This letter had been sent in an envelope, and off-white, almost yellow coloring to it. It seemed to glow in the dour darkness of the entryway, and the only identifying item on it was a simple wax seal with the shape of a sun pressed into it.

“It’s from Helion.” Rhys’s tone was still tense, but more suspicious than worried. Helion was the High Lord that watched Feyre as she moved through court, those amber eyes tracking her movements from the first night she’d come here. The one who was familiar, and yet a stranger.

Rhys cracked the seal and began to read. “He requests a meeting with me, and says it’s urgent.”

“Do you think this is a trap?” Feyre wondered if that knee jerk instinct would ever leave now, or if she would be destined for a life of looking over her shoulder at every step.

“Stay here.” He crossed back to her in two steps, pressing a kiss into her temple. “I’ll be back soon.” She nodded, leaning it and savoring it, then leaning back again to let him go. She could find things to do here, could work some of the tension out of her body while he was away by moving. She continued to ignore the band on the table, tossing a shirt over it so that she didn’t have to see it anymore.

Feyre had hardly begun picking up around the room when she heard the whooshing of Rhys returning.

“Well, that certainly didn’t take–” Her voice cut off as she turned, the male on the other side of the room not Rhys at all. “How did you get in here?”

Feyre was aware of the wards and enchantments Rhys had woven around this room. He’d gone over them with her to reassure her that no one could get in except for the two of them. They were made with their blood, keyed to only them. And yet, here stood Helion, his dark skin and bright eyes glowing in the shadows by the door.

“I have my ways, Feyre Archeron.” She should have been terrified, alarms firing and telling her to run or call for help. But something about Helion calmed her, an ease to his words and posture that made him think that he was not a threat. That made him seem more of a comfort here under the mountain than a danger.

“You sent him away so you could come here.” It wasn’t a question, and yet, he raised his brows.

“One might think that a prisoner would relish a break. And yet, you don’t seem happy.” He circled the outskirts of the room, picking up a cup on the table, sniffing it and putting it back down. Eventually, he pulled the chair out and sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and surveying Feyre in that way of his that made her want to draw back, to hide. She felt as though he could see every bit of her, even the bits she fought to keep hidden. Something in his gaze told her that there were no secrets in Helion’s eyes.

They held each other’s gaze, and she itched to fill the silence, to lie. She could tell him any number of things, but he’d heard her speak so casually when she’d thought he was Rhys. She had a feeling he wouldn’t have believed her even if she’d lied.

“What do you want from me?”

The smile on his face was charming and broad, spreading slowly as white teeth flanked by the sharp canines went on display. It seemed a genuine show of mirth, as though there truly were no ill intent behind it. It was a smile that she distantly felt she should know, the appearance of it like finding an old friend in a crowd.

“I heard you like bargains, Feyre.” She was instantly on edge. The calm of his presence might all be some cruel trick, a gift of a High Lord like the powers of Rhys’s mind. She wasn’t privy to all the secrets– there could easily be magic he possessed that she knew nothing about.

“What could I possibly give you that you do not possess? I am already fighting for your freedom– ”

“I would like to offer you a chance to run.”

Feyre pulled up short. “What?”

“I have it on good authority that a window of opportunity for you to escape will open for a short period of time tonight. I want you to take it.” Her heart was in her throat.

A way out.

Her tongue dried in her mouth, the feeling causing her to clear her throat. But what was his catch? What were his terms? She’d been in Prythian long enough to know that everything came with a hefty price, and that sometimes bargains were tricky things. “What could you possibly gain from me leaving here?”

“There is someone I would like you to take with you.”

“While I appreciate your vote of confidence in me, I can’t leave, High Lord, I–”

“Helion. Please call me Helion.”

“Helion, fine. I can’t accept.”

“Is it because of Rhysand? Take him, too. There is room for you all to flee.” The words swam in her mind. They could run.

“You know?”

He smiled again, that grin stretching wide. “I can see through glamours, dear. I’ve known since you arrived. Plus, Rhysand is a friend.”

A friend.

If they could run, if they could leave…But then Tamlin and Lucien and everyone else would remain. Her bargain would go unfulfilled.

“The bargain.”

“I can break it.” Her jaw dropped.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. How do you think I broke your lover’s wards to get in here?” She remembered. She’d practiced with that very magic over and over in Spring, winding and unwinding wards. She just hadn’t imagined how far his powers might extend.

“She’ll track us forever. We’ll never know peace.”

“There is a place he could take you, a legend of old. An island that people believe to be myth where you might never be found.”

And Rhys would never see his family again. His home. That vision of yearning, of Velaris, his family, flashed before her eyes. All of that would be gone to him forever. And the people beneath the mountain, both those she knew and those she didn’t, would never have the chance for peace or home again.

She couldn’t even consider it. The moment she let the doubt creep in, admitted to herself that it was more likely than not she wouldn’t be leaving here, she knew it was going to consume her wholly. She had to hold on to the hope, needed to keep the dream alive. She demanded that beautiful possibility of a future in her mind, and it would keep her going. There could be no room for uncertainty.

“I appreciate your offer. More than you could possibly know. But I cannot go.” Helion seemed surprised, not bothering to hide his shock.

“Why would you stay?”

There was the briefest flash in her mind at the satisfaction she would feel at ripping Amarantha’s eyes out with her bare hands for the atrocities she’d committed. She chose to voice the more noble reasons, instead.

“I made a promise that I would try. I took on the bargain for more reasons than one. If I leave now, you will all be bound here forever. I would be an oath breaker, and all of you would be the ones to pay that price.” The softening around Helion’s eyes was evident, the words striking some chord within him. “I won’t leave Lucien or Tamlin or anyone else here to deal with this. Not after I promised.”

“You care deeply for those you love.”

“They are my family.”

He closed his eyes and turned his head, as though he were living momentarily in another place, remembering another time. When he turned back to her, his expression had changed.

“I have seen everything you’ve done under this mountain, Feyre. I will never forget any of it. No one will.”

She nodded, and he rose to go, the glow illuminating his skin in the shadows.

“I cannot thank you enough for your offer. I am sorry I could not take it.” He paused, but then turned to take her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles. His lips were soft and warm, and he smiled wickedly again. It did not meet his eyes.

“Who were you trying to save?”

But the second she asked, the air was whirring around them, filling with a swirling and potent darkness as Rhys winnowed back into the room with a clap of thunder so loud Feyre almost covered her ears on instinct.

He appeared, the very image of night incarnate in front of her, back tense and eyes filled with rage as the shadows banked around him in fury. This was the High Lord of Night, the King of Nightmares that the books detailed.

“Helion?” His shoulders relaxed a bit as he took in what was happening. Helion hadn’t even flinched at the display, just continued to smile.

“Hello, Rhysand.”

“You sent me the letter to get me out.” Helion smiled as Rhys echoed the same deadpan statement as Feyre had only moments before. He sent Rhys a quick, nearly mocking, bow.

“Protect her at all costs, my friend.” And with a whirl of light, he was gone.

Rhys was still breathing heavily, despite clearly not being all too concerned Helion had broken into his private rooms. He crossed the room silently and quickly, pulling Feyre tightly to his chest. “When I got there and he was gone, I worried it had been a trap. I worried–” He couldn’t finish the sentence, and Feyre fisted her hands in his shirt. She understood.

Everything seemed so fragile and precious, as though they were dangling right off the edge of a precipice, and only the slightest movement could tip them right over the edge.

“I’m here.”

“What did he want?” Rhys didn’t draw back from her as he asked.

“To offer us an escape, provided we smuggle someone out with us for him.”

Rhys hummed. “And you said no, because you made a promise to save everyone at great personal cost. Am I close?”

“Hush.” The topic was miserable, but it was hard to not feel her heart seize at how effortlessly he knew her. The vulnerability of being known so thoroughly by him would never cease to fill that space in her chest with burning, aching love.

They held each other for a few moments, their bodies naturally beginning to sway with the need for comfort.

“You must remember, I am an excellent dancer.” She smiled up at him as she said it.

He pulled back, looking down at her with nothing but adoration in his eyes. “Feyre, Feyre. Cracking jokes at a time like this?” She pretended to be offended, slapping at his chest, but he grabbed her wrist gently, plucking it from the air and pressing the lightest kiss to her palm. He entwined their fingers and held both their hands between them.

“When we return home, you can buy me fancy dancing lessons with your High Lord riches. Then I won’t have to step on your toes all night.” He kissed each of her cheeks, eyes searching her face as though looking for some sort of answer or plan or strategy he might have missed there before.

“When we return home, Feyre. I will make you High Lady, and you can use our riches on whatever your heart desires.” His fingers strayed to the ring on her finger, out of sight with her glamours covering it. She dropped the magic from her hand, the ring on her finger shining and catching the light. He twisted it so the stars faced upwards, the brilliant shine of it somehow even more magnificent.

And when he leaned in to kiss her again, their lips meeting softly, he paused between each touch.

“Feyre. My friend through many dangers. My lover who healed my broken and weary soul. My wife. My eternity.”

She sighed with the admission, letting the words wash over her. Husband and wife felt like such small terms for what she felt they had, not coming close to the depth of emotions and love she held for him or him for her. If they were to make it out of here, return to Velaris, and marry, would it feel like it came closer to touching that deep well of passion and intimacy, that vulnerability and possession she felt?

He was hers. And she was his. She had never felt so possessive, so territorial, about anything in her life. Perhaps the titles did not matter so much.

“You’re mine, Rhysand. Forever.”

“And you’re sure that you want me? My titles, my past, and everything that comes with it?” The vulnerability shone within his eyes. She knew how he felt– knew that he was certain being with him would put a target on her back forever. “My actions here have damned me. They see me as a monster, and they’ll see it even more now with how I’ve had to treat you.”

“They watched me put a knife through my friend’s throat.”

“And they’ve watched me do worse for five decades.”

She placed two fingers on his lips, quieting him and his worry. She could hear the words floating in his mind, the self deprecation.

Emotionless. Barbaric. Cruel. Selfish.

“Rhys, I love you. It doesn’t matter to me what anyone thinks of you. I know your heart.” His breathing was deep, the catch of it telling her of the emotion he was holding in. “I would endure it all for you. If you go on holding that mask up for them to see, then I will be whatever and whoever you need me to be. So long as you never wear that mask with me, none of it matters.”

“I would never.”

“I know. And if we never leave Velaris again after we finish this, then so be it.”

His arms tightened around her, the tension in his shoulders melting a bit with her admissions, her love.

“I love you, Feyre Archeron.” She wasn’t checking her ears or her tattoo anymore, the warmth of his words the balm to her soul that she desperately needed, craved with both mind and body like nothing she’d ever felt before. They wrapped her heart in gold and let it shine like the summer sun on her skin, lighting her up from within.

She was still human, and maybe even if she won the trials, that would remain the case. But Rhys was hers in every way for as long as they might have. Whether it was days from now, or years, or millenia, her soul was his. It had been his since the moment their eyes had met across that room.

For now, there was no mountain, no Amarantha, no mortality. There was just them, and it was more than enough.

+++

Court felt more tense than normal as they walked in that night. Feyre and Rhysand had decided that the best possible course of action was to pretend he’d taken Amarantha’s words to heart. The glamour he’d cast over her was horrifying to the naked eye, her arms covered in gruesome bruises in various states of healing. As he’d added to it, she’d kept insisting on more, the visual they presented tonight able to make or break this last ditch effort to make it to the finish line. If Amarantha believed that Feyre was starting to crack as Calla had, she had no reason to interfere before whatever horrible task she was planning came to light.

Sporting a black eye, split brow, and an unhealed cut at the edge of her hairline, Feyre put on her best show of limping behind Rhysand into the court, the whorls of dark paint strategically placed to display the bruised flesh of her body. There were no more diamond collars or posturing. She simply followed him, her expression sullen and angry, but submissive for fear of the consequences.

Amarantha offered them a wicked smile as they passed, Feyre fighting her sigh of relief as they passed the test. She continued to limp up their own small dais, falling exhausted at Rhys’s feet to survey the crowd. The fae were all busy, focused on themselves, but unlike typical nights, their eyes kept coming back to her. Every so often, she would catch one out of her periphery, but as soon as she felt their eyes on her, they were already looking away.

Was it because of the last task? Was it because of the task to come? Or was it her oath? That she was willing to die for their freedom might surely draw interest. Or perhaps they hated her for refusing to lay down and die, taking something that could have already been theirs from them before they could even properly enjoy it.

She chose to ignore it, her eyes instead sweeping over the crowd to find those she always kept track of. Tamlin, strangely, was nowhere to be found, the seat beside Amarantha empty again. Feyre tried not to wonder what kept him on the nights that he wasn’t in court. She hated to think of the things he’d endured here, surely not so different from Rhys. She wondered what would happen if they made it out. Would Tamlin and Rhys ever be able to reconcile, or would her relationships with each need to be kept as separate as water and oil. Could they ever reach an impasse where the pain and trauma they’d suffered might bond them in some way? Or would the past always be there to keep the two of them apart?

On the outskirts of the crowd, Feyre saw Lucien, his hair impossible to miss as he leaned against the wall of the room and spoke to another high fae. His face was set, serious, and she hated the way it looked on him. Lucien was meant to be smiling and cracking jokes, typically at her expense. He was lively and charming and fun, not this angry shell of a male that he was here. She hated the mask he wore, the masks they all wore here. She much preferred his smile, even if it was in mocking her, as it stretched from ear to ear–

She jolted.

Of course.

Feyre?

Rhys had felt her jump, or otherwise felt her emotions across that bridge between them.

I think I just figured something out.

Oh? Do share.

I don’t think that Lucien is Beron’s son.

Go on. His voice was far too calm.

You knew??

I had my suspicions.

The glamours, the glowing, his smile. That’s Helion’s smile.

His jaw, too.

Does he know?

He’s never said a word to me about it.

Her eyes tracked over to Autumn, the angry face of Beron staring out over the crowd. Next to him, his sweet looking, glamoured wife. She shot the image to Rhys.

That’s who he wanted us to save.

Suddenly, she felt bad about turning him down. Not just an affair then. He loves her.

There were plenty of rumors, but I didn’t start putting pieces together until you woke up from the whippings glowing. Lucien has no idea.

No, he does not.

It hurt to imagine that there was another world, another possibility, where Lucien had grown up loved and cared for. He hadn’t been run out of his home, his father hadn’t killed the love of his life. Even the few brief moments she’d spent with Helion had told her enough about him as a person.

Oh, Lucien.

Feyre felt a soft brushing of Rhys’s mind against hers, the comfort he could not provide with physical touch.

You have a kind heart, Feyre.

Unfortunately, a kind heart only gets you so far.

Still, I hope you never lose it.

The night wore on, but it was all very standard. Near midnight, Feyre excused herself to go to the bathroom. She wasn’t drinking the wine, but they’d worked up a thirst earlier in the day, and she’d drunk enough water to drown a fish. Since she still couldn’t winnow, it meant a walk back to their rooms, but it was a nice break for Feyre to breathe, dropping the show if only for a moment.

As she made her way back down the quiet halls, she tried to prevent her mind from wandering. If she lost, she might be living her last hours here. She hated this train of thought, shoved it violently away every time it reared its ugly head.

Her thoughts were stopped in their tracks as a hand sprung out from the stone wall and yanked her inside, the yelp in her throat stifled by the hand over her mouth. She fought and screamed against it, thrashing in the arms that held her until she heard the voice at her ear.

“Feyre, it’s me. It’s only me.”

Tamlin.

She turned in his arms, the tears already spilling from her eyes. Every single emotion she’d been holding back when she refused to look at him at the third task springing immediately to the surface.

“Feyre.”

She flung herself into his arms before she’d thought twice about it.

“I’m so sorry. I killed her. I’m so sorry.” The words rushed out of her as he held her, awkward at first, but his arms eventually folded around her back.

“Shh, Feyre. Don’t.”

“But I did it. I took the gift you gave me and I killed her. I didn’t–she was going to tell Amarantha everything, and I killed her before she could.” Her tears soaked his shirt, but he stood still, understanding that she’d needed this.

He wasn’t one for affection, had never been tender or loving outwardly in the time she’d known him, but still, he held her as the tears dried. Feyre understood now what Calla must have seen when she looked at them all. They were a family, a true family, and despite her efforts, Calla had remained outside of that.

“That gift was for you to protect yourself, and that’s what you did,” he said the words quietly, but firmly, as though he wanted no room for arguments

“I killed her,” she whispered again, the enormity of it too loud for the small alcove hidden by a tapestry that they were in.

“I would never blame you for what happened.” Finally she pulled back, sniffling, her arms crossing as she took him in. He looked beaten down, smaller somehow than she’d ever seen him. This mountain, this hell, was tearing them all apart.

“How can I save everyone? How can I possibly make this all not for nothing?”

“You can, Feyre. That's why I came to find you.”

“You know what the next task is, don’t you?” He nodded, but his lips thinned into a pressed line. “She cursed you. You can’t tell me.” The tiny flare of hope in her chest fizzled to nothing. Feyre opened her mind in case Rhys came looking.

“I just needed to see you. I needed you to hear me say that you must do what she asks. At all costs, you must.”

She didn’t like the way it sounded, and she liked even less the desperation in his eyes. “Is that all you can tell me?” A curt nod was the only response she got. “She’s going to make it painful, isn’t she?” He could barely eke out a nod.

Feyre’s chest felt hollow, the hopelessness of it all clanging around her. They stood here, two entirely different people from the ones who bantered and drank in the twilight of Spring.

“I’m sorry, Feyre…about Calla. I should have done more.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Me too. But she’s gone, and there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“Nothing we can do but win, Feyre.” She met his eyes then, pleading and open and desperate. “Do what you have to do to save us. Remember what I told you in Spring when you and Lucien asked me about love, and do what she asks.”

She nodded. “We can talk about the rest when we get out of here.” His eyes shuttered, something in them telling her how badly he wanted that and how improbable he felt it was.

She opened her mouth to answer, but the tapestry guarding the alcove was pushed aside, Rhys’s silhouette calming Feyre’s defenses immediately.

Tamlin met his eyes and immediately moved to leave. “Don’t forget what I said, Feyre, a long time ago in Spring.” As he passed Rhys, the two locked eyes, an uneasy nod of peace between them, and then Tamlin was gone.

It felt like goodbye.

“I was worried when you didn’t come back.”

“I left my mind open for you.”

“I know, I could feel it.”

“Did you hear everything?”

“I did, but I can’t make any more sense of it than you will.”

“I’m scared, Rhys. It sounds bad.”

“All we can do is greet it when it comes, and use the time we’re given.” She sighed, her forehead pressed against his.

“Thank you, for everything you’ve done here.”

“I would do it all again for you, Feyre. I would move this mountain, and all the rest.” Their breath mingled between them, the words stoking to life that magic of hers that loved him so, her chest alight with it. Every word they said to each other was a vow, a promise.

Perhaps she had mistaken the bargain all along, her quest for his love being the true prize. She’d won it, whether she’d fulfilled the bargain or not. The pulling on her heart told her that he was hers, and she was his, utterly and irrevocably for whatever time they had been gifted.

When their lips touched, Feyre swore sparks flew, the flames flitting around her fingers but not catching as she ran them through his soft hair. He pressed his hips into hers, her back arching against the wall as he leaned down to kiss her more hungrily.

“What about court?” she got out between kisses.

“Fuck the court.” And they were falling into their bed, the winnow barely registering as Rhys moved his mouth to her neck. The sigh fell out of her without reservations, her head leaning back to give him more access as he groaned his appreciation and licked a broad stroke up the side of her throat, ending with a kiss pressed behind her ear. Her whole body shuddered, responding beneath him. She was lost to the feel of it, the feel of him. She ached for more.

She’d barely had time to think the word before she felt his hot skin against hers, sizzling like a brand on her very soul. Their clothes were gone, a halfhearted thought from him all it had taken, and her body seemed to sigh in relief to feel his with nothing left to separate them.

Rhys returned his mouth to the front of Feyre’s throat, the feel of his plush lips against her skin rendering her breathless as he descended down, down, over her collarbones and past her sternum. She came alive with the touch, his breath sending goosebumps scattering across her freckled skin as he moved his mouth to the side, taking her breast into his mouth and moving his fingers to caress the other. The strokes were gentle and teasing, and as Feyre arched into the sensations, he laughed darkly against her.

“So responsive, my girl.” The words sent her mind spinning. He’d hardly touched her yet and she could already feel her climax roaring inside of her, coiling tightly around her spine and pulling there, coming fully to life as he pressed kisses along her skin. She could lose herself entirely in him, these feelings, these sensations. She could do this forever.

She felt the bed move, felt his weight shift, felt his warm breath against her inner thigh. Her body jerked at the reaction, tightening with anticipation, and Rhys wrapped his broad hands around her thighs and pulled.

“Don’t hide from me, Feyre. Never from me.” He didn’t give her time to reply before his mouth was on her, his teasing tongue swiping over her, spreading her wide until the pleasure of it overcame all else, and she let her legs fall to the sides, relaxing in his hands.

She knew him. She was safe with him.

And gods , but he made her feel.

She let herself relax into the bed, one hand wrapping in the sheets that smelled so like him, the other with fingers twining through his soft, messy hair. She could get lost in the sensation, forget all meaning of time and presence, just to keep feeling his touch, his warmth, his heartbeat in time with hers.

When she came, her voice was strangled. A cry that sounded part prayer, part his name while the universe exploded behind her eyelids, back bowing entirely off the bed in response. He continued softly through it, easing her through each wave of her orgasm as she slowly spiraled back down, melting into a boneless heap upon the bed. She was in a haze, the calming feel of joy and satisfaction running lazily through her veins. Here, it felt impossible they could ever be parted, even by the wrath of Amarantha’s intentions. Here, none of it mattered except the eternity laid out for the taking in front of them. Here, she had everything. But still, that fire raged within her, that searing heat demanding more, more, more .

And Rhys could feel it too. His eyes were focused only on her as he climbed the bed, an animal cornering their prey. But Feyre didn’t want to run– had never run from Rhys, not in any of his many forms– and she never would. Even if she did, Rhys would find her. She knew it to be true. And she’d always want to be caught by him.

“I need you, Rhysand. Please.” His cocky smile faltered at the declaration, the overwhelm of lust and need sweeping him away in the same rushing torrent of obsession that Feyre found herself in as he settled his weight above her. His forearms fell to each side of her head as his hips rested between hers and he let his mouth fall back to her neck. He breathed her in before he latched on, his mouth finding her pulse point where her neck met her shoulder and sucking it into his mouth. Feyre’s whole body was tingling, the vibrations etched into her skin from her scalp to her toes.

Feyre , he whispered, and she couldn’t tell if it was in her mind or aloud, the lines all blurring with his mouth hot against her skin. She reached down to touch, to play, her fingertips sliding over his skin and down to the trail of dark hair while he sighed longingly. Then his mouth was on hers, nothing slow about it. His lips moved skillfully, demanding, dominating, needing as she took him in her hands. She could feel his control slipping, the wanting overwhelming all else, and when she pulled away to ask him “Do you want me, Rhys?” His response was immediate.

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything.” The words lit her up as she placed him against her, and he closed his eyes as he pushed inside. His hand wound beneath her, grabbing her ass with enough pressure to make her gasp against his lips as he began to rock into her.

“You feel incredible, Feyre. You feel like…everything.” The breathless words sent her higher, her hands in his hair, scraping at his scalp, the nape of his neck. He was in her, around her, consuming her, and she wanted no part in making it stop. She pulled him as close as she could until there was nothing left between them, and finding that urge to bury herself beneath his skin still wanting, she pulled herself into his mind.

The adamant walls fell around her with the tiniest brush against them, welcoming her in with a sharp inhale of his breath. They accepted her, he accepted her, and nestled within his own mind, she was home. Every thought, every feeling, every emotion circled around her, and she was the object of them all. He thought about how lovely she smelled– lilac and pears–the same way that she yearned and ached for his spiced citrus scent. He thought about how it felt like heaven to be inside her, sharing body and mind as one. He thought about how much he loved her, every single fiber of his being singing a song meant for his love, his life, his –

Feyre crashed back into her own mind, the orgasm overtaking her brutally this time as her legs shook around his waist.

“Oh, gods. Don’t stop. Please don’t–” His mouth was on hers, the kiss near violent in its passion, and she lived for every second. Despite the tender love and gentle things his heart felt for her, this was a claiming, and she wanted him engraved on every part of her as deeply as he could go.

She had barely caught her breath as he flipped her, hardly pulling out as he put her on her knees. He yanked her hips up and sank back into her, not missing pace as she cried out. Her body buzzed with a feeling of warmth, and it spread until every inch of her was humming with it. She could feel it spread as he sped up, the pace becoming enough that she saw spots in her vision, the pleasure owning every piece of her. She felt him lean over, the heat of his stomach draping across her back. She heard a thought– his thought– as it flitted through his head. He wanted this claiming as much as she did, his lips dancing across her shoulder while he moved inside her.

Do it.

Please.

She sent the thought in a flurry of begging, her voice sounding like a plea even in her mind. He didn’t hesitate, his sharp teeth pressing against the skin of her shoulder as she felt her body tighten, the next wave unrelenting as it crested and crashed upon the last. She cried out as his pace faltered, her body squeezing around his the final push he needed before he gasped out her name, the grip on her hips tightening. She hoped it bruised, his marks on her body delighting her as she collapsed to the mattress below, letting Rhys catch himself on his arm as he fell behind.

Their sweat-slicked bodies still sought out the other, hands grasping blindly and breath sinking as they came down together. The lights dimmed, and Feyre felt the sheet slide over them, cool and crisp against their flushed skin.

“You are everything to me, Feyre. Absolutely everything.” The words felt deeper than love, deeper than a promise.

She twined her fingers in his, pulling his hand up to her chest and pressing her lips to his knuckles. “Mine. Always.” And she meant it.

Long after she had left this world, she’d still mean it. Her heart belonged entirely to him, and as she felt it beat in time with his, she knew that he belonged to her, too.

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sargebarnesx · 3 days ago

Text

Someday

Pairing: AU 1940s Bucky Barnes x female reader

Rating: 18+ ONLY

Warnings: angst (with some fluff mixed in), mentions of war, mentions of gunshots, mention of death, mentions of heartbreak

Word Count: 2,076 words

Summary: Bucky Barnes has experienced many things over the last few years: love, loss, war, and heartbreak. The war is over and the woman behind his broken heart wants a second chance.

Author's Note: This idea came to me last night at 8:30 pm and I wrote over 2,000 words before bed, then spent this morning fine tuning it. This is my first attempt at angst and I’m already thinking of ideas for a happier part two 😈 hope y’all enjoy!

“Hey…you.”

There she was. Standing right in front of him on the street they had explored together many times and yet, they looked like strangers.

It took Bucky an absurd amount of effort to not call her sugar or honey or baby. To not pull her into his arms and breathe her in, breathe in that familiar and comforting lavender and vanilla scent. His arms ached as he fought the natural urge to hold her. It had been so long.

He recalled the last time he saw her, two years ago, in June of 1943. When she told him that she didn’t think they should be together anymore.

According to her tearful confession, the thought of him being deployed to Europe was too much for her to handle. She assured him that she loved him so much, but she just wasn’t strong enough to be the woman he needed while he was overseas.

Bucky thought that was complete bullshit, but he knew her mind was made up no matter how much he argued.

He spent two years fighting in the war and longing for her. 823 days worth of wondering if she was thinking about him too.

The nights were the worst. There were nights when he’d fall onto an uncomfortable cot and be woken up by the morning sun just as he’d drifted off to sleep. Some nights he took shifts with other men, dozing off on the hard ground hidden beneath thick branches, with gunshots haunting his dreams. On the good nights, he would dream of her.

He would see the diner, where the two of them would share her favorite strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream, blurred around the edges, shining bright under the afternoon sun. He would see her walking beside him, with teases of her soft skin peeking out underneath her V-neck dress. She would look up at him and smile. He loved when she smiled, but seeing her smile in his dreams made his heart ache with need. He wanted nothing more than to make it home and see that smile again.

“Hi, Bucky.”

Her hair had grown, and the ends curled towards her heart. Her face was full of emotion, almost like she had seen a ghost, and the shock drained the color from her face. Her eyes shone in the afternoon sun, and Bucky wondered if she was going to cry. She had stopped a few good steps in front of him, and the space between them felt foreign.

Space was never a concept that made itself known in their relationship. The two of them met in 1941, smack dab in the middle of the dance floor on a sweltering summer night. Bucky gravitated towards her and her electric personality, and it wasn’t long before his body was glued to hers, his hand resting respectfully low on her waist.

He walked her home that night, purposely walking just close enough that his arm would brush against hers. She stayed right next to him, throwing him flirtatious glances every time he said something charming. Eventually, their fingers were intertwined, and she pulled him onto her porch, away from the bright street lights.

He’d heard talk of the sparks, the butterflies, everything that people claimed to feel when they were in love, but he had never felt it until that night.

He felt it now, standing in front of her on the sidewalk. He hoped she felt it too.

“Bucky, I—“ she choked on her words, seemingly unsure of how to say what she was thinking. Bucky waited, not wanting to let her out of his sight, even for a minute. He reveled in the opportunity just to look at her, to take in all the features he had only seen in his mind over the last two years. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Something about that statement made Bucky angry. Looking for him? He’d been home for a week, and she knew where he lived; she must not have been looking too hard.

“Can we talk?” Bucky asked suddenly, his eyes darting to the diner, their diner, that was just across the street. She nodded, understanding immediately where he wanted to go. The two of them walked briskly across the street, still keeping a safe distance.

She reached for the door, but Bucky reached over her shoulder and gripped the handle first, pulling it open to allow her to walk through. He noticed that she walked straight to what became known as their regular booth, the same booth they occupied on their first date.

Bucky slid in across from her, ordering two strawberry milkshakes from the waitress who had met them at the table. The waitress scribbled their order down before turning on her heel towards the kitchen.

She was staring across the table at a spot stained with black marker. Bucky wasn’t one for vandalism, but there was something romantic about permanently branding their favorite booth.

The small heart with the date “06/15/1941” still looked as new as the night he wrote it. She had been giggling, looking over her shoulder nervously to see if anyone would notice. Bucky didn’t care. The diner was hopping; every seat was filled, and Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy was playing over the jukebox. “That’s pretty permanent,” she admonished with hints of a smirk playing on her pretty mouth, “Might last forever.” Bucky smiled, leaning over the table to place a kiss on her lips, “So will we.”

The trajectory of their relationship changed when he enlisted. He bought a ring a mere three months after their first date, and it still sat tucked in his sock drawer, waiting. He had considered popping the question before he shipped out, imagining how he’d beam with pride when the men in the 107th asked if he had a girl back home, and he’d tell them about her, his future wife. Bucky had known how much the threat of war frightened her, how she felt like time was a ticking bomb, waiting to explode. He just hadn’t expected it to threaten their future together.

Her father had been drafted into World War I in 1917. He was a hard-working, sturdy young man who left behind two small boys and a wife who would soon find out she was expecting. Seven months later, their only baby girl made her way into the world, and fifteen months later, her father tragically made his way out.

Bucky remembered the way she spoke of her mother, how strong she was to do it alone, how she had kept their father’s memory alive through the years. Her two older brothers had many stories of the man that she only knew as a photo on the mantle.

Bucky knew she was terrified that history would repeat itself.

“How have you been?” He asked, breaking a silence that wasn’t necessarily awkward but heavy.

She shook her head, “Please don’t ask me that. It sounds so insignificant when you think of everything that has happened over the last couple of years.”

Bucky chuckled and took a sip of his milkshake, “Well, you can see that I’m fine.”

“Physically, sure. But not all scars are visible.”

“No scars here, honey,” he shrugged, unable to stop himself. “Maybe one on my chest from where you ripped my heart out, but that’s nothing to write home about, I suppose.”

He watched as she opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again. Bucky pushed his glass to the side and leaned forward. The can of worms was opened, the elephant was in the room, and he had two years of pent-up heartache to share.

“I know why you did it, but I told you, I was going to do everything I could to come home to you.”

She opened her mouth again, but Bucky held up a hand.

“I know that I had no control over that, but at least then I would have gotten on that boat knowing that you were still mine. I felt like you didn’t trust me,” his voice crackled, and he cleared his throat. “You hurt me when I needed you the most.”

Her eyes were closed, and tears were sparkling behind her eyelashes. Her shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath.

“Bucky, you have to believe me when I say that I thought I was doing what was best for us. I didn’t want you to worry about me when you had other things to worry about -“

“I was always going to worry about you! I was always going to think about you, I was always going to wish I was with you! Breaking things off wasn’t going to change that, it was just selfish,” Bucky interrupted, his words coming out sharper than intended. “I was going to ask you to marry me.” Tears slipped down her cheeks, and he felt a sharp pang in his chest at the sight.

“I’m a coward,” she whispered. “I let my fear get the best of me, and that wasn’t fair to you. Seeing how much my mother was affected by my father’s death…all I ever wanted was to marry you and start a family, but - war destroys families, and I let that fear dictate my choices. But they shouldn’t have just been my choices. Every time you tried to fight it, I just kept pushing back. I shouldn’t have pushed back. I should’ve let you win.”

“I stopped fighting because I respect your wishes,” Bucky admitted. “It wasn’t about winning. I just love you too much.”

“I will spend the rest of my life trying to make things right between us,” she insisted. “Even if you never want to see me again, which I’d understand.” Her voice faltered like she didn’t truly mean it.

Bucky sighed and took a moment to drink his melting milkshake. She followed suit, and another silence took over.

He had no intention of cutting her out of his life. One day she would be amused to find out that it took everything in him to not grab her by the waist and kiss her as soon as he saw her walking down the sidewalk. While he hadn’t stopped longing for their reunion while he was away, he had inadvertently built walls that she would have to break through. Or maybe chip away at it, little by little.

Things between the two of them had never been slow. Bucky knew from the moment he met her that she was the one. He knew from the moment his lips met hers on the front porch that he was a goner. She was it. His body, his mind, and his heart were drawn to her and only her. Even now, after she had destroyed him and sent him overseas with a broken heart.

Bucky was ready to give her everything he had left, but he knew it would take time.

“Notice how I haven’t spoken about my love for you in the past tense? I am still so in love with you, it drives me crazy. The memories of you got me through some of my worst times. Things between us will get better, eventually,” he said finally. She just nodded and continued to sip at her milkshake.

“I am so sorry, Bucky,” she reached across the table, hesitantly grabbing his hand. He had to stop himself from reacting outwardly because it felt like fireworks were going off inside of his chest. He slowly wrapped his fingers around hers, feeling the leftover chill from her frosty glass. They sat like that for a moment, connected in the most basic way, but connected nonetheless. She gave his hand a light squeeze. “I’m…so, so happy that you’re home. I think I always knew in my heart that you would make it home. I was just… scared.”

Bucky’s shoulders slumped a bit as the tension released, “I know. Me too.”

Things would be okay, someday.

He gently released her hand and pulled his wallet from his pocket. Bucky pulled out a few crinkled bills, tossed them on the table, and gave a silent nod of understanding to the waitress. He slid out of the booth and turned to her, his hand outstretched.

“Can I walk you home?”

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #1940s!bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #1940s!bucky barnes x reader #james barnes #james buchanan barnes

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stardestroyer81 · 3 months ago

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Inspired by this post by @artpro86, I wanted an excuse to draw my latest blorbo, Cindy Bear, in a similar fashion... it didn't take me too long to be struck with an iconic reaction image to redraw with her instead.

#⭐ Star's Art ⭐#Cindy Bear #Jellystone #Hanna Barbera #Meme Redraw #Medibang Paint Pro #Coolness #I haven't been in a huge mood to draw as of late though just last night I drew with my tablet for the first time in a long while #Seeing as everything I have drawn in the last few weeks was drawn by mouse I wanted to make this drawing particularly special #Who better to center a drawing around than my latest fictional crush... (Unreasonably long dreamy sigh) Cindy Bear... 💖💖💖#I've only ever drawn in Jellystone's artstyle once over on my self-ship blog though I decided to really step up my previous effort here #I quite like the turnout too! I even put my own little spin on it by giving her a faint 'cel drop shadow' too #Sometime soon I do intend on whipping up a self-insert for Jellystone. Originally I wanted her to be a rat...#... though I do like the idea of her being a sheep as you don't tend to see a lot of them in the Hanna Barbera shows #Want to hear me rant and rave about Cindy more? Check out my self-ship post I linked above; I go OFF 💖💖💖💖💖

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britishchick09 · 2 years ago

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every single poto unmasking (original book 1910, 1925, song at midnight 1937, 1943, 1962, night gallery's phantom of what opera? 1971, phantom of the paradise 1974, 1983, animated 1987, 1989, mini series 1990, phantom 1990, staller 1991, the canary trainer 1993, journey of the mask 2000, 2004, musical 2011, graphic novel webtoon 2021, phantom heart 2021, ghost on the roof 2022, angel's mask 2023, my rewrite 2022)

#testing out tumblr's new 30 pic limit with this one! ;D #there are 22 unmaskings here! :o #it's not every single one but it's still a lot! :o #this took 2 HOURS to make last night! :o #and today i added the full 'phantom heart' one (i had a google preview placeholder) and the graphic novel/canary trainer screenshots #so much time but it was worth it!#i used gifs from google to speed things up and had to make the rest myself #i made the 83 62 night gallery paradise 89 animated and mini series ones #i even whipped out the mini series dvd for it! ;D #i also took out some frames of the staller one so that's a half and half ;)#i had to condense the book and rewrite's unmaskings since they're long (especially the book!)#i took out the rewrite's face description since you can see it pretty clearly ;)#the most interesting one is 'canary trainer' since the unmasking isn't done by christine or the phantom... but sherlock holmes! ;D #62 is the lamest since he shows it for just a few seconds before dying #the animated one and 'song at midnight' are the funniest for the sounds #the book musical and 1925 versions are the most iconic (and the rewrite for me!)#the best ones for me are 1925 and 'ghost'#1925 for how quick and surprising it is and 'ghost' for how groundbreaking it is!#she doesn't pressure him and besides the reveal there's no horror to be found!#and instead of anger and fear there's sadness and comfort #instead of shocking moment it's a beautiful one :')#all of them are great in their own ways! :D #it's so neat seeing them all together! :D

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geminmyeyes · 11 months ago

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-resurfaces after 1000 years- hey guys

(not a virus link I promise)

#💎🌠art #I am straight up serious that this might've been my favorite movie I watched this year #how did it escape me so easily. it whips. I say this unironically.#and yes I have seen The Last Wish and the other Dreamworks classics ofc! They're wonderful and fantastic!#I just feel this movie is severely overlooked and how much it genuinely loves music and it's history has inspired me to look further into i #Plus those enviorments and artsy crafty details oh my ***GOD***. Genuinely the only time I've been really wowed by hyper realistic renderin #If you're willing to put up with a few kinda dumb jokes you're in for something great #Anyways that's my review I'll be here all night

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starscreamingg · 1 year ago

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Just wanna shoutout the kid who was sitting next to me during Oppenheimer playing clash of clans. What're you doing buddy. Where will you go from here

#Dude #Dude what are you doing here #What are you doing in this theatre buddy #I'm not mad I'm just FLABBERGASTED #Like kid comes in here with his buddies to watch an absolutely DEVASTATING film and just #Whips out the ol clash of clans #Like halfway through #Were you that uninterested my guy. Is clash of clans really that invigorating #Anyways Oppenheimer was fantastic it made me feel sick in a way I kind of expected given the subject matter but #Like. It was DIFFERENT seeing it in theatre with my own eyes. God.#The DREAD the film manages to inspire was just palpable. Like the sound the shots the colours the pacing it all #Contributed to this overwhelming sense of real tangible dread that lingered over the first like. Entire half of the film #I thought the latter half was a bit less on that front but like. Where do you go from. That. Like how do you top that #Trying not to spoil in case people read the tags pdtrftf :')#Anyways knowing that last point I can't really complain. Twas a strong film and the ending really pulled the two halves together for me #No idea if it was actually half the film or not I genuinely lost track of time passing. Twas ENGROSSED #Anyways there was a car outside the theatre with a bumper sticker that said 'mount and do me' in the mountain dew font and while I was #Getting a pic (had to) the guy came up. To the car. And he was like yeah :) and I was like yeah :)#And then we both went on with our night

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tomandgeriatric · 2 years ago

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I didn't really sleep much at alllll last night....like...i "went to bed" finally at like 6:30 am....i have to work at 8 am. I can't tell if its the medication, or just my own dumb brain keeping me up at night. I've always had problems falling asleep, not staying asleep, but falling asleep.

#personal #i am so tired #it could be the meds? they are a stimulant #but it could just be my own dumb insomnia brain #brain won't shut up the most at night time.#like #i couldn't sleep at 6:30am because my brain wanted me to know what 300 divided by 8 was and would not let me rest til i whipped out my calc #and it's always shit like this.#maybe i do have OCD lmao looping repeating thoughts in my head that i cannot contril #*control #thats actually what landed me in therapy when i was a teen.#couldn't sleep because my brain was telling me that i was gonna kill myself in my sleep??? I was not necessarily suicidal but i was scared #and like #so my whole 4 years of therapy i was concerned about being bipolar because my mom and her father are and its genetic #and on the fuckin LAST session ever my therapist was like 'yeah i don't think you are bipolar as much as i think you have OCD'#AND THEN NO MORE THERAPY EVER AGAIN AFTER THAT CUZ I WAS 18 AND KICKED OFF MOM'S INSURANCE LOL #over the last like 5 years i've analyzed that and hmmm might be onto something there lmao

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eupheme · 3 months ago

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— you’ve got me wanting you

[part iii of sugar, sugar] | [part ii] [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 7.4k

tags: jealous/posessive!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, wingman!wade, flirting, feelings, (another short) miscommunication, immature humor, light angst, use of alcohol, threat of violence, use of alcohol and smoking, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, PiV, creampie

As the days pass, you think your time spent with Logan is pretty much perfect. Well... almost.

(Or - a dash of insecurity, some badgood advice from Wade, a near-fight at a bar, and the confession of overdue feelings.)

Those two nights spent with Logan turn into more.

The days are bleeding together, blurring. You fit well with him, you think. Together in Wade's apartment - spanning that space between their chatter and silence. Softening edges, though you think he's softened, too.

A stray cat coming around.

Bristling, with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Slowly learning that he can lean into your touch.

Your days since have been spent humming as you work. It had been an anchor once, this routine of yours. Getting up early used to give you something to get up for. Enjoying the whirlwind of prepping, measuring, making, decorating.

Now - you're grateful for how quickly the day passes because it means you can't overanalyze. Because it means by the time you catch your breath at the end of the day, you're already heading home to him.

Takeout was brought over to their apartment. A crappy movie with a hand curled around you, sending your heartbeat racing. The night ending at yours, hours between dusk and dawn spent learning every inch of each other.

You think it's pretty much perfect.

Well... almost.

“Do you think Logan likes me?”

It slips out of you. Something that’s been worrying at you, a splinter trapped just beneath your skin. You regret asking almost immediately - the sun glinting off the silver needle as you push it through the lycra suit.

“You mean the guy that’s been fucking your brains out for the past couple weeks?”

“Wade.”

“Oh, sorry.” He lines his knife up, poking a hole in the top of his styrofoam container - coaxing the waitress from lunch to give him a ‘take-home-margarita’. A cheerful “baby knife!” as he sheathes it again,” I mean the guy that’s been having totally-chaste-and-appropriate adult sleepovers with you?”

You understand what he’s getting at. Stalling, holding up his suit - another gash sewn shut with black thread, “You sure this is okay?”

“Mhmm,” He hums, “Gives me that bride-of-frankenstein vibe I’ve always wanted. Besides, anything is better than before.”

“You insisted, you helpless little man-baby.” Al adds, from her lounge seat, “Learn to dodge.”

Wade splutters - your lips twitching, as you work.

“See what I live with?” He gripes, “Maybe the two of you outta trade. It’d be cramped, but I bet the three of us could sardine it.”

“You wouldn’t last a week without Althea,” You snort. A beat, before you gather the courage to circle back to the topic at hand, “And besides, that’s just it. I’m not sure he wants to sleep with me."

The summer breeze feels better up here, on the roof. The whip of the wind cooling you, as you work your way across the once-again battered suit - propped up against the brick parapet.

“Okay, time out. Missing link here.” Wade gives you a sideways look, before his head pivots, "You cannot hit me with this fake virginal act when I literally heard you two fuck an hour after you met."

A beat, "And like, pretty much every day since then. I think I even heard a howl last night-"

Your eyes roll, "Wade. He’s not a werewolf, he did not howl-"

"Well, not anymore.” Wade smirks, “And funny that you assume I meant the Moan Wolf, but I could have meant you-"

You groan, head cradled in your hands, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we'll keep it down. It's just-"

It’s just you’ve been here before - this liminal space between an excellent physical connection, and more. You've done the hookup thing - casual, friends-with-benefits, lonely strangers. Thought you had learned how to keep your emotions in check, especially with those past experiences.

But you’ve never met someone like Logan before.

He makes you feel bare. Soft-hearted and stripped down - wearing your feelings on your sleeve. Opening yourself up - only for your fingers to brush up against a brick wall, in return.

Wade must catch your tone because he sets down the styrofoam container - the pink umbrella tucked against his ear.

"Alright Sugarbuns, tell Papa Bear what's bothering you."

You grimace at the names, another flicker of regret lingering in the corners of your mind. But you find yourself talking. Letting those worries flow from you in a rush.

But Wade would know, wouldn't he? It's his friend, after all.

"He leaves after."

His eyebrows raise, and you continue, "I mean, he'll stay for a bit but he always winds up on the couch by morning. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and he’s out there. I mean, I thought he'd want a bed, after where he's been staying, no offense-"

Thought he’d want to stay with you.

You nudged at it once. Getting nothing more than a grumbled excuse about not sleeping well, something about nightmares. Something you accepted, only to find him tucked in your bed a few days later - curled in your sheets when you had rushed back to the apartment after leaving your phone.

Hadn’t wanted to push, even if it confused you. Wouldn’t he want comfort, after a bad dream? You always did.

"Offense taken, Blind Al and I are excellent bedmates," Wade interrupts, "But please, continue."

His joke eases you a little. Risking a sideways glance, finding him already looking at you.

“I like him, Wade. I just really want this to work out.”

He hums, sympathetically. Knowing all too well the complexities of like and love. How you feel deeper than you’re letting on - he always was perceptive, after all.

A beat, before your head turns.

"Do you think it's me?"

He does laugh then, his shoulder leaning to bump yours, "Sugar, you have a two-hundred-year-old boyfriend who's gone through a massive amount of trauma and has an alcohol problem, and you want to know if it's you?"

"Fuck." The heels of your palms press into your eyes, "Okay, okay-"

"I literally traveled through the void with him, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-style. The John Candy to my Steve Martin, and even after saving the world he still wanted to kill me."

"Wait," Your head lifts, "Why would you be Steve Martin in that scenario?"

“He’s the main character, as am I.” He barrels past your question, "The point is, if he didn't like you, you'd know. You just need to be-"

"Patient." You finish, "Yeah, I know."

And you do know. Even since that first meeting, you've known that he's been eaten up inside. Cracks of the man beneath leaking through his gruff exterior, as you had sat together on that couch.

But Wade called him your boyfriend, but he's not. Not really - no conversation to indicate that's how he saw himself.

It just left you confused. Vulnerable. Enough that you did dumb shit like this - going to Wade for romantic advice. The man who proposed with a ring pop and thought that a prostate orgasm was a sign of being soulmates.

"Maybe you’re giving him too much. Withhold a little," Al interrupts, making you jump, "That's what landed me my second husband. Begged for it like a dog, and was married the next month. God rest his soul."

Wade mouths an exaggerated “what the FUCK" at you, before shooting a dark look in her direction - only just then seeing her smirk.

"Oh, you’re joking? She came to us for help and you’re joking-” A sniff, as Wade turns back, "So anyways, don’t do that. Do something normal. Like internalize it, until it makes you snap."

His face screws up, as he adds, “Or, maybe try it? That bricked me up a bit-”

"Or,” Al adds, “Maybe you should just talk to him, Sugar."

Althea always knew how to cut to the chase and give the hard advice you needed to hear. You just wish you weren’t afraid of the answer.

‘You’re both right,” Your head dips against Wade's shoulder, “I owe you. Again.”

Silence lingering, though it’s not uncomfortable. Leaving you to think about what he said.

The suit passed over to him, when you tie the final knot, “Done.”

“Thanks,” A beat passes, as he gives you a sideways look, “Any chance you want to cash in on that favor tonight?”

You know better than to agree without more info - an eyebrow raising as you wait.

“Vanessa is coming over tonight.” Wade gives you a meaningful look, “It would be great to have the apartment to ourselves for a bit.”

The serious tone does not last, as he smirks, “I fully intend to break my months of celibacy the second the opportunity arises.”

“Months?” You hadn’t realized it had been that long. Thought he would have moved on, in some ways.

“Years, actually,” He adds, casually, “Turns out my obvious romantic hangups plus this-”

A gesture at his face,” Are a total boner-killer. As well as having an elderly roommate, apparently. Especially one who won’t leave.”

You shoot him a sharp look at the self-deprecation, Al’s voice cutting through.

“I told you, I’m hitting the casino for singles night.”

“Okay. I can drop Al off and pick her up,” Your mind is already racing ahead, “And Logan and I can go out to dinner or something.”

The prospect is exciting. Despite the time spent together, you haven’t really gone on too many dates yet. After your long hours and his rotating work schedule, your meetings have mostly been late-night. Quick meals whipped up in your kitchen. A rotating pile of delivery menus.

“That would be great.” He smiles, “Thanks, Sugar.”

“Of course.” You smile, before adding, “What are you going to make?”

A frown, when he hesitates.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to wing it.”

“I wasn’t winging it,” He protests, “I was going to hit up ol’ reliable.”

“For a second-first date? You can’t do takeout from Buns and Roses.”

A sigh, as you turn to face him, tugging out your phone, “You should make something nice. I have this recipe bookmarked for engagement roast chicken. I’ll help you-”

He tugs your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the eight-paragraph opener before the start of the recipe.

“Make this for her, show her you’re serious-,” You start.

Wade finishes, with a smile.

“-and there’ll be a cock ring on it before midnight.”

You keep catching yourself looking at him.

It’s almost embarrassing how bad you have it. Still not used to seeing Logan like this - away from your small apartment.

Seeing him at work was different - a very cognizant realization that you were on the clock. The counter between you like a barrier, even when you slip a coffee and pastry across it. A lightning-quick kiss pressed into his cheek. The relentless teasing from your coworkers, after.

But here - crammed in a booth, his hand slipping just under the hem of your dress, a palm curved against your thigh - it’s something else, entirely. Even in this dark corner, you have to resist letting your hands wander. Eyes flicking to the deep cut of his button-down flannel - dark hair peeking out from the curve of his white tank. The blue and grey pattern pretty against his skin.

A curl of smoke pours from his lips, a cigar fit between two fingers.

Logan had been curious to find you in the apartment when he got home. The aroma of the roast chicken wafting through the space, as you talked Wade through the last steps. The slow sweep of his eyes over the pretty sundress you wore, tugged from the back of your closet.

It hadn’t taken much convincing, when you asked him to get dinner out with you. Even with Althea in tow, safely dropped off for her night out.

“This is nice.” You smile, and his eyebrow lifts.

A glance around the room.

Dinner spent at a local pizza joint - stories shared, wound between updates about his new job at the local lumber company. About Laura, who you met two weeks ago. So much like Logan that it still catches you off-guard. Shared expressions, shared tempers.

You think that it must have been hard for both of them, this reunion. That comparison between the Logan in this world, those memories that stay with her. She views him the same - even you can see that. He’s told you it came as a shock, but it’s easy to see how he’s warmed, with time. Finding joy, within the shared grief.

The conversations spill over into a bar you know well. Unsure what to do with yourselves with the order of “staying away”, the sun still setting when you had stepped inside.

“Not sure nice is the word I’d use, sweetheart.”

“Anywhere is nice if I’m with you. I am sorry, though. I know it’s not-” Your hand waves, shyness creeping in as you lean into his shoulder, “Wasn’t sure where else to kill some time. Dopinder and Buck run a tight ship, it’s really not so bad.”

“Mm. Guess this is nice, then.” He corrects, a hint of a dimple as he smiles, “But you let me take you somewhere safer next time, yeah?”

“I’m safe with you.”

You miss the way he looks at you, as you take a sip of your drink. The brush of his fingers against your skin. His voice going low, goosebumps rising as he murmurs in your ear.

“How much longer do we have to stay out?”

A question that’s been on your mind as well.

“Well, Al’s thing is over at ten,” Your teeth worry at your lip, “But, I guess we could sneak back early. It’s just, Wade-”

“What about Wade?”

It’s unfair, how he crowds you in the booth. Torso twisting to face you. The warmth of his hand - how you’re aware of each and every movement he makes. It takes you a moment to answer.

“Wade is… Wade,” You manage, “But he doesn’t really ask for much. I owe him, you know?”

“You owe him?” He chuckles, “He’s lucky you stuck around after he tried to give you cocaine-”

“Hey,” You smile, “That was Al.”

That had been your second run-in with your neighbors. Only desperation had sent you over to the apartment, needing a cup of powdered sugar for a personal favor. Under-estimating how much you needed, in your rush to finish some cookies for a friend’s baby shower.

Meeting Al instead. The powdered substance swapped when her roommate had rearranged the apartment as a prank. Only Wade bursting from the bathroom, a towel slung low from his hips, had saved you from disaster. The nickname had formed when you hadn’t written them both off.

“And besides, Wade was the one who introduced me to you.”

Logan’s expression softens, “That is something, isn’t it?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Eyes drifting lazily down to your lips, with a low hum, then further. It sends a heat blooming in your cheeks, an unconscious press of your thighs together.

“I’m, um, gonna let Dopinder know we’re heading out.” You breathe, “He’ll worry if we irish goodbye.”

“You sure?” He husks, with another exhale of smoke - and you can feel the heat rising from your cheeks to your ears.

“Yes,” It comes out breathy.

“Um, yeah. You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”

Your elbows pressing into the sticky bartop as you wait - watching Dopinder work his way through pouring pints of beer for a crowd of bikers, all in dark leather.

A glance over your shoulder, finding the booth tucked in the corner. The dark head of hair, the expanse of his shoulders - a thick arm slung across the back - as Logan waits for you.

It makes you smile, and you almost miss the bump of a shoulder against yours.

“Oh!” You squeak, shifting to the side to make room, “I’m so sorry, I-”

The apology dies on your tongue, as you glance up at the man leaning against the wooden post at the end of the bar. Eyes drifting over the black field jacket, up to dark eyes.

“Been a while, darlin’.”

You inhale a breath, in surprise. Close to two years ago, if you remember right. Numerous meetings spread out over months, before he slipped out of your fire escape and into the early morning.

No note, no text. Walking out just as suddenly as he had appeared.

It had never been anything serious - he had made that clear - but you can’t pretend that it hadn’t hurt.

“It has,” You agree, a low twist in your belly, “How have you been? Didn’t think I’d see you outside Hell’s Kitchen.”

Unable to help that flicker of worry, even after everything. It’s always been ingrained in you - thinking of others more than yourself.

“Should ask you the same,” His eyebrow arches, “This isn’t your kind of place. Taking up mercenary work, beautiful?”

“I’m here with someone.” It comes out clipped, a glance over your shoulder - the nerves eased when you spot his form.

“Mountain man?”

A scoff - lip curling over sharp teeth, “Taking you to a place like this… You can do better than that. You can do-”

“You?” It’s your turn for your brow to raise, “We both know how that goes, Frankie. This-”

A pointed finger, gesturing around the room, “Was my idea. Things are different. I’m different.”

There’s the hint of a smirk - dark eyes that drag slowly down. Flicking back up to yours, as his voice pitches low, “I’m sure some things are the same.”

Your head shakes, “Not like that.”

There are lingering shades of purple that fade to yellow across his cheekbone. Never was good with this. All that time spent glancing out your window, waiting for him to show up, battered and bloody like he used to. All he did was keep you out, keep you at arm’s length.

Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of it happening again. A little shake of your head - a reminder that you need to be patient like Wade said. Logan isn’t him.

“I know what I want, and it’s-” The words die, as you look for him, again. Finding only an empty booth - your stomach tying up into knots.

A palm touches at your hip, a chest pressing snugly against your back. Startling you, as you breathe, “Logan.”

“This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” It’s growled out, Logan’s eyes fixed on the other man.

“Nice guard dog.” There’s an amused appraisal - narrowed eyes, tongue trapped against teeth. “He do tricks as well?

The fingers at your hip curl, the smallest tug backward to bring you closer. The words ground out between bared teeth.

“You watch it.”

Christ. This was bad, you need to find your tongue - and quickly.

You twist, a hand resting on his chest. Only now does Logan’s eyes drop to yours, the tight pull to his features only just ebbing.

“This is Logan,” You smile, your palm pressing over his heart, “He’s, uh, my-”

And for a brief second, your words fail you. The tension is thick enough to cut, acrid in the air. Would labeling this right now send him running?

The man cuts through before you can finish.

“Frank Castle.” His eyes flick back to yours, as he adds, “Sure you can guess how we know each other.”

The muscles beneath your palm twitch. A light pressure against your hip, urging you away from the bar - the words low in your ear, “Alright. Let’s go.”

A nod, and you’re giving Frank a tight smile - letting Logan guide you towards the back. No more than a step taken before his voice cuts through.

“You still got my number?”

You shoot him an exasperated look, “Frank-”

“Gonna be back in town for a while, baby girl.” His arms cross, as he leans, “Call me when things don’t work out.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before a fist closes around the collar of his jacket. Logan stepping into his space, a forearm shoving Frank hard as he pins him against the post.

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, bub.”

Fights are common in Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but you can’t say you’ve ever experienced one. Fear licks inside you, meeting Dopinder’s equally worried gaze as he starts to rush over.

Frank’s smile is dark, “You don’t want to start this.”

It’s met with a growl. Silver points peeking between the dips of Logan’s knuckles, the fabric straining in his tight grip.

“Fucking try me, you piece of shit.”

There’s a metallic click - the press of something cold against Logan’s groin.

“Should shoot your dick off for that.”

“Okay!” You shove between them, then. A hand on Logan’s arm, tugging - the other at his neck, trying to guide him back to you.

“Hey. It’s okay,” It’s softer now, soothing, “Baby, let’s go.”

His hazel eyes are wild when they find yours. Face twisted in a snarl, deepened with the shadows cast in the dim room. Blinking, as he comes back to himself. A dark look as his arm eases - stepping away.

This time, it’s you that leads him towards the back exit. Something gritted out as you leave that you miss, but sends Logan bristling. An apologetic look thrown at Dopinder, before you’re stepping together through the swinging door, into the wood-paneled hallway.

Ducking down one of the hallways, next to matching doors leading to bathrooms, and a storage closet. An exit sign, gleaming red at the end.

The music and voices are muffled. His face silhouetted in the light of a vintage beer sign, his features outlined in gold as his back presses against the wall. A gritted, inhaled breath.

You haven’t seen him like this before. Seen him mad several times. Grouchy and annoyed with Wade. The sharp temper that hid his hurt when he thought you didn’t want him.

None of those moments match him now. You’re not sure what to make of it - the way your skin prickles. Something in your belly flutters, a warmth that drips from behind your ribs, settling low. You never wanted anyone to get hurt. But that look in his eyes, how quick we was to find you - it makes you inhale a breath.

“We-,” You start - your fingers still curled around his bicep, “We should talk about this. You okay, Logan?”

His eyes flick to yours, jaw working. The fury has bled from them, the sharp etches in his face easing, even as his expression stays guarded.

“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Logan rasps, “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

A beat, before it slips from him, “Was he one of the ones Wade scared away?”

“What?” It takes you a long moment to remember. Your brow pinching, as you shake your head,” Frank? No. It was-”

The pull of his brow is back, his frown deepening with your explanation.

“It was just casual.” You finish, lamely, “It wasn’t anything. Never was.”

“Didn’t sound that way.” It’s gritted out.

His head turns, eye contact dropping. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back, “Listen. If you want to go with him, it’s fine.”

You’re left stunned for a moment. His jaw working, hands jamming into his pockets. It’s defensive - it’s familiar.

“I don’t want to go with him-” You start, but it only makes him sigh.

“Then what were you gonna say, Sugar?” The look he finally gives you is searching, “I’m your, what-, your neighbor?”

“No!” You cry, “I was going to say you’re my boyfriend, but you’ve never-”

Logan’s pitches low, “I’ve never what?”

Your shoulders droop. Curling around yourself, as you lean into the wall next to him. He leans, matching your height - trying to catch your eyes.

“I don’t know, Logan.” It’s almost too quiet to hear. He might have, if he had been anyone else. “I told you I liked you the day after meeting you. But you…”

A little shake of your head, “You keep everything so close to your chest. You leave in the night. It’s okay, I just… sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

When his arms cross this time, there’s something in his eyes. A dark glimmer, the tug of his lips.

“You think that I don’t like you, sweetheart?”

A tilt of his head, a sharp edge slipping into his tone, “You think I wasn’t ready to tear that asshole limb from limb for talking to my girl that way?”

Something low in your belly twists, desire thrumming in an echo that radiates through you. A sharp inhale of breath at his words.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You manage, transfixed.

It’s easier, this time, for him to step into you. Hands ghosting along your neck. Tipping your face to his, so you can’t look away. Can’t miss what he tells you.

“If-, if I open up.” It comes out hushed, his words soft and low, “You won’t like what you see, Sugar.”

You reach for him - fingers curling around his wrists, “I like what I see just fine.”

He huffs. The barest hint of a smile, before his expression goes solemn.

“This,” The word is punctuated by the way his thumb sweeps against your cheek, “Never goes well for me. Sleeping on the couch puts me between you and anything coming through that door.”

Your pulse races with the remorse in his words. He’s touched on the barest of details of his past. Those small moments shared in the night you met, riddled confessions in the late nights that have followed.

“And the things I dream about-,” His eyes go hazy - lost in a memory, “They pull me back. I don’t want to hurt you because I can’t tell them from reality.”

The words slip from you automatically, without thought. Guilt floods through you, an ache from wondering - doubting.

“You won’t hurt me.”

“I will.” He breathes, “Sweetheart, I will. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”

Your head shakes - a stubborn set of your jaw, “You won’t. Please don’t shut me out, Logan. Please try…”

He huffs - eyes dropping to your mouth, as he leans. Hands slipping to cup your head, angle you to meet the press of his lips. A soft sigh that you swallow, something tender in the way he draws you to him. A hand curling around your back, splaying between your shoulder blades.

“Give me some time, okay?” Logan murmurs, when the kiss breaks, “Let me draw out the first good thing I’ve had in a long time. Just for a little longer.”

“Don’t have to draw it out.” Your body still curves to his, anchoring yourself to him. A hand touching his jaw so this time, his eyes have to stay on you.

“You deserve good things, Logan.” Your mouth brushes his, “Let me give them to you.”

The sound he makes is almost wounded, as if he wants to protest.

As if he wants to believe you.

Breath ragged, as his hands trace down to grip at your hips. Leaning into you, your touch. What you offer him. A thigh fitting between yours, nudging against your core - and you think surely he must see how your eyes darken.

The rapid flutter of your heart, how it races for him and only him.

“Yeah?” He husks, as if reading your mind, “You ready to get out of here, Sugar?”

“Bathroom.” You breathe.

“Can’t wait that long.”

He’s on you the second the door swings shut. Fingers twisting at the lock, as his head dips - mouth finding yours again.

There’s a desperation to his kiss this time. One that you match with the way your palms trace up his chest. Fingertips at his neck, tugging him to meet you.

A thrill shoots up your spine. You’ve never done anything quite like this before. The space behind your ribs is soft and tender from his confession - already breathless before he deepens the kiss.

Backing you up against the old, chipped vanity that lines the wall. The stalls hanging open - empty as his hands trail down your spine. Fitting beneath the curve of your ass, tugging you up to fit on the counter.

Finding your jaw again - guiding your lips to his, meeting the sweep of your tongue as he fits between your thighs.

“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night.” He breathes, against your lips, “So fucking pretty, you know that?”

It sends a pulse through you, down to where you’re already responding to his touch. Your knees close around his hips, urging him closer.

“Logan, please,” You hum, fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A palm pressing against the front of his jeans, where his cock strains against the denim.

His moan is ragged, bucking into your touch. Fingers tracing up your waist. Letting your tits fill his palm, as you work him free.

“This okay?” Logan rasps, eyes half-lidded, “Pretty fuckin’ filthy, sweetheart.”

It’s hard to hold back a moan of assent, when his lips presses against your neck. Open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, the scrape of teeth pressing into your jugular.

“Good,” He growls against your skin, “Would’ve bent you over that fucking bar if you’d let me.”

It’s possessive. It makes you shiver - a sweep of his tongue, the suck of lips as he marks you. The sharp sting of his bite fading into sweet bliss.

“Need you.” Your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking. The lightest of tugs to bring him closer, your thighs inching further apart.

He groans, “You have me.”

The pretty dress you wear is pushed up to your waist. His palm cupping you, feeling your warmth before he’s tugging the fabric of your panties to the side.

Need rushes through you. A heave of your chest against his as your mouth meets his, greedy. A tilt of your hips, a leg lifting to hitch around his waist. Your hand curling around the edge of the counter, the other guiding the tip of his cock against your slick folds.

“Hold on, honey.” Logan’s fingers slip against your pussy, nudging inside, “Gonna be sore.”

“I can take it,” You insist, pleading, “I can take you, wanna feel it.”

His eyes darken. A little inhale of breath, watching as your lips part as two fingers press deep. Your teeth already sink into your bottom lip, muffling a whine.

Slipping them free, after crooking inside you. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough stroke to smear your slick around him. Lining the tip up with your opening, as his hands fit against your waist. His hips pressed snugly against the chipped counter, as he begins to tug you to meet him.

You can feel every inch, as he moves you. He splits you open, your shoulders arching against the dirty mirror as your nails bite into the laminate. A hand pressed against his chest, as you urge him to go slow.

A held breath coming in a rush, as he slips deeper inside you with a grunt. Filling that ache you’ve been carrying - your eyes dropping down to watch the slick shine of his cock. Sinking into you with the slow saw of his hips, a clink of his belt with movement.

“Just for me, yeah?” He rasps, a hand drifting down. Fingers splitting where he fills you, drawing slick tips up to circle your clit.

“Just you.” You nod, breathless. Rocking into his touch, taking more as you adjust to the weight of him inside you.

His teeth flash white, in the dim room.

“That’s my girl.”

The moan you’ve been holding back slips from you, as you clench down hard around him.

He hums, “You like that?”

“Yes.” You whine. Reaching for him, as he tugs you closer. The slow plunge of his hips turning into a shallow grind.

Fingers circling and pressing, in rhythm with the heady drag of his cock against your walls. Your fingers grasping onto his arms, his shoulders - the kiss is messy when he meets the tilt of your head.

Leaning into you as his tongue licks into the cup of your mouth, your tits pressed up against his chest. A broad hand slipping from your waist, curving against the swell of your ass and squeezing.

“That’s it,” He rumbles against your mouth - eyes half-lidded. A groan when you nip his lower lip - grinning at the way you gasp, when his hips surge forward, “Atta girl, taking me so well.”

Each swipe against your clit feels like a countdown - hips angling until he finds that spot inside you that makes your teeth click together. That slickens him up even further, until he’s pounding into your wet, tight heat.

Your fingers pinch down. Breath going short, until you’re panting. Unable to do more than buck into his touch, as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

“Couldn’t even wait to get home,” Logan growls, “Needed this cock so badly, didn’t you?”

“Needed you,” You whine, hips rocking to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut, as the winding pressure builds, “Fuck, needed you. Gonna make me-”

The words break on a bitten-back whimper. Your muscles go stiff, bracing yourself in his arms.

“Want you to look at me, sweetheart.” He coos, with that steady roll of his hips. Nudging deep inside you each time, as his fingers circle against your clit, “Eyes on me when you come, alright?”

Your answer is a breathless nod, as you listen.

You don’t think you could look away if you tried. Not with him right in front of you. So close you can see the pull of his brow in concentration, the pretty shade of his eyes.

Fixed on you, as his lips part. The soft pant and grunt as desire throbs in your veins, your fingers curling into a fist in his flannel.

“Come for me, baby.” He urges, “Wanna feel you, let me fucking feel you come.”

It’s there, swirling inside you. Liquid heat between your thighs, yanking you to an invisible edge. Leaving you to dangle, breath held -

“Oh my god, Logan-“

You’re falling - clenching down hard around him. His name is a chanted prayer as he fucks you through it - a ragged, pleased sound rumbling in this throat as you pulse around his cock. The slap of his hips growing louder, more wet as your release coats his cock. His base and balls sticky, when they press flush to your cunt.

“That’s it,” He growls. Fingers leaving your clit, so he can grip your waist. Drive into you harder, chasing his own impending release.

“Come on, that’s my girl.”

It’s pulled from you, sweet and smooth.

“Yours.”

Logan’s moan is ragged, coming from low in his chest. His pace stutters - the steady thrust turning sloppy. A messy rut of his hips, grinding himself as deep as he can before he finds himself again.

You forget the dingy bar. The flickering overhead lights. Filth and phone numbers scrawled on the walls. Everything narrows down to him.

How he holds you. Looks at you - so much said in the way they soften. You don’t know how you ever could have doubted.

Blinded with uncertainty. Fears from before, that will no longer have a hold on you.

“Logan,” You sigh, your heel digging into the curve of his ass. Eyes still on his, as your plea slips from you, “Fuck. Don’t pull out.”

You want to feel him. The throb of his cock when he comes deep inside you. How he lingers, slick and dripping from you - now, and later, and tomorrow.

A gritted-out groan, as the sharp tempo increases. Fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, and you’ll wear him there, too - fading marks against your hips.

“Yeah?” Logan husks - that look back in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, as his lips part with a groan, “Gonna be my good girl, gonna fucking take it?”

“Mhm,” It pitches high, as you nod.

“Fuck.”

It comes out choked, as he loses himself in you. One, two, three thrusts, and Logan is growling - hands slipping down to tug you flush against him, as he spills inside you with a muffled shout.

Hips grinding himself deep into you, his words a rough rasp in your ear, “Take it. Just like that.”

He pulses inside you, filling you with each twitch of his cock. Marking you fully, as he tests his teeth against your shoulder. A moan, as your thighs hitch around his hips - nudging him deep, where you’re wet and warm and wrapped around him.

Leaving him to grind every last drop into you, slumping back when his grip finally loosens. Your limbs feel like liquid lead, head tipped back against the glass. A groan muffled against your neck, as your fingers slip beneath the tugged-open flannel.

Nails scratching along his back, the tight muscles beneath easing.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Logan hums when he finally leans back - and you already miss his hands on you, as they shift to brace against the counter.

It feels cruel that he teases you like this. When you swear you can still feel the throb of his cock inside you. When he’s still sheathed to the hilt.

You groan, “Don’t make fun of me, Logan.”

“‘m not sweetheart,” He huffs, eyes going soft.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

There’s something off about your apartment - he can sense it the moment they make it to the landing.

This is exactly what he had been trying to tell you. The when, not if, something will go wrong. His senses flickering into overdrive, nostrils flaring.

Catching the light that creeps from under the door, when he knows you clicked it off. His hand automatically leaves yours, reaching out to tuck you safely behind him.

“Logan?” There’s confusion in your voice, a hand at his shoulder.

He shushes you, his words a low growl.

“Someone’s in your apartment. Stay here, sweetheart.”

There’s the soft snick of his claws, your fingers untwisting from his shirt. A breath, and then his hand is closing around the knob - a sharp jerk of his fist as his shoulder slams into the wood.

Teeth bared, as he bursts into your apartment with a snarl.

All that fury bleeds to relief, and then disappointment.

“How’d you get in here?” Logan grits, his claws sheathing.

Your voice joins his, from where you had peeked around the doorframe, “You okay, Wade?”

Hazy, morose eyes peer back at him - a hand lifting to wiggle “baby knife” at him. A newly-opened bottle of your cooking sherry in the other - a plate balanced on his chest, filled with a half-eaten chicken breast and vegetables. Legs stretched out on your sofa, Dogpool curled between his ankles.

“She didn’t show,” Wade mutters, with a miserable smile, “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Logan can’t help the soft flicker in his chest when you go to him. Sinking to your knees by the couch - moving the plate to the coffee table, lifting Dogpool into your arms. She licks your chin as Wade lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh - flipping to face the back of the couch.

"What was the point of the first two movies?" The words are muffled into the fabric, "Why would Disney do something like this? We were picking out baby names for fuck’s sake-"

“I’m so sorry,” You soothe - a hand on his back, “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?”

Wade’s head turns to the side, with a long sigh.

“Thor’s phone number.”

“How about I take this,” You tug at the bottle, until it loosens, “And I text Peter? We can have a movie night, okay?”

He turns further, until he’s facing you again, “Even that one you hate?”

"Don’t hate it." You sigh, “It’s just so sad. I don’t know why it’s your favorite.”

“It’s not my fault they made that tree star look so goddamn delicious.”

You’re beckoning Logan over, a gesture to take his place. You hand on his arm, beseeching - but you don’t have to beg this time. The snarling dog inside him calmed - the fury from the bar and from the hallway ebbing at your touch. He can still feel your lips against his, when his eyes close.

The uncomfortable itch of opening up oneself still lingers, but it’s soothed by the way you smile at him in thanks. By the words that he still clings to.

Logan has to fold himself into the space, knees folding. Mary Puppins tucked in the crook of his elbow - his other hand patting against a curved-in shoulder.

Sincerity, as he offers, "Tough luck, bub.”

“It’s her loss.” You call, thumbs tapping away a message.

“Her loss.” Logan echos, “You’re… you’re a good man, Wade. It’ll work out.”

It comes out clumsy. It always does - he never had a silver tongue like the Professor did. His edges as sharp as his claws, never one to waste words if his fist could do the job.

Wade flips back over. The hint of a smile, “That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before his eyes are flicking over to where you pace, voice lowering.

“And I gotta ask, did you maul Sugar? What is with that mark on her neck?”

Logan huffs, lips twitching.

“We’re all set,” You smile, “Your Emotional Support Peter is on his way. He’s bringing Al and some ice cream.”

A glance his way, the question written so plainly in your eyes - the lift of your brow. “That okay?”

It’s not the way he imagined this night going.

Had thought he’d take you to bed when he got back. Take things slower, this time.

Using his touch and the greedy press of his mouth to make sure you understand that he heard every word you told him. That he meant each one he said back - make sure you never made the mistake of thinking he didn’t care for you again.

But when he looks at you - how you’re ready to sweep into the kitchen to make some popcorn, he thinks-

That he might just prefer this. Even as messy as it is.

He smiles back.

The couch is crammed with far too many people. Five squeezing into a space meant for three at best. You’ve been half perched on his lap all night, his arm slung over your shoulder - tempted to pull you the rest of the way.

A couple months ago, his skin would have crawled to be this close to others. Would have peeled himself away with a scathing word and a sharper bite.

But something softened him, during his time in this world. Days, to weeks, to months.

Couldn’t go back, he knows that now. All the wishing and TVA TemPads couldn’t undo what was done - he’s known that for a while. It would take a long time, but he could try to come to terms with what happened. Try to do better, moving forward.

Starting with himself. A scrap of paper - snatched from a bottom of a flier with a brightly-printed 12-step program, shoved deep into his leather jacket pocket. Relearning how to be patient with others, and even more so with himself. Trying to listen what you and Wade told him.

He’s done walking away from things. You make him believe that whenever, if ever, he manages to open that tightly-sealed lid… you’ll stay.

The thought is one that he'll cling to.

“Alright. Enough bullshit.”

It’s announced, as the credits roll - breaking him out of his thoughts. A creak of the couch as Wade shifts - crammed between you and Al, his head twisting on her shoulder to peer over his way.

“‘m being serious now.” He insists, though the words slur together - the bottle stolen back during the movie and drained, “I’m so happy my two besties are falling in love, even if I am a jealous little bitch.”

A gasp, as he remembers - a reaching over to pat Peter’s shoulder, “Not that I’m forgetting about you, sugar bear. You too, Blind Al. I’d be just as happy if you two were dating. It'd be like a less fucked-up Harold and Maude."

A derisive snort from Al.

Peter smiles, “Just happy to be here, pal.”

“Anyways, life sucks balls. Big, fat, sloppy, wet, balls, but goddamn if seeing you two happy doesn’t fill me with hope.”

Logan can hear the hitch in your breath. The pressure of your fingers, entwined with his. Embarrassment flickering across your face, when you are unable to help glancing his way.

Exasperation and something else mixing in when you meet his gaze. Something soft and tender and directed so solely at him, that for a moment - he forgets to breathe.

Falling in love, huh?

Yeah. He might just be.

a/n: i adore frank castle, haha. i thought he would be a fun person to pull in for a jealous!logan scenario - and thank so from the bottom of my heart for all the love on sugar, sugar - I honestly had no idea so many of you would like it, and I can’t tell you how much it means to read your sweet asks and comments 💖 this is all I have planned for them right now, thank you for letting me share this series with you!!! (though I am definitely not done writing for logan!)

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #wolverine smut #logan howlett #james logan howlett x reader #xmen x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x f!reader #deadpool & wolverine #wolverine imagine

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