#but no thoughts i need to sleep it's night here

[bledyn]

hey, I have already posted here once and I don't know if I count for this, but I need help.

I am a trans asexual and lesbian person and I have 22yo rn and I need some support because I don't know what to do. I need to find the money and finish a huge medical payment for myself and I am having panic attacks after panic attacks because it seems like everything is stacked against me. I feel pretty broken rn because I found a job (it doesn't pay much but is something at least) but apparently I won't be doing that for long; i have mobility and back issues and apparently i cannot even stand for long without pain and the hours are awful for me when I have to work the nights because I am also depressed and I've been medicated for not even a year and breaking my sleep schedule like that, going to sleep again after 1am, will have repercussion.

I need money for this medical payment, I need money for my psychiatrist and my meds, I need money for my savings (that are gone now) because I want to leave my abusive home. I feel pretty untethered and I can't seem to see a way out, but I remembered this post and I thought to try again.

I hope someone will help, even a little, and I would be really grateful for that if it happens. Who knows, maybe I just needed the help of (my) community.

My ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/bledyn

My paypal: paypal.me/bledyn

Thanks in advance if anyone helps, at least I tried.

How about we just have like... hey trans people, post your pay links or wishlist or whatever you got. No limits, no trans excluded, intersex welcome, any and all genders off the social conventions included. I'll just reblog em a bunch.

I need a reblog to share your info, please use those, not comments or tags. I try to reblog immediately every instance I see between 10am and 10pm, everything else goes into the queue.

Additionally, Reddit has some donation resources, which are outlined and linked in this post. However, there are potential difficulties associated with these resources, with more details in this post.

Potentially useful links as I find them: Guide to Fundraising.

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

He can't sleep

The room is dim, bathed in the soft glow of the moon filtering through the curtains. The warmth of sleep still clings to you, but something feels off. You shift, reaching out toward Simon’s side of the bed - only to find it empty.

Your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the darkness. He’s there, sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to you, broad shoulders tense and rigid. The air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken.

You don’t call out to him right away. Instead, you watch for a moment, taking in the way his hands are clasped together, his head slightly bowed. He’s deep in thought, lost in something heavy.

Slowly, you push the covers back and crawl toward him, the cool air brushing against your skin. Your fingers touch his back, tracing along his spine, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch.

“Simon?” Your voice is soft, hesitant.

He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch. A slow exhale leaves him, almost as if he’s trying to steady himself.

“Go back to sleep, love,” he murmurs, but his voice is off - low, strained.

You don’t listen. Instead, you move closer, pressing your cheek against his bare back, your arms circling around him from behind. His body is warm, solid beneath your touch, but there’s a distance in him that you don’t like.

“You’re awake,” you whisper against his skin. “And you’re not here.”

A heavy silence settles between you before he finally speaks. “Mission went bad.” His voice is rough, edged with something deeper. “Could’ve gone worse.”

You know better than to push for details- if he wants to tell you, he will. But right now, it’s not about the mission. It’s about this - whatever storm is brewing inside him.

Your hands move over his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. You press a soft kiss to the curve of his shoulder. “You’re home,” you remind him gently. “You’re here.”

Simon is still for a moment. Then, suddenly, his hands come up, gripping yours tightly against his chest. Not pulling them away - holding. Like he needs to feel you, needs to ground himself.

Then, he turns.

In a blur of motion, you’re beneath him, your back against the mattress, his body caging yours in. His weight presses into you, solid and heavy, pinning you there. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but you know that look - the quiet storm, the unspoken battle raging inside him.

His fingers trail up your thigh, slow, deliberate. Possessive. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is low, almost a growl. “You’re the only thing that keeps me sane. The only thing that makes this life worth coming back to.”

Your breath catches as his grip tightens slightly, his body pressing closer, the heat of him sinking into you. His lips brush against your jaw, down to your neck, lingering there as he exhales shakily.

“I almost didn’t make it back to you,” he murmurs. “And that thought? It fucking destroys me.”

You feel the weight of his words settle deep in your chest. You reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

“But you did,” you whisper. “You did make it back.”

His lips find yours then, but it’s not just a kiss. It’s desperate, consuming - like he needs to remind himself that you’re real, that you’re his.

And tonight, you let him.

Tonight, you remind him that he’s yours, too.

~~~~~~

The first thing you feel when you wake up is him.

Simon’s body is wrapped around yours, solid and warm, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close. His face is buried against the back of your neck, his breath slow and steady, ghosting over your skin.

He’s still here.

After last night - after the way he took you, claimed you, like he needed to drown in you just to stay afloat - you weren’t sure if he’d be gone by morning. Sometimes, when the weight of his past gets too heavy, he disappears into himself. But this time… he stayed.

You shift slightly beneath him, and his hold tightens instinctively, his fingers digging into your hip.

“Don’t,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

You smile softly, turning in his arms to face him. His eyes are still closed, but you can tell he’s awake now. The tension from last night has faded slightly, but there’s still something lingering behind those dark lashes.

“Not even to get up?” you tease lightly, brushing your fingers over the rough stubble on his jaw.

“No.” His voice is rough, his grip firm. “Not yet.”

You exhale softly, pressing your palm against his chest. His heart is steady beneath your touch, strong. Alive.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know.”

His eyes finally open then - half-lidded, still heavy with sleep, but intense. His gaze locks onto yours, like he’s searching for something, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

“I know.” He lifts his hand, brushing his thumb over your lips before cupping your jaw. “But I need you here.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something that makes your chest tighten.

“You have me,” you whisper. “Always.”

Simon doesn’t answer - not with words. Instead, he pulls you against him, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours. His grip softens, but he still holds you close, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back.

For once, he doesn’t need control. He just needs you.

And you give him exactly that.

[hazelira]

little rebel

Ni-ki was all sharp edges and cold glares, the kind of guy who made people step aside without a word. On the other hand, you were soft-spoken, the quiet storm beside him, wrapped in oversized band tees, ripped jeans, and smudged eyeliner. A matching aesthetic but opposite auras. He was the fire; you were the slow-burning ember.

And then there was him.

A tiny, fragile thing wrapped in a black onesie with skull prints nestled against your chest, his tiny fingers curled into your shirt. Your baby boy. Ni-ki’s son. A piece of both of you, somehow softer than either of you ever thought you could be.

Ni-ki leaned against the bedroom doorframe, arms crossed, watching you hum absentmindedly as you swayed with your son. His face was unreadable, but you could tell—he was fighting something.

“Why do you always look at me like that?” you murmured, adjusting your hold on the baby.

Ni-ki scoffed, running a hand through his messy, oreo dyed hair. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid.”

Silence. Heavy, uncomfortable, stretching between you both like the night sky.

Then—

“I don’t wanna mess him up,” he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. His jaw clenched. “I don’t wanna mess you up.”

Your heart ached. You stepped forward, gently bouncing your son in your arms. “Ni-ki…”

“I’m not like you,” he continued, voice lower now. “You’ve always been quiet, careful, good. I’m—” He let out a bitter laugh. “I barely know how to be a person, let alone a dad.”

You reached out with your free hand, grabbing his wrist before he could run like he always did. His skin was warm, his pulse quick beneath your fingers. He never got used to how easily you could break through him.

“You’re here,” you whispered, tugging him closer. “That’s enough.”

He exhaled sharply, gaze flickering to your son. His son. Sleeping soundly despite his father’s demons. Ni-ki swallowed hard, hesitating before brushing a finger over the baby’s cheek.

“Yeah?” His voice cracked just slightly.

You nodded, pressing your forehead against his. “Yeah.”

Ni-ki closed his eyes, breathing you in.

Ni-ki never thought he’d be the type to get soft. But here he was, standing in a dimly lit bedroom with you and his son—the two things he swore he’d never deserve.

The baby stirred in your arms, a tiny yawn escaping his lips before he settled again. Ni-ki’s gaze softened, his calloused fingers barely ghosting over the kid’s cheek.

“He looks like you,” he mumbled.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” His fingers trailed to the baby’s tiny hand, watching it instinctively grasp his pinky. His heart clenched. “But he’s got my attitude, I bet.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “God help us.”

Ni-ki chuckled, his lips brushing against your temple before he sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up one day, and this—” he gestured vaguely to the quiet life you had built, the warmth of it, the normalcy—“will be gone.”

You frowned, reaching up to cup his face. “Ni-ki.”

He swallowed, dark eyes flickering with something raw. “I don’t know how to be what he needs. What you need.”

Your brows knitted together. “You’re already what we need.”

He shook his head, pulling away slightly. “I grew up thinking love was temporary. That people leave. That no one stays long enough to fix things.” He exhaled, staring at the baby, who still had his pinky in a tight grip. “But you’re still here. He’s here. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You took his hand, guiding him to sit beside you on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a second, he looked smaller. Like the boy he used to be before the world made him sharp.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you whispered. “Together.”

His throat bobbed. Slowly, he nodded.

The baby squirmed, his tiny face scrunching up before he whined softly. Without thinking, Ni-ki scooped him up, resting him against his chest.

You stared, surprised. “Look at you.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no bite.

The baby nuzzled into his hoodie, sighing in content.

Ni-ki froze as if the weight of his son had suddenly settled into his soul.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—fear melting into something deeper, something softer. He pressed a hesitant kiss to the baby’s forehead, eyes fluttering shut.

Ni-ki had never felt anything like this—this fragile weight against his chest, small and warm, like something sacred. His son. His actual son.

The baby scrunched his tiny nose, letting out a shaken coo, the sound almost questioning, as if he was asking to be held correctly by his dad. His tiny arms flailed, one hand smacking against Ni-ki’s chest, the other grazing his arm with a surprising amount of strength for someone so tiny.

Ni-ki blinked.  

It was weird. The way his son moved reminded him of Bisco, his dog, whenever he held him like a baby. But this wasn’t just some pet he could cradle for fun. This was a real baby. His baby.  

His throat went dry.  

“Uh… what do I do?” he muttered, looking at you in panic.  

You chuckled, reaching out to adjust how he held your son. “You support his head more like this.” Your hands guided his, settling the baby into a secure position against Ni-ki’s chest.  

The baby whined at first, legs kicking, face scrunched up like he was about to scream—but then, as if realizing this was precisely where he wanted to be, he nuzzled into Ni-ki’s hoodie. A deep sigh left his tiny lips, warm breath against his father’s collarbone.  

Ni-ki’s entire body stiffened.  

The baby was so close. So tiny.  

And he trusted him completely.  

“… Oh,” Ni-ki breathed, staring at the little bundle in his arms. “He—he’s just… chilling here.”  

You grinned. “Yeah. He likes you.”  

The words hit deeper than they should have. Ni-ki’s chest tightened. “You think so?”  

“I know so.” You rested a hand on his arm. “Babies can tell when they’re safe.”  

Safe.  

Ni-ki had never thought of himself as safe before, not with how he carried himself—grunge hoodies, ripped jeans, sharp glares that kept people away. But looking down at his son, tiny fingers clutching onto the fabric of his hoodie, he realized that this little thing didn’t care about any of that.  

He was just his.  

Ni-ki swallowed hard, hesitantly lifting a hand to brush his thumb over his son’s round cheek. His skin was soft. Warmer than he expected. A tiny, perfect human.  

His son cooed again, snuggling even deeper against him.  

Ni-ki let out a slow breath, sinking into the moment.  

He was holding his baby.  

And for once in his life, he didn’t want to run.

requested by: @mochijoshi

my perm taglist<3 <- request here

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[inbabylontheywept]

I went to summer camp as a kid. Six times, actually. I have many fond memories, and even more terrible ones. Here's one that's a mixture of both.

To set the stage, I had just spent the night in the infirmary due to a big fight I had with almost my entire tent. They never wanted to sleep, and were always obnoxiously loud with a lantern dubbed "the sun" that let me see movement around me with my eyes closed from the shadows passing over it. I was sleep-deprived, overstimulated, autistic-but-unaware-of-that, and twelve years old, and I already disliked these girls because they talked shit about me behind my back and took advantage of naivety. This unfortunate combination lead to a blowout meltdown in which I said some things I regret, so the counselors decided it'd be best if I spent some time away.

Now, this had the unforeseen consequence of putting me in a place with less supervision. This place also had some strange bugs. They were small, about the size of my pinky fingernail. Most of their bodies were in their tails, which curved downwards like a reverse scorpion. They were black and white, sort of striped, with six legs and no wings. Their fangs were very thin, but long, extending out from their faces like brownish parentheses. They had a propensity to bite.

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

While messing around with these bugs, I noticed that when they bit, they didn't just chomp and leave. They sunk their fangs in and they kept them there for a long time. Naturally, I decided to see what would happen if I let them, nay, encouraged them to bite me, as an experiment. When would they extricate their incisors from my flesh? Would my reaction to the bites vary depending on the amount of time each bite lasted?

I let these bugs bite me four times, once for about 13 minutes, once for about 5 minutes, once for about 1 minute, and once for 45 seconds (I didn't have a watch, so these are estimates). Then, I forged a peaceful resolution with my tentmates and we went to watch the beginning of Color War.

Except, turns out it's stupid to let unidentified insects taste your blood. The bites swelled up huge. I got chills. My stomach hurt intensely. My counselor took me back to the infirmary to get them checked out.

Needless to say, this was not easy to explain to the nurse on duty ("WHY" "For science!"). His first thought was we needed to figure out what bit me. If only it were that simple.

We combed through the databases for insects in the state. We expanded our search to arachnids, even, although it certainly wasn't one. I drew a little mock-up on a Post-It to show him. There was not a single match. To this day, I have no idea what it was that I let bite me. I was given orders to come back tomorrow to get them checked by a doctor, and also return every morning and night for a week to put warm compresses and medicinal ointments on the bites, and a strong directive to never do anything like that again, with a side of "What the hell were you thinking????"

A couple of months later, after camp, I went to my friend's bar mitzvah. The woman in the row behind me tapped my shoulder. She asked me how the bug bites were. It was the doctor from the infirmary.

-- @dr-robert-chase-apologist

That was a beautiful ending. I have a similar story, but less gruesome than letting bugs bite me. My family used to go up to trips to the Mogollon Mountains two or three times a year. The woods were where my dad always felt the most at peace.

My dad used that time to hike through the trees. And I grew into that eventually, but when I was very little, I felt a particular kinship to the small things of this world. Worms and beetles and woodlice and those peculiar Arizona grasshopers with wings the size of jellybeans and tummies the size of my thumb.

And on one trip, there was an incredible number of these beautiful, fuzzy caterpillars. Picture below.

I went a little crazy about them. They were fluffy, and they were had pretty colors, and they had the cutest, softest, stubbiest little suction cup feets that I'd ever seen. Watching them climb up stalks of grass or over fallen branches was enchanting.

So I caught, like, twenty of them, and most got put in a little terrarium where I could watch them do cute caterpillar things. Mostly eat fresh pine needles and wriggle gregariously. But some I kept out just to play with. I'd put them on my palm, and I'd watch them crawl all the way up to my neck, then I'd move them somewhere else. They tickled, and I was charmed to be their jungle gym.

But apparently, those little hairs break off like fiberglass, and they have some kind of venom on them, so I had these strange, wriggling, almost tattoo like rashes all over my arms up to my neck. Very embarrassing to explain to my parents.

There was an entomologist on the street that I grew up on named Freddie. And he wasn't just a bug expert, he was specifically a caterpillar expert. He had a garden in his backyard that was specifically tailored for butterflies, he'd always draw in clouds of Monarchs during their migration. My parents asked him about the mysterious itchy caterpillars, and he said they were lophocampa ingens, and that I was lucky that I didn't inhale those hairs. They can stick inside your throat and make it swell closed. Scary little bastards.

I'd still see them after that, but never in such numbers. And while I appreciated them, I always tried to keep a few feet of distance. Just to be safe.

(Also, just wanted to clarify that I didn't remember the name for 20 years, I googled "irticating caterpillar Mogollon", and saw the picture. It wasn't until I read the caption that I was like oh yeaaaaah, that's what he called them. But it was one of those memories I could never have pulled at will.)

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 21 - done with you

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language, alcohol, mentions of drugs

please listen to ghost of you by 5sos for this chapter and done with you by omar apollo!!

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

the second stage of heartbreak, anger.

and that is all you felt when you woke up that morning. pure burning hatred for rafe cameron.

the sadness had drained you. completely. you had spent the last few weeks drowning in it, letting it consume you, break you, rip you apart. but now?

the sadness was gone.

replaced by rage.

it was a slow burn at first, simmering beneath your skin as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, a hollow expression. you barely recognised yourself.

and all of it, every single ounce of it, was because of him.

rafe fucking cameron.

the boy you had given everything to. the boy who had held your heart in his hands, only to toss it aside like it was nothing. like you were nothing.

you thought back to that picture, the way he kissed her, held her, touched her like you hadn’t just spent months loving him, like you hadn’t bared your entire soul to him.

your hands clenched into fists at your sides, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. had it always been this easy for him? had he been waiting for an excuse to move on? had he ever even loved you at all?

the anger flared in your chest, hot and suffocating.

fine.

if rafe could move on, so could you.

you weren’t going to sit here and waste another second crying over a boy who clearly never lost a night of sleep over you.

no more tears.

you took a shower and pulled your shit together, getting yourself all dolled up to finally feel pretty again. put together.

you weren’t doing this for him. this wasn’t about making rafe jealous or proving something to anyone.

this was for you.

because for the first time in weeks, you were done feeling small. done feeling broken. done letting him have this much control over you when he wasn’t even around.

you refused to let him be the only one who got to move on.

if he thought releasing that song would win you back in some way, he was so, so wrong.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

a/n: giggling because when my ex girlfriend broke up with me when i hit the anger stage i posted a hot story with done with you playing and boy did i eat

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry  @yesterdaysproblemm @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes@judesgfirl@4urvalidation@chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover@yesshewrites1@amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld@blushmimi  @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account@vcnillafairy@bambii1i @sammyrenae68 @kittenjujusblog @bambii1i @thesunflowersociety @wtfdudesblog @voidangxls @jjmaybankmylovee @munsoncultedits @emmiesummers @darlingstarkey @sassyvillaintrophy  @pogueprincesa @stylestarkey @sodapopwaldor

[lubdubology]

Come A Long, Long Way

SYNOPSIS: His days are long and his nights are longer. He comes to you during those hours when the rest of the world stills, lured in by something almost like fate. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader 

WC: 12.2k

WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, scars and healing; gratuitous sexual tension; mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption; dirty talk; frottage; nipple play; surprise appearance by Charles; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; sex with feelings; cowgirl; mating press; creampie; brief mentions of Laura; happy ending because I said so

A/N: The idea for this story came to me through a song--My Fair Lady by Kaleo. I was struck by this verse: I'm weary from my travels // I've come a long, long way // I haven't felt a woman // Since last that I was here // Oh, won't you bring me whisky // And run your fingers through my hair? // Oh, won't you whisper sweet words // Oh, so softly in my ear? I thought, "Wow, that's so Old Man Logan" and this is what I birthed from that. This may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, and I sincerely hope you think so too. Huge, huge thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for betaing this for me and making the final draft what it is; you helped end this in such a beautiful way. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

He shouldn’t care about the car pulled over on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking as the rain pours down. 

For three days, Logan’s entertained a rowdy bachelorette party, chauffeuring them from bar to bar, dinner to dinner. The scent of cheap perfume and desperation still linger inside the limo, the drunken, whispered advances still burn against his skin. 

He’s tired. Exhausted down to his very marrow and he wants nothing more than to crawl onto his sagging mattress and steal whatever amount of sleep his shattered mind will give him. 

So, no. He shouldn’t care about the car. 

But he finds himself easing off the gas, the limo starting to slow as he nears. He feels drawn, like a month to a flame, as if some unseen force has wound itself around his sternum and is pulling him forward. 

Pulling him to you. 

As the limo approaches, he spots you crouched down by the front left tire, struggling with a lug wrench, the tool slipping in your rain-soaked fingers. He can almost hear the curses spilling from your lips as you glance up and look towards where he’s sitting. 

Logan knows you can’t see him, not well anyway with the headlights shining directly upon you and the rain pouring down in sheets, but he swears you find his gaze, your eyes seeming to pierce down directly to his soul. He feels the flutter of something deep in his chest and he feels exposed, like a raw wound that hasn’t quite healed. 

For a moment, he hesitates, and wonders if you’re a siren, out here in your element to lure him to his death. Then your gaze drops and the thought dissolves but only just. Before he can talk himself out of it, Logan’s throwing the car in park and opening the door. 

The rain is frigid, the cold biting at his skin as the downpour soaks him down to the bone. You glance up at him as he approaches, your fingers loosening around the wench but still keeping it firmly in your grasp. Straightening up, you push wet strands of hair out of your face, your fingers trembling from the cold. 

“Need a lift?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. What he should do is swap out the old tire for the spare and let you go on your way. But those eyes of yours are piercing him again, the hook you’ve sunk deep in his sinew pulling taut once more and Logan feels compelled to take you home. 

For a few moments, you continue to silently assess him, your gaze flitting between your car, the limo behind him and back to his now soaked frame. Then, you stand and open the driver’s side door, tossing in the wrench and pulling your purse close to your chest. You follow him to the limo and climb into the backseat as Logan slips back in behind the wheel. 

He glances back at you through the rearview mirror, watching as you lean back into the seat, your wet clothes clinging to every curve of your body. Which is another thing he shouldn’t care about and yet…

Clearing his throat, he turns up the heat. “Where you headed?”

“North. About twenty miles or so.”

Logan nods and shifts the car into drive, heading back down the road as the rain continues to come down. Several minutes pass in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers. Finally, your voice breaks through the silence, soft and lilting. 

“Got a name?”

“Who’s asking?”

A half smile tugs at your lips as you slide from the seat and slip into the row directly behind the partition. Logan can feel the damp of your skin as you lean into his space, the scent of rain flooding his nostrils almost intoxicating. You say your name and wait for him to respond in kind.

“Logan,” he answers, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it, Logan?” you ask, his name dripping from your lips like honey and just as sweet.

Logan stiffens, his grip tightening on the wheel as your words cut through the night. There’s no pity in your tone, which he’s silently grateful for, but an unsettling mixture of curiosity and understanding.

At the best of times, he doesn’t like anyone trying to scratch below the surface, to worm themselves into all the soft and vulnerable bits he tries so desperately to hide away. Now that he’s older and feeling every bit of his age, the weight of his bones threatening to drag him down with each step, he likes it even less.

“It’s not kind to anyone,” he answers, turning his head just enough to glance sideways at you. 

You tilt your head slightly, a wordless noise humming in your throat. “Maybe,” you concede, voice soft, like you’re mulling over his words. “Except your life has carved itself into you a little more than most.”

He wants to be annoyed, to slam his foot on the brake and send the limo careening into reverse back towards your broken down car. But something stirs in him, thrumming in time with the pulse beating in his veins—a spark of irritation mixed with that pull that’s been gnawing at him since he first saw you. 

“You a therapist or somethin’?”

You chuckle softly, the sound low and intimate, as you lean back into the seat, finally putting some space between you. “No. Just intuitive.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you through the rearview mirror with a scowl. “Intuit less. Just tell me where I’m goin’.”

A soft, chiding “tsk” falls from your lips and you shake your head, but Logan doesn’t miss the smile playing on your lips. You give him directions to your house and for moment you both sit in silence but the air remains heavy with unspoken tension. 

Logan pulls off the highway, beginning to wind through the smaller streets of the town as he gets closer to your place. The thought of this ride ending, of you leaving this car, both thrill and disappoint him. 

“You believe in fate?”

The question cuts through the silence, pulling Logan’s focus back to you. He glances at you briefly, your expression thoughtful as you wait for him to answer. 

“No,” he finally says, voice flat. 

A soft hum escapes your throat. “Unsurprising. But don’t you think, Logan,” you begin, leaning back into his space, “that maybe fate is what brought us together?”

You have that knowing look in your eye again, a sly smile tugging at your lips. As if you’re in on some cosmic secret he’s not privy to. It unnerves him. 

But it intrigues him, too. 

“I think a broken down car brought us together.”

“Or maybe life decided to be kind to you,” you challenge. “To bring me to you.”

Logan turns into a quiet subdivision as your words rattle around in his brain. The rain has mostly subsided, but is still falling in a gentle drizzle as he pulls up in front of your house, a single porch light illuminated in welcome. It looks small, yet homey, the kind of place he could have seen himself in once if life had been kinder to him. 

“You should come in,” you say as you gather your belongings. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Your eyes meet his again through the review mirror, a mischievous glint in your gaze and an even more sinful smile on your lips. 

It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone. The thrill of finding a partner for the night having lost its luster around the time his bones started to ache. More often than not, his sexual escapades involve his own calloused hands and memories from when he was a younger man. 

“Think about it,” you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. “Door’ll be open.” 

Logan sits, hands gripping the steering wheel, contemplating whether or not to follow you into the house.

Your offer is tantalizing, ripe for the picking, and the baser part of himself wants to accept—follow you into sin. You’ve already injected yourself into his veins, he might as well see the high through. 

The rational part of his brain knows he should leave, throw the limo in reverse and tail it back to the life he’s carved out for himself in the desert. Experience has hardened him, left him unable to, or maybe unwilling to, open himself to others. He doesn’t need whatever it is you think you can offer him, no matter how alluring and sweet your words may be. 

The weight of his wet clothes against his skin begins to feel almost suffocating and with a low curse under his breath, Logan steps from the limo and follows the path you took up the porch and into the house.

A trail of water leads from the front door to a small laundry room just off the foyer and then damp footprints lead deeper into the house. He can hear the low rumble of a dryer as he steps further into the space, the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood doing nothing to hide his approach. 

Logan finds you in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, standing in only a pair of mismatched underwear, the damp fabric barely concealing what’s underneath as you gently swirl a glass of whiskey. A second, untouched glass sits next to your hip on the counter. 

“You seem like a whiskey man,” you say, your smile curving around the glass as you take a slow sip. “Did I get it right?”

Stopping in the doorway, he flexes his hands at his sides, and wills himself to move—forward, backward, he’s not quite sure. The muted light catches along your curves, the damp sheen of your skin enticing, the dark outline of your nipples and curls between your thighs acting like a beacon. Logan can feel himself hardening against his slacks. 

He can smell you—bright and earthy and wholly intoxicating. Your heartbeat echoes in his ears, quick, but steady, betraying no fear. 

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now,” you say and he has half a thought to wonder if you can read his mind. 

A sly smile spreads across your face as his eyes finally meet yours, a knowing edge to your expression that further sets him off balance. 

“What’s happenin’ here?” Logan finally rasps, his voice low and rough. 

You give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as you grab the glass next to you and take a step towards him, your movements slow yet deliberate. He doesn’t move, rooted to the spot as you approach him. 

“That’s up to you,” you reply, handing him the glass. “You can get out of those wet clothes and enjoy this whiskey with me, or,” you pause to step closer, “you can walk back out that door and pretend like you weren’t curious about what’s waiting for you here.”

Logan’s fingers grip the glass in his hands just a little too tight as you stare up at him, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. You’re challenging him, daring him to act, and he knows the minute he breaks, he’s done for. He won’t be able to stop. 

You risk another step closer, leaving barely a breadth of space between you. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can smell the rain on your skin, as your closeness overwhelms his senses. He wants to drown in you. 

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask in a whisper, your fingers trailing along the edge of his belt buckle. 

Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin. His free hand moves on instinct, wrapping around your wrist, halting your teasing fingers before they venture any further. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying and threatening to snap.

“You sure this is what you want?” His voice is low, all gravel and grit as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened by a hunger begging to be fed.

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as you press yourself fully against him, soft and warm. Rising up onto the balls of your feet, you drop your gaze to his lips before flicking your eyes back up to his and ghosting your mouth along his jawline. “Stay with me,” you whisper, sliding your hand up his chest. “Just this once.”

Logan’s restraint snaps. The glass tumbles from his hand, shattering against the floor, but neither of you seem to notice. His hand moves to the small of your back, wanting to press you impossibly closer as his lips crash into yours, hot and demanding. 

You respond in kind, a whimper dying in your throat as your fingers tangle in his damp hair, urging him closer. A growl tumbles from his lips as he trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and tasting as he goes, his tongue finding your pulse point and sucking. His hands roam freely, his calloused fingers sliding over your smooth flesh, palming your hips and gripping you as if you’re the only thing grounding him to earth.

He feels alive. Every cell in his body hums beneath your touch, the constant aches and pains temporarily erased. You’re a balm to his very soul, smoothing the ever deepening cracks and making him feel whole. 

You gasp as he nips at a spot just below your ear and he smirks against your skin, the sound spurring him on. “Tell me where your room is, or I’m fuckin’ you right here on the table,” he husks, his voice thick with desire, breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips swollen and eyes dark, you reach for his hand and wordlessly lead him past the living room and down the small hallway to your room. Once inside, he pulls you back towards him, mouth slanting back over yours, stealing the very air from your lungs. 

His cock is almost painfully hard as he walks you towards the bed, only pulling his mouth away from yours as your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Instead of sitting back on the bed, you reach for the buttons on his shirt, easing them open before sliding the fabric from his shoulders. There’s an eagerness to your movements, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle as he sheds his undershirt and tosses it somewhere behind him. 

Logan watches with a hooded gaze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as you shove his pants down his legs, barely getting them past his knees before you’re reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

His fingers curl around your wrist, halting your movements and you gaze up at him, licking your lips. “Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We have all night.”

A shiver runs through you and then his mouth is on you again, hungry and all-consuming. He drinks you in like a man parched, lips and teeth mapping the curve of your jaw, the solid edge of your collarbone as your pretty little moans and gasps fill the air. You tilt your head back and offer yourself to him, your hands grasping at his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle to keep him close.

His hands are rough against your skin as he slides them up your sides, tracing the soft, damp skin below the band of your bra. Unfastening the clasps, he trails the fabric down your arms, his eyes darkening as he finally takes in your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice dripping with raw want.

Any final restraint he has evaporates and he kicks the last of his clothes off before tightening his hands around your waist and setting you down on the bed. Logan steals the gasp from your mouth as his body covers yours, easing himself between your thighs and thrusting once against your clothed cunt.

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to wet the skin. “Last chance,” he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. “Last chance to stop before I ruin you.” 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to elicit a growl, his teeth bared. A sinful smile spreads across your face. “Oh, Logan,” you coo, “who says I’m not going to ruin you?”

Logan lets out a deep, guttural sound, something between a growl and a groan before he slots his mouth back over yours and follows you into temptation.  

“Figured you’d try and sneak out.”

Logan whirls around at the sound of your voice, claws slowly unsheathing from between his knuckles. Blood wells up from the wounds, dripping between his fingers as he finds you dressed in an oversized shirt, the hem just concealing the edge of your panties. Your expression belies no fear as you take in the metal jutting out between his skin, your eyes alight with an acceptance he’s not use to. 

Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance. 

Slowly, he retracts his claws as you move further into the kitchen, stopping at the sink to grab and moisten a washcloth before coming to stand in front of him. Logan instinctively pulls away from your touch, but you’re undeterred, taking his hands in yours and wiping the blood away from his skin. Your movements are gentle, taking care to avoid the still healing slits.

Washed of blood, you finally glance up at him. “You can stay, you know.”

“I’m not the stayin’ kind, sweetheart,” he mutters.

One of those slow, knowing smiles tugs at your lips as you release his hands and Logan actually mourns the loss. “We’ll see,” you say with a shrug, stepping back just enough to put space between you. “I don’t think fate is done with us yet.”

Your words hang in the air like smoke, curling around him and pressing into his skin. He wants to argue, the words burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t. Because despite his earlier claims that he didn’t believe in fate, he can’t deny the unnatural pull you have on him. A pull Logan doesn’t necessarily dislike.

At his silence, you lean up and press the faintest of kisses to the corner of his jaw. “I’ll leave the light on for you,” you whisper into his skin.

It’s then he knows—he won’t be able to stay away. 

Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later. 

He’s been driving around some bigwig CEO, chauffeuring him from conference to conference during the day and dropping him off at random hotels during the night. When he gives Logan the address to tonight’s hotel, Logan knows instantly he’s in trouble. Just his luck the hotel is in your town. 

Pulling off the freeway, he feels that familiar tug behind his ribs. His hands itch with the want, the need, to turn the wheel towards you instead of the address on his GPS. Since that night, you’ve haunted him, your face showing up in his dreams, waking with the sensation of your softness burning into his skin. 

Logan knows he could stay at the hotel or sleep in the back of the limo like he’s done so many times before. But as he slowly inhales at his cigar and waits for Mr. CEO to stop fingering his mistress in the back seat and get the fuck out, the need to be near you only grows stronger. 

And damned if he knows why. 

He doesn’t need a relationship, or whatever the hell this is. Enough of him has been spread to others, for better or worse, and he’s already worn thin. The last remnants of any family he has are hanging off a very precarious ledge and he can’t bear the heartache of more loss if he opens himself to you. 

But as much as Logan keeps telling himself he’s closed off, fortified against anything new, he can feel himself bleeding through the cracks. 

By the time he finally turns down your street, it’s well past a respectable visiting hour. Most houses are dark for the night, but not yours. The front porch light illuminates just like it did two weeks ago and the dim lights of the kitchen shine through the pulled blinds. You’re up and a frisson of anticipation shoots through him. 

He parks the limo and stamps out the cigar before walking up your driveway. As he approaches the door, he hesitates. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. While your final words to him were open ended, did that give him the right to just show up in the middle of the night? 

You open the door as he contemplates and when his gaze finally focuses on you, he relaxes. A well worn robe is tied around your waist, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your face cleaned of makeup and yet you’re more alluring to him than you were that night in the rain. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he confesses, stepping just a bit closer towards you. 

A slow, soft smile spreads across your face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” you reply. You open the door to allow him entrance and he steps in after you. 

Logan follows you into the kitchen, where you already have a glass of whiskey ready for him. Handing him the glass, you nod your head towards the living room. “Come. Relax for a bit.”

He follows you into he living room, the single lamp casting a soft glow within the space. You settle onto the sectional, tucking your legs beneath you and turning yourself towards him as he joins you. For a moment, neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable, like it always is around you. 

“You look tired,” you say, finally breaking the quiet. Your voice is soft, a sense of familiarity laced in with your words, as if you understand the magnitude of his fatigue.

Logan huffs as he swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Honey, I’m always tired,” he replies. “Comes with the territory.”

You give a small hum, your head tilting to the side as you assess him. “You’re in pain, too.”

Logan freezes at your words, his eyes flicking up to your face. His gaze locks with yours, sharp and guarded, like you’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready to expose. And yet, you’ve been doing this since the beginning. Finding the cracks in his facade and wedging yourself in until the gap widens, uncovering the raw nerves underneath.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, his tone challenging.

You gaze remains steady and calm, holding a softness that unnerves him more than the question itself. “Because it’s written all over you,” you say simply. “I see it in your scars, in the way your hands are always clenched, as if steeling yourself against a blow that’ll never come.”

Logan exhales a low, humorless laugh before taking a long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat. “Don’t even notice it anymore,” he lies, shifting in his seat. 

Your mouth tugs into a gentle frown as you shift, crawling closer to where he sits. You pluck the glass from his fingers, swallowing down the rest of the whiskey before setting it on the coffee table. Logan watches as you swing your legs over his lap, your robe riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of your thighs. 

The weight of you against his lap sends a rush of arousal down his spine and he can feel his cock stir in his slacks. If you notice, you ignore it, instead reaching for a small bottle of lotion on the end table and squeezing a dollop into your palm. You rub your hands together twice before reaching for his right hand. 

Your thumbs dig into the meat of his palm, a low groan slipping from his throat before he can stop himself. You bite your lip, but Logan can see the sly smile beneath. 

“You help take care of everyone else,” you begin, rubbing the lotion further into his calloused palms. “Who helps care for you?”

Logan feels flayed open, that pull that spins him into your orbit only growing stronger as you see down to his very soul. Caliban swore you weren’t a mutant but Logan still couldn’t shake the idea that you were something more. 

“What are you?” he asks, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, watching you concentrate on his hand. 

You slide your fingers along the pink, puffy lines between his knuckles, a slow hiss escaping between his teeth as you massage the tender flesh. He wonders if you know how sensitive his skin is now, how each time his claws come out it hurts just a little bit more than the last time. 

“I’m human,” you reply, positioning his hand to focus on the back, tracing the fine scars there. “Same as you.”

“I ain’t human.”

Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. “You’re human where it counts,” you say, beginning to massage his hand. 

Logan scoffs. “Yeah? And where’s that?”

You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. “In here.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are resting against him. You touch him like you’re unafraid, undeterred by the metal in his bones and the sometimes primal rage that courses through his blood. His killed—for the sake of war, self preservation, and for reasons not so innocent—but you can somehow still see past that, to some soft part of him that still lingers. 

Logan itches to touch you, to pull you closer and—

“You can touch me,” you say, as if pulling the thought from his head. “I like when you touch me.”

Logan slides his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap, your clothed center pressing against the fly of his slacks. He doesn’t miss the gasp that falls from your lips or the shift of your hips as you try and press closer. 

That thrum of aliveness begins to churn in his veins as he slowly unties the sash of your robe, allowing the fabric to fall to the side. You’re bare underneath and Logan can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to the center of your chest. 

“You dress like this jus’ for me?” he asks, dragging his lips towards your breast and pulling a nipple into his mouth, working into a taut peak beneath his tongue.

Your fingers wind themselves into his hair, holding him close. “Yes,” you breathe, a whimper falling from your lips as he moves to your other breast. “Only for you.”

A surge of possessiveness rushes through his veins and Logan can feel the prickle between his knuckles, his claws threatening to unsheathe at the thought of you with another man. Instead, he doubles his focus onto you, his beard scraping against your skin as he licks a hot stripe across your nipple. “Damn right, only for me,” he growls. 

You shift your hips in response, seeking more friction against the hard length of his cock pressing against you. Logan groans, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, urging you to move against him. The soft, wet heat of your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties and his slacks sets his control on a razors edge. 

Logan leans back slightly to lock eyes with you, your pupils blown wide with want, your skin flushed with desire. You find his gaze, hazy with pleasure, but focused and then you smile at him, bottom lip pinned between your teeth. 

“And you, Logan,” you whisper, your hands sliding down the column of his neck, “you’re only for me.” 

That hook you’ve lodged in him sinks deeper and he’s too far gone to care. The mystery behind your presence in his life is one he’s willing to spend the rest of his days unraveling so long as you stay right here, continuing to bewitch him with the beauty of your soul. 

Your allure was more potent than any pheromone, more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. In his waking moments, Logan found his thoughts drifting to you more often than not and the frequency between his visits grew shorter and shorter until he found himself lured into your embrace almost every night. 

He was good at lying to himself, writing off these visits as nothing more than comfort—the need to find warmth in a world that so seldom offered him that luxury. But that lie grew bitter, warped in the liminal space between midnight and dawn where you stripped him down to his very bones, saw through the gruff and grit he wrapped himself in. Saw him as something more than the sum of his sins. 

Logan couldn’t hide from you and he didn’t know if he wanted to. Those carefully crafted walls that surrounded him cracked and crumbled, turning to dust at his feet. In that mysterious way of yours, you always knew what he needed—a warm meal; your tender, healing touch as you helped him stitch the worst of his wounds; the soft, pliant feel of your skin on his as you kissed him deep, the kind of kiss that burned like wildfire and whiskey.

God help him as your gravity pulled him in closer, your orbits circling tighter and tighter, destined for an inevitable crash. 

“What am I to you?”

Those five words root him where he stands, flaying him down to his very marrow. Logan should have expected this question, should have known that eventually you’d ask. 

He wants to tell you the truth, speak those words that burn against his tongue, begging to be said.

He wants to tell you of his need to find you when the days are long and the nights are longer. When the weariness he feels in his bones aches more than usual and seems to bleed into his very soul. 

When he needs to feel something more than the hollowness that seems to grow inside his chest. The slow carving away of his humanity that’s been scraping closer and closer to emptiness for years. 

When he needs to be wrapped in warmth and set afire by something almost like love. Like home. 

But he says none of this as he gazes over at you sitting at the kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest. You look small sitting there, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

And instead, he remains silent, praying you’ll let the conversation slide. But he knows better. 

You glance up at him, your gaze piercing straight through the heart of him and then you devastate him with three simple words. 

“I love you.”

The air punches from his lungs and for a moment it feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Your words tear through him, cutting deeper than any knife, and his hands curl into fists as you slice him open. 

“Don’t,” Logan rasps, his voice rough, barely more than whisper. He avoids your eyes, knowing that if he looks and sees the sincerity in your gaze, it’ll be his undoing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks with emotion as you push away from the table, your arms wrapping around yourself. “What about those words can’t you hear?”

His jaw clenches and for every step you take closer him, he takes a half step back, as if he’s trying to distance himself from the truth beginning to swirl between you. You can’t love him. Loving someone has brought him nothing but misery and pain, loss and suffering and he’ll be damned if he drags you down that road. 

So, instead he lies, the words bitter in his mouth. 

“This ain’t love, sweatheart,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “This is fuckin’.”

You inhale sharply between your teeth and your expression twists into disbelief, the beginning of tears welling in your eyes. “Fucking?” you bite back, your voice trembling but still firm. “You think after all these months that this is just fucking?”

Logan doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t move. He simply stands there, jaw clenched so tightly he could shatter bones. He can’t say yes. If he does that, if he voices that lie into existence, he’ll have to spend the rest of his days remembering the look in your eyes right now—destroyed. 

Your breath starts to shudder as you continue to step closer towards him. And he can feel you, warm and comforting, even though you shake with barely contained anger. “Look me in the eye and tell me that’s all this is,” you demand, your voice thick with emotion. “Tell me that when you come to me in the middle of the night, broken down, bloody and bruised, it’s just fucking. Tell me that when I touch you, hold you, love you, that it means nothing.” 

He remain silent. 

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “God, for someone with heightened senses, you’re blind to what’s right in front of you.” Your trembling voice matches the shake to your hands, your fury pouring off you in waves. “You really are a coward, aren’t you?”

Logan nostrils flare at the insult and he can feel the prickle of his claws between his knuckles. He knows his rage isn’t with you, but himself. And yet he can still feel his lips curl into a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he growls. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you seethe, your voice now raw, pain bleeding through every syllable. “You can’t even look me in the eye when you lie.”

His jaw clenches impossibly harder and he swears he can taste bone. Then, he finally meets your gaze head on, eyes flashing. “You think this ends well between us? You think I get to have somethin’ like this? Like you?” Logan’s voice cracks in a way that he loathes. “I can’t—”

The crack of your palm against his face is deafening. He barely moves from the impact, but emotionally you’ve landed him on his ass. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unblinking.

Logan stands there, immobile, as he processes the sting of your slap. It doesn’t hurt, not physically. It’s the fact that you did it, the fact that you’re standing in front of him, chest heaving from the effort of your breathing as if you just ripped yourself open for him.

“Get out of my house,” you seethe, your voice softer than before, deflated.

Your words shouldn’t sting as much as they do. They shouldn’t wreck him and make him feel like he’s been ripped apart limb from limb. He should relish them, the push, the shove. He should revel in the confirmation that you’re finally seeing him for what he truly is—something undeserving of all the warmth and love you’ve given him. A stray animal that never should have been fed.

Logan swallows, his throat tight as he gives you a small nod. And then he does the only thing he knows how to do. 

He turns. And he walks.

His legs feel like lead, each step a feat and his brain is screaming at him to turn around. To fight. To beg. To plead. To say something, anything. 

But he doesn’t.

Logan exits the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. As he steps off the front step, the porch light above him clicks off, plunging the house into darkness. Your guiding light is gone, lost in the storm of his destruction.

Of all the wounds he’s ever taken, of all the scars that mar his skin, nothing has ever bled quite like this.

Charles watches with sharp eyes as Logan enters the old water tank and shuts the door behind him. The older man is in his wheelchair, tending to his plants as Logan walks around the place, picking up random bits of trash and the tray from breakfast. 

A soft “tsk” falls from Charles’ lips and echos in the small space. “Will you ever learn, Logan?” Charles’ voice seems tired, weary. 

Logan pauses and looks over at him, irritation already prickling along his skin. “Stay outta my head,” he snaps, slamming the tray down on a nearby table. 

He doesn’t need this, doesn’t want Charles sifting through his mind, seeing those pieces of you he so deeply cherishes. Pieces he doesn’t deserve. Pieces he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have within his grasp again. 

“She loves you,” Charles continues, seeming to ignore his request. 

Logan strides over to where Charles is sitting, unable to keep the ire from boiling over. He wants to sweep all the plants to the floor, destroy the one creative outlet Charles has, retaliate for the way he presses into the fresh bruises on his mind. “I’m begging you, just—”

Charles lifts the spray bottle beside him and directs the spray in Logan’s face, showering him in a fine mist of water. Logan freezes, water dripping from his face as his lips tighten in a thin line. He grits his teeth, an ache already blooming in his jaw. 

“What the fuck was that for?” he growls. 

“Are you a cat?” Charles asks, lowering the bottle. “No? Then stop being such a pussy.”

Logan stares at Charles, the vulgarity of the of man’s words leaving him temporarily speechless. He scrubs a hand down his face, wiping the rest of the water off with the sleeve of his shirt, scowl deepening. 

“You’re pushin’ it,” Logan warns. 

Charles simply smirks, finally setting the bottle down on the table. “Someone should. God knows you won’t push yourself. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Logan sucks in a sharp breath and steps back from Charles, sitting down on the bed across from him. The old metal springs groan beneath his weight. He wants a bottle of whiskey, to quiet the thoughts in his head, at least temporarily, and fall into a drunken stupor. Anything but flaying open his feelings, especially his feelings about you. 

“What are you so afraid of?” Charles asks gently. “That she’ll see all your broken pieces?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charles raises his eyebrow. “No? Logan, she’s already seen them. She knows what you are and she’s still here.”

“That’s not the point!” Logan roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His breathing comes out in short gasps and he knows he needs to rein himself in. Not only for himself but for Charles. It doesn’t take much to trigger a seizure these days and he doesn’t need the stress of this conversation to become a catalyst. 

Charles remains quiet, expression calm and Logan hangs his head, his voice softening into something raw. “It’s not about what she knows. It’s about who, about what, I am. I don’t deserve her.”

Bracing his elbows on his legs, Charles leans forward, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “She knows all that, Logan. And she chooses you. Every night you come to her, she chooses you. How can you not see that?”

Logan doesn’t respond, but the weight of Charles’ words hang heavy against his shoulders. He looks down at his hands, seeing the callouses and crisscrossing scars. His body is a physical map of violence, each faded pink line a story of pain, regret and death. 

But you’ve never seen them that way. You’ve only ever looked at them with reverence, traced your fingertips along each one and wondered about their stories. Made him feel whole instead of broken and used. 

“You have a choice to make, Logan,” Charles says, interrupting the silence. “Let her in…or keep running. Don’t make her choose for you.” 

For days, Logan’s mind is plagued by replays of his last moments with you and his conversation with Charles. His already sleepless nights are further tormented by dreams of you, the devastated expression on your face haunting him.

The memory of your face, the crack in your usually steadfast voice, the tremor in your hand after you struck him. They all play in a nauseating loop in his brain, punishing him in a way he’s never felt before.

His life reverts to autopilot—drink, fight, drive, but nothing quells the gnawing ache in his chest. He couldn’t stay in the smelting plant with both Caliban and Charles staring at him, watching his every move as if he were a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Charles was running out of medications, a few days supply left at most, and Logan knew he was better off leaving Charles in Caliban’s care than his own.

Now, he sits on the edge of a dingy motel bed, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. His eyes are dry and heavy with exhaustion and his skin is itching with that familiar want to be near you. It started as an annoying tug, but has now grown into a maddening want.

He knows he should ignore it. But he was never that strong.

Before he can talk himself out of it, convince himself that this is an astronomically stupid fucking idea, he’s on his feet, keys in hand and driving down those lonely roads towards you.

It’s late when he reaches your house, like it usually is, and he half expects the porch light to remain dark, a cold, bleak reminder of how badly he’s fucked up. Instead, he finds that single porch light illuminated, shining like a beacon of hope. Logan walks up onto the porch, but you don’t open the door like you’ve done so many times before. 

He contemplates leaving, turning around and getting back in the car and drinking himself into a semblance of sleep. But then he hears you, your heartbeat echoing beyond the wooden frame, as steady and as comforting as it’s always been. Logan pauses, wondering if he should try the knob and come inside—if you’ll even let him.

If you even should.

With a sigh, he lowers himself to the ground, his joints aching in protest as he rests his back against the door. “I’m not good at this,” he finally says, hoping you’re listening. “I’ve been alive for too long. Seen too much shit.” Logan pauses, his words burning in his throat. “I’ve lost too many people.”

He hears you shift behind him, your head thudding softly against the door as you listen. His relief is almost palpable knowing you’re there, that you’re at least willing to listen to him. Leaning back, Logan closes his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. “The only way I know how to keep people safe is to push ‘em away. And I need to keep you safe.”

The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, as if they’re uncovering a truth he’s long kept secret. He feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, raw and honest, and the truth of his words burns. Logan can still hear you on the other side of the door, your breathing slow and steady, yet laced with something—hesitation, maybe, or hurt. It makes his chest ache in a new and unfamiliar way. 

“I’m tired,” he continues, his voice softer. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, sweetheart. Tired of fightin’ when all I want—” Logan swallows hard. “All I want is you.”

The porch light hums above him, the night is alive with the chirping of crickets, but the silence that follows is almost deafening. 

Logan doesn’t deserve you, he knows that. You should turn him away, tell him to leave, to kick him back to the desert to lick his wounds alone. He doesn’t know how to be someone’s partner, their lover. He’s not sure if he ever has, really, too hung up on all the ways he paints himself as a bad man. Someone unworthy. 

Except with you, he finds himself wanting to fight. To prove he’s not as hard and unyielding as the metal bones inside him. That somewhere deep inside him there still lingers warmth and affection and the capacity to love. 

He’s bracing himself for the worst when he hears the faint sounds of the lock turning. The door creaks open and he shifts to look up at you. One of your well used blankets is wrapped around your shoulders, your hair tousled from sleep and your eyes are red and wet with unshed tears. Logan’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as you stand there and he turns to face you, pushing up onto his knees. Your expression is carefully masked, betraying little of your underlying emotions, and he carefully crawls forward, testing the waters of how close you’ll let him get.

His knees ache as he kneels on the hard concrete, but he’d crawl through glass if you asked him to. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him as he nuzzles his face into the softness and warmth of your belly. Your comforting scent floods his senses as he waits for your anger, your rejection.

Instead, you sigh, a long pent up breath released in a steady exhale and your fingers sink into the disheveled hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close to you. “You’re an asshole,” you finally say, though your tone lacks any venom or spite.

Logan feels it then, the tension slowly easing from your body as you allow him to sink further into your frame. His heart lurches his chest, the faintest flicker of hope fluttering against his ribs.

“Yes,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“You hurt me.”

He pulls back as you gently push at his shoulders and sink down to the ground in front of him. But you don’t push him away any further and instead, lace your fingers through his. “I should tell you to fuck off,” you continue, your eyes focused on where you’re touching him. “But I can’t.”

His voice comes out in a whisper. “Why?”

Your eyes meet his and your gaze pierces straight through his soul. “You know why.”

And he does. In truth, he thinks he’s always known, long before you ever spoke those three little words out loud. Words so simple, yet so profound. Words he rarely speaks, while others casually toss them around. Words he has rarely felt, but with you feel as natural as breathing, as the sun rising in east.

Words he’s still afraid to say, despite everything, despite every cell in his body screaming at him.

You look at him like you know, because of course you do. You’ve always known him, in that uncanny way of yours since he first saw you standing in the rain. So instead of ire or disappointment at his lack of response, you simply squeeze his hand, grounding him to your reality. 

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, your voice soft and steady. “Not yet.”

Logan looks at you, his brows furrowed. He can’t fathom what he’s done in this life to deserve you, your patience, your unwavering belief in him. “You make it hard not to,” he finally rasps, his voice rough and uneven. “Love you, I mean.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and jagged, much like him. It’s close to what you want to hear, but not quite. And yet he sees something warm and bright blossom on your face. 

You lean in, raising your free hand to lightly trace the curve of his jaw, scratching at the scruff there. “You’re a man of action, Logan,” you say, pressing in closer, your breath mingling with his. “Wanna show me instead?”

This—this is a language he’s fluent in. 

Using his lips, tongue, hands and cock to write on your body all the words he cannot say. He’s mastered your shape, the way your hips curve beneath his palm, the softness of your belly and breasts, the heat between your thighs stoked hotter only by him. He knows exactly where to press, where to nip and suck and tease to elicit all those pretty little moans and gasps of pleasure. 

Logan’s already drawn one orgasm out of you, his fingers still thrusting against you as you ride out your high, your thighs shuddering against his forearm. You’re flushed and breathy as you reach for him, urging him up from between your thighs.  

You pull him close, fingers sinking into his hair as you lick into his mouth, not caring that your slick still stains his beard and lingers against his tongue. He swallows your gasp as he knocks your knees apart and slots himself between your legs, his cock heavy against your belly. 

He wants you. In all the ways he can think of and not just like this, naked and pliant beneath him. He wants your sleepily whispered hellos each morning and your softly murmured goodnights each evening. He wants the warm, weighty press of your body against his as you sit on the couch beside him sipping whiskey. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. 

As his kisses grow more fervent, you grow impatient and push at his chest, urging him back. “Lie back,” you command softly, your breath damp against his lips, “Let me take care of you.”

He wants to protest, deny you this request. This is supposed to be about you, about using his body to show you all the things his words can’t say. He’d spend the whole night between your thighs, using his mouth, tongue and fingers to worship if you’d let him. But there’s something in your gaze that forces him to comply and he gives in, rolling onto his back. 

You straddle his thighs, your slick cunt sliding along the length of his cock. Logan groans and his hands reach for your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he encourages you to move. “This is s’pose to be about you,” he husks as you slowly begin to rock your hips back and forth. 

“Oh, it is,” you answer, licking your lips as you brace your hands on his chest. “Who else can get you hard and needy beneath them?”

A low growl escapes from his throat. “No one.”

A wicked smile curls at your lips as you drag your heat along him, the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit with every slow, deliberate rock of your hips. The sensation has his control unraveling and he slides his hands along your thighs to palm the curve of your ass. 

You press into his touch, continuing to roll your hips as you lean forward to press an open mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You see,” you murmur, “this is for me.”

Reaching between your bodies, you grasp him in your hand and line him up. Slowly, almost tortuously slow, you sink down on his cock, taking him inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. A sharp inhale escapes him as your warm, tight walls surround him and Logan knows this feels different. 

This isn’t merely fucking anymore, the melding of flesh for the pure sake of pleasure, of briefly escaping the nightmare of his life, of finding solace in sin. You’ve somehow managed to bleed yourself into him, to wrap yourself around his heart. 

You feel as if you’re a part of him, lodged deep between his ribs and that if he were to try to remove you, he’d kill himself in the process. A part of him knows this feeling has always been there, back when you first entered his limo. The feeling threatens to choke him, to fill his love soaked lungs until all he can breathe is you. 

He loves you. 

Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him. 

“I—fuck, I,” he chokes out, the words caught in his throat. “I feel—”

Your hands run over his chest, up along his collarbones, your fingers blazing a trail over his skin. “I know, Logan,” you whisper, your hips rocking languidly against his. 

He grips your thighs, almost tight enough to bruise, helping guide your movements, but also prove to himself you’re real. Logan’s chest heaves as he watches you ride him, your hips rocking harder, faster, dragging moans out of both of you. You lean back just enough to change the angle, driving him deeper and he bucks his hips, meeting your thrusts with a force that has you crying out his name.

And yet it’s not enough. He needs to wrap himself around you, twine his fingers through your hair and hold your mouth to his until he’s completely consumed you. His hands slide up your back towards your waist and he pulls you down against him, mouth hot and insistent against your neck as he continues to fuck up into you. 

In one fluid motion, Logan grips your thighs and flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, cock still sheathed deep within your cunt. You arch beneath him as he sets a brutal, devastating pace, the raw intensity of his movements stealing short, gasps breaths from your lips with each thrust. A shiver ripples through you as he draws a nipple into his mouth, his name tumbling from you like a prayer.

“Fuck, there it is,” he growls. “I love all those little sounds you make.”

His choice of word isn’t lost on either of you and your eyes meet his as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint red crescents as you cling to him. “Logan,” you gasp, your voice trembling as he hits that soft spot deep inside you. “More.”

“You want more?” he rasps, gripping your thighs and pulling them higher around his waist. The new angle has you crying out, the sound echoing in the room as he continues to slam into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you.

“Ah, fuck, yes,” you moan, your head tipping back. 

Logan takes advantage of your offering, his lips and teeth marking a path down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that’s sure to leave a burn come the morning. There’s a possessiveness to his touch, a need to claim you, to prove to you that this is all he needs—your embrace, your warmth, your love.

“You’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he growls against your skin, his hand sliding down between your bodies and finding where you’re joined. He can feel himself pounding into you, your combined arousal coating his fingers as he finds your clit and begins to rub in tight circles. “So goddamn perfect. You were made for me, sweetheart, you know that?”

Your cunt flutters around him and he knows you’re close, your thrusts against him growing erratic. He feels his own impending release, but he needs you to come first, needs to feel you shatter against him. His fingers press more firmly against your clit and with a breathy moan, your body tenses, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes into you.

“That’s it,” Logan groans, his own thrusts faltering as he feels you tighten around him, pulling him in deeper. “Look at you, comin’ so pretty for me.” He slows just enough to prolong your release, his thrusts deliberate as he draws out every ounces of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him. 

It’s overwhelming—the sensation of you beneath him, around him; the cling of your fingers to his shoulders; the warm, damp breath against his neck; the absolute perfection of this moment right now. In all his years on this earth, he’s never experienced anything like this. The desire to completely consume someone, body and soul, and be consumed return. He wants his dying breath to be your name.

Something inside of Logan snaps, and as you try and catch your breath as you come down from your high, he presses your legs higher, folding you beneath him in a way that has his cock pressing deeper than before. The change has you whimpering and he looks down to find your expression as wrecked as he feels. He pauses his thrusts just long enough to grasp both your wrists and pin them above your head before he picks up his pace again, fucking into you with an almost ruthless intensity.

“I love you,” he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, his control quickly unraveling with every whimper and cry of his name. “God, I fucking love you.”

For a few moments, he doesn’t even realized what he’s said. Then he looks down at you, your gaze trained on his face and that soft, knowing smile of yours on your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, “I know. I’ve always known.”

Logan lets out a rough, shuddering breath, his entire body trembling with the weight of his confession. Any response he has dies in his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his entire body wound tight. He’s so fucking close, can feel his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, but it’s more than your warm heat drawing him in—it’s everything. 

“Tell me,” he grits out, his hips chasing, chasing, chasing that release.

You lean up as much as you can with your hands still pinned above you and lick an open mouthed kiss against his lips. “I love you, Logan.”

And that’s all it takes. He groans into your mouth as he finally lets go, his body tensing as his release crashes into him. He spills himself deep inside you, shallowly thrusting into your cunt as his rhythm slows.

Logan releases your hands, and for a long moment, there’s only the sound of heavy breathing, of heartbeats slowing, the two of you tangled in the aftermath.

Logan’s restless and unable to sleep despite your smaller frame tucked alongside him, the weight of your head resting against his chest. From his periphery, he can see his phone illuminating with unread texts, no doubt from Caliban urging his return. Charles has been deteriorating faster than Logan cares to admit, his mind gone more often than not, raving about new mutants. He needs drugs faster than Logan can procure them.

His mind churns, the reality of the outside world looming closer and he contemplates slipping from your grasp when you shift, curling yourself further into him. You don’t speak, not yet, but he can tell you’re alert, floating somewhere in that space between sleep and full wakefulness. Your fingers start to move of their own accord, the gentle pressure of your fingertips tracing over an old scar along his ribs, mapping out an old battle he no longer remembers. 

Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.

“Sounds important,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

He wants to keep ignoring it, stay wrapped in the quiet cocoon you’ve thrown around him, but Logan knows he can’t. It’s a cruel reminder of the chaos that plagues him beyond the sanctuary of your embrace. 

“You can go to him, Logan,” you continue, fingers never stopping their slow path along his skin. “I know you’ll be back.”

“How,” he starts, licking his dry lips, “how do you always know?”

Logan’s asked versions of this question before. You’ve always brushed him off, given a coy answer and steered the conversation towards something else. For a moment, he thinks tonight will be the same.

But then you answer.

“I can feel you,” you answer softly, your breath warm and damp against his skin. “I just—” You pause and turn to look up at him and then disentangle yourself from his embrace. “Stand up,” you urge, nudging at his side until he complies.

He blinks at you in confusion, but you just smile at him, soft and sleepy, and gently cup the side of his face. “Now, close your eyes.”

Logan does as he’s told, chasing after your touch as you step back from him, settling somewhere beyond him on the bed. “I’m going to move and you tell me where I am.”

The soft rustle of bedsheets follows and then, stillness. You’re quiet, but he can sense you, just off to his right, but too far away to touch. “My right, but farther back in the room.”

You move again, keeping your movements light. Again, he pinpoints you, this time towards his left, closer, but still too far away to grasp. “Left.”

A final movement, this time even closer, your proximity flooding his senses, sending a rush of warmth down his spine. Logan reaches out, finding the curve of your hips, hands tucking underneath the shirt you had slipped on earlier in the night, splaying his palms against your back. He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, alive in the predawn glow.

“How did you know?” you ask, looping your arms around his neck.

Understanding dawns on him, the answer so simple, yet so profound. Pinpointing where you were had nothing to do with his heightened senses and everything to do with just you—the way you’ve molded yourself to him like a second skin. “I could feel you,” he answers. “I could—I just knew.”

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. Logan sighs into your mouth, his eyes fluttering close as you press your forehead to his. “It’s like that,” you whisper. “This undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, until…there you are.”

His phone continues to buzz, growing more insistent as the soft blues and grays of the morning bleed into more golden hues. With a reluctance you both feel, Logan peels himself away, finally answering the phone with an irritation he doesn’t bother hiding. 

You watch him go, standing on the porch with the light casting a halo around your head. Your smile is gentle, but stained with worry and yet you remain stoic, the steady pillar holding up the fractured remains of his life.

As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and he’ll spend the next few months wishing he told you—he feels you too. 

The last one hundred miles have dragged on for eons, the road before him stretching into an almost infinite distance. Logan finds himself darting his eyes towards the dashboard clock, growing increasingly frustrated when the numbers move only a few minutes at a time, the slow passage of time seeming to taunt him. 

It’s been months since he saw you last, though no fault of his own. His memories are hazy—a swirling fog of confusion, pain and burning fever. He’s not even sure how he survived, whether it was modern medicine or sheer stubbornness. Or something more. 

You believe in fate?

Your words echo in his mind, soft and sweet, and he feels a familiar pang of longing in his chest. 

Fate or not, something kept a spark alive in him, pulsing through his veins with each sluggish beat as he slowly and painfully healed. His wounds are still pink and tender to the touch, more of his skin marred by death and destruction. 

As he turns into your subdivision, the night quiet, a cold, creeping anxiety snakes along his spine. What if you’ve given up on him? Figured this last absence was the real deal, all his idle promises of staying away finally coming to fruition. 

But as Logan drives down your street, he sees it—the single porch light illuminating in the night. Acting like the beacon it’s always been, leading him safely to land. 

To you. 

Logan pulls into the driveway and shifts the truck into park. Turning in his seat, he glances back towards the young girl curled up on the backseat. Laura’s face is relaxed in sleep, her hands tucked protectively under her chin. She fell asleep several hours ago, the soft rhythm of the tires against pavement lulling her to sleep. 

Logan’s been many things in his life. Son, brother, fighter, friend. Lover. He never thought he’d add father to that list. While he can’t quite find it in him to call himself that just yet—even though Laura readily and easily calls him dad—he no longer denies the protectiveness he feels towards her.

Easing the door to the truck open, Logan steps out and gently shuts it behind him, loathe to disturb her just yet. 

Here he is showing up at your door like he always has—late, quiet, and carrying a heavy weight he feels only he can shoulder. His hand is poised to knock, knuckles clenched, but he pauses, unsure if he even has the right to be here. 

But then there you are, the front door opening to reveal your tired but relieved face, months of worry etched into your skin, your eyes already brimming with unshed tears. 

“Logan,” you breathe, pulling him gently by the wrist and leading him inside. You don’t ask why he’s there. He suspects you already know. 

The air inside the house is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting and laced with the faint, comforting smell of you. Logan inhales deeply, letting the scent settle somewhere in the parts of him that still feel alive, that thrum with the memory of your touch. 

Your fingers still linger against his wrist and he can feel the heat radiating from your body, but you’re not close enough. And yet, he’s afraid to reach out, pull you into his arms. Afraid of the pity or obligation you’ll feel to comfort him, to allay all his fears.

As if reading his thoughts, you gently cup the side of his face, your nails scratching along his jaw. Logan flinches slightly, his body so used to pain these past months he’s almost forgotten the tenderness of your touch. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he closes his eyes, a ragged breath falling from his lips and his head dips forward. 

“C’mere,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

For a moment, he doesn’t move, but then he slides his arms along your back, pulling you against him. You feel real and solid and alive pressed this close. Never one for overt physical touch, Logan’s surprised by how much he missed this—the simple act of just holding you. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he inhales deeply, his breath warm and damp against your skin. 

He doesn’t say anything, unsure where to even begin. The weight of his grief, his weariness, feels heavier than any burden he’s ever shouldered before and it’s almost desperate the way he clings to you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. If you were to let go, he’d fall apart. 

Logan doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the hot trail of tears against his cheeks. You run your fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as you hold him. 

“I couldn’t feel you, Logan,” you whisper into his neck. “Several days of just…nothing. I thought that—”

The words lodge themselves in your throat, but he knows what they are just the same. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your eyes glistening with tears that match the ones rolling down his weathered face. Your expression is marred with pain, raw and unfiltered, but also with a bright flicker of relief. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice rough with emotion. “I got dragged into some bad fuckin’ shit. I almost…we—”

You quiet him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips. “It’s okay, Logan,” you whisper. “Tell me about it later. I’m just happy you’re home.”

Home. 

Logan gaze softens at your words, but guilt gnaws at him. He doesn’t deserve this—your unwavering faith in him, the patience you’ve shown him, the light you’ve been in his dark, endless nights. But here you are, giving him everything he’s never asked for but so desperately craved. 

“C’mon,” you murmur, dragging him from his thoughts, “Let’s get you settled.”

It’s well past two in the morning by the time Logan finally carries Laura into the house, tucking her comfortably into the guest bedroom. Turning from the bed, he finds you there, leaning against the doorframe. You reach for him, in that soft, gentle way you always do, and lead him into your bedroom. 

He doesn’t protest when you sit him down at the edge of the bed and begin undressing him. Kneeling before him, you unlace his boots and peel off his socks, setting them aside. With a slight press to his knees, you force his legs wider, slotting yourself between them. 

Despite the late hour, the weariness and fatigue tugging at his bones, Logan feels his cock twitch as your fingers brush underneath the hem of his shirt. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt you. 

He dreamt of you, in those fevered moments where he didn’t know where one part of his body began or ended. When his entire existence had been boiled down to raw nerves and sluggishly knitting flesh. Through the haze of pain, he wondered if he’d ever feel your kiss again, feel the frantic press of your fingers into his shoulders, feel the warm, wet heat of your cunt stretching around him. 

You toss the shirt aside and he can feel your gaze lingering over the new scars, the pink, raised lines of flesh that are still healing. With a reverence he’s not worthy of, you trace your fingertips along the three jagged scars from where X-24 had ripped into him. 

“What happened to you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper as you move to trace more of his scars. 

Logan tells you then about Pierce and the Reavers, about Laura and the other mutant children. His throat grows tight as he continues, relaying the loss of Caliban, Charles and the Munsons, and the final confrontation between himself and his clone. 

He tells you how Laura saved him. How her and the other children brought him to safety over the Canadian border. How he spent the next months fighting with every fiber of his being to knit himself whole. 

For you. 

You lean into him as he looks away, jaw tightening as he tries to shove down the memories of everything he’s lost. Your touch is light against his face as you trace the angle of his jaw, and reach up to press the lightest of kisses against his lips. 

Logan exhales into your mouth as you kiss him again, soft and tender and warm. You seem to breathe him in, imbue life into his weary flesh and reignite the spark he’s kept alive for you. 

He wants to do more—to pull you into his arms, to taste you, to fuck into you until he can’t breathe. But exhaustion pulls heavily on his bones, threatening to sink him. 

Logan knows you can feel his hesitancy because you keep kissing him softly, punctuating each press of your lips with whispered reassurance. Your fingers card through his hair as you lean back. “Just let me hold you?” 

Your voice cracks at your request and Logan can only nod, unable to deny you. You help him shuffle out of his pants before coaxing him further into the bed. He moves slowly and he knows you don’t miss the creaking of his joints, the soft groan of discomfort. 

Coming to rest on his side, you tuck into him, throwing a leg over his hips and pulling him close. He sighs into your touch, the weight of the last few months pressing just a little bit less as you press a kiss to the hollow of his throat. 

“Don’t leave me,” you whisper into his skin, soft and damp. 

Logan feels his heart clench at your words. He’s hurt you. He knows that. Not just inadvertently with his most recent disappearance, but all the other times, too. Those times when he ran, afraid of what your words and touch meant. Afraid to accept what you’ve always so freely given. 

His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your back. “You kept the light on,” he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.”

Your lips quirk into a soft smile. “I always will, Logan.”

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (8/???)

You guys put so much expectations into this, that i'm even afraid I won't reach them LOL

Thanks so much for your compliments and every words of supports. Thanks for loving Woven Fates.

I hope you can enjoy it <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Your change in the script is acclaimed by everyone, especially by Agatha

Home

The morning warmth seeped through the gaps in the curtains, tinting the room with a soft golden glow. The sheets were smooth against your skin, and their scent still lingered on the pillows and blanket around you—a familiar blend of jasmine, cinnamon, and sandalwood. It was hard to admit, but the scent was becoming familiar to you. Something that was uniquely theirs.

You blinked slowly, trying to dispel the haze of sleep. The room was silent. No lazy laughter from Rio, no sharp remark from Agatha. Only the echoes of everything that had happened the night before swirled in your mind, mingling with the exhaustion that still weighed on your body.

The bed was empty.

The mattress dipped slightly beside you, a trace of someone's weight that had been there but was no longer. You ran your hand over the space, feeling the cool fabric beneath your fingers. The emptiness was unsettling. As if everything had been a dream and, at the same time, too real to ignore.

Swallowing dryly, you slowly sat up, your muscles still sore, your mind foggy. Your gaze found the large bedroom window, the curtains open, revealing the view of Pacific Palisades.

The sun reflected off the mansion's imposing gate, a solid reminder of where you were and who you were with. Outside, everything seemed normal—the vibrant green of the trees, the cloudless sky, the promise of a peaceful day. But inside you, nothing was at peace.

The remnants of last night still vibrated under your skin. Their touch, their gaze, the weight of the words that had been spoken—and those that had lingered in the air. You felt a lump form in your throat.

Taking a deep breath, you ran your hands over your face, trying to dispel the heat rising, the confusion that wrapped around you. Your fingers clenched the sheets, and an insistent thought took over your mind.

Where had they gone?

And why did this feeling fill you so quickly?

The silence of the room weighed heavily, and for a moment, you didn’t know if you wanted to get up or simply sink back into the sheets, into their scent, into everything that had changed since you entered that house.

Then, the abrupt sound of the door opening made your heart leap in your chest.

Rio entered first, carrying a tray full of food—fresh fruit, cereals, delicate breads, and other things you couldn't even name. Her smile was bright, almost mischievous, as if she was having fun at your expense. Agatha came in right after, her expression neutral, but her eyes sharp, assessing you from head to toe as if she wanted to make sure you were still there, still… hers.

"Well, look who finally woke up," Rio sang, placing the tray on the bedside table. "We were about to call a doctor."

You opened your mouth to respond but hesitated. Neither of them mentioned last night. Neither looked at you with the weight of what had happened. It was as if nothing had been said, as if nothing had happened.

So maybe you should act that way too.

"I… did I sleep too long?" Your voice came out rough, and Agatha only raised an eyebrow before sitting in the nearby armchair, crossing her legs with her usual elegance.

"Enough."

You didn’t know if that was an answer or an assessment. But Rio sat beside you, picking up a piece of strawberry and holding it in front of your mouth. "Here. You need to eat."

There was something in the way she did it, something too implicit to be named. You hesitated for a second before accepting it, feeling the sweet flavor burst against your tongue. Something inside you warmed at that simple gesture. The care. The tenderness—you opened your mouth, letting the sweet and tangy taste of the fruit spread across your tongue. Rio smiled, satisfied.

The taste was sweet and comforting, spreading warmth through your tongue and sliding down smoothly. Rio smiled as if she had just won some silent competition. As if you were a frightened little creature that had just decided to trust her.

She looked at Agatha with her chocolate-brown eyes shining, and your heart pounded in your chest.

You weren’t used to this.

Your whole life, you had been forced to be strong. From a very young age, with no one to hold your hand, no one to guide you. Taking on responsibilities that shouldn’t have been yours, learning too soon that the world was cruel and that trusting others was an expensive luxury.

But now…

Now, you were here, surrounded by something you never knew how to name. Being taken care of. And, strangely, it felt good.

You lowered your gaze, your throat tightening with something you couldn't describe. Agatha’s hands slid through your hair, smoothing the messy strands with an unexpected, lazy touch down your back.

"Eat slowly," she said, her voice softer than you expected. "We wouldn’t want you to choke."

You simply nodded, accepting another piece of fruit from Rio, allowing yourself, for a moment, to simply be small.

"Good girl," she praised, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

Your heart gave a small leap. You lowered your head, feeling the heat rise to your face.

The comfortable silence of the Sunday morning settled in the room as you finished your breakfast in bed, the blankets still tangled around you. Rio had already gotten up, but Agatha remained lying beside you, her eyes closed, her lips pursed in what seemed like a sleepy grumble.

You looked out the window, observing the scenery. The sky was clear, light blue, and a soft breeze stirred the leaves of the trees in the mansion’s vast garden. It was a perfect day to go out, to do something different. So, without thinking too much, you broke the lazy silence with a suggestion:

"Can we go out?"

"Go out?" Agatha asked, evident irritation in her tone, as if the word was distasteful.

"Yes, it's so beautiful outside."

Rio took another sip of her coffee, humming.

"And what were you thinking, dear?"

You shifted your gaze to the scenery again, seeing the sun and the sky once more. "Maybe go to the park or the beach… I’d love to."

The answer came immediately, firm and definitive. "Absolutely not."

You blinked, surprised by Agatha’s abrupt refusal. "Why?"

She didn’t respond immediately, lying back on her side of the bed and staring at you with a scrutinizing look. Then, she closed her eyes, turning to the other side, clearly ending the conversation.

Before you could insist, Rio, who had already gotten up and was near the door rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, intervened with her always calm and melodic voice. "You know, darling, if you want to go out, you can come with me to the garden. I wanted to work on the plants today. It’s a beautiful day for that."

Your eyes lit up at the idea. "The garden? I’d love to!"

Rio smiled back at you, her brown eyes dancing with amusement and a certain pride for having found an alternative that wouldn’t provoke Agatha’s resistance. "Great. Go get changed, then. I want to see you with your hands in the dirt."

You got up excitedly, heading to the closet to pick something comfortable. As you chose your clothes, your mind lingered on Agatha’s reaction. The way she had simply refused to go out, without even giving you an explanation, unsettled you. It was a mystery, like so many other things about her.

Rio, on the other hand, seemed so at ease with everything. She loved the garden, the flowers, the wet earth between her fingers. The way she spoke about it made you curious, as if there was something special about it. Maybe, somehow, spending the morning by her side would help you understand a little more about this woman and, perhaps, a little more about yourself too.

As you stepped out of the room, you cast one last glance at Agatha. She was still lying down, eyes closed, but you knew she wasn’t asleep. Her chest rose and fell slowly, as if she were controlling her own breathing. You wondered what was going through her mind at that moment. And if one day, she would let you know.

The sun was already high in the sky when you and Rio started working in the garden. The scent of damp earth mixed with the perfume of flowers, creating a serene atmosphere. Rio knelt beside you, her fingers skillfully gliding over the stem of a rose as she explained patiently.

"Did you know roses change color depending on the pH of the soil?" she said, her eyes glinting as she dug into the earth with a trowel. "If the soil is more acidic, they tend to turn reddish. If it’s more alkaline, they shift to lighter shades."

You looked at her, intrigued. "So, it’s like they adapt to their environment?"

Rio smiled. "Exactly. Some flowers do it to survive, to adapt. Others… simply reveal more of themselves over time."

There was something about her words that resonated with you. Your fingers idly played with the soil as you tried to organize your thoughts. "You really love this, huh?"

"I do. Taking care of plants, watching them grow, understanding their cycles." Rio turned to you, her gaze soft but attentive. "It reminds me that everything happens in its own time," she said in a wise, enigmatic tone.

The silence that followed was comfortable. Only the sound of birds and the rustling of leaves filled the space between you. Then, suddenly, Rio leaned in closer, her dark eyes locked onto yours.

"Sweetheart, you have something here…" She reached out, wiping the dirt from your cheek, not pulling away an inch, and your heart felt like it was about to leap out of your chest.

"T-thank you…" you whispered softly.

"You’re so sweet, aren’t you?" Her scent was a mix of earth, cinnamon, and something intoxicating you couldn’t quite name.

Rio’s fingers brushed lightly against your cheek, and her lips hovered near yours, sealing them in a brief, chaste kiss before you pulled away abruptly.

"This… isn't wrong?" you asked, your tone uncertain. "You're married."

Rio held your gaze, but instead of irritation or frustration, there was only patience and something that looked like tenderness. "We’re in agreement about this. We both want you, sweetheart, and that’s no secret."

Your stomach tightened at her words. "But it’s weird… You two are already married, you’ve been together for years. Isn’t this—" your hesitant, flustered voice was cut off.

"First, just because we're unconventional doesn’t mean we’re weird, sweetheart," she gently corrected, making your cheeks heat at her maternal tone. "Second, we’re undeniably drawn to you. We even tried resisting it, but it only gave us more headaches," she concluded with a small, knowing smile.

You didn’t answer right away, your chest rising and falling erratically. It all felt too big, too new. "But… but she’s not even as affectionate with me as you are. How could she want me?"

Rio sighed, but a small smile formed on her lips. "Agatha doesn’t show things the way I do. It was never natural for her." She tilted her head, studying your expression carefully. "But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel. You just need to learn how to read the signs. She takes care of you in a different way. It’s in the details."

You remained silent, absorbing her words. Your heart was still racing, and the idea of being part of their lives in such an intense way felt both terrifying and tempting.

Rio smiled again and turned her attention back to the flower in her hands. "Now, help me replant this before the sun gets too strong."

Even in your confusion, you nodded and returned to work. But Rio’s words still echoed inside you, like seeds planted in fertile soil, ready to bloom.

The sun was high by the time you returned from the garden. Your fingers still had traces of soil beneath your nails, and the fresh scent of plants clung to your skin. You felt lighter, in a way you hadn’t in a long time, and Rio noticed. She smirked, satisfied with the effect the peaceful morning had on you.

Then, Agatha’s voice cut through the lazy afternoon silence.

"You two," she called from the veranda, her blue eyes hidden beneath dark sunglasses, clad in a deep-cut navy blue swimsuit. "Come, let’s go to the pool."

You blinked, surprised. Agatha had never suggested anything like this before. You glanced at Rio, who also seemed intrigued, but soon broke into an excited smile. "Oh, that sounds like a great idea, love. It’s really hot today."

Your heart pounded at the thought. The day’s heat made your skin tingle, and the idea of cool water felt irresistible. Without thinking too much, a wide, genuine smile lit up your face. "Really? We’re actually going?"

At that moment, Agatha visibly tensed. Her shoulders stiffened, her gaze lingered on you longer than usual, observing that bright smile that, for a brief moment, left her speechless. She cleared her throat, looking away and lifting her chin as if regaining composure.

"That’s what I said," she replied, her gaze averted, trying to sound firm.

Rio chuckled quietly, noticing her wife’s tension but choosing not to comment. Instead, she turned to you with a playful glint in her eyes. "Go change, little gem. But don’t take too long." Her voice was affectionate but carried a teasing tone, as if she wanted to provoke Agatha.

You nodded quickly, your heart racing at the prospect of something so simple yet so rare—an afternoon of leisure with them. As you walked away, you heard Rio whisper to Agatha, "And yet I’m the one who spoils her, huh?"

Agatha grumbled something inaudible, but you were already too far to catch it.

Upon entering your room, you found Lucky lying on his back, belly up, completely relaxed. For a moment, you reflected on how your life had always been about survival—never about truly living.

You grabbed your bikini—a tiny, worn-out piece you’d had since you were 19—and cursed yourself for not updating your wardrobe before agreeing to stay here.

When you returned, already dressed, you found them by the pool. Rio sat on the deck, her hair in a messy bun, wearing sunglasses, applying a generous amount of sunscreen on Agatha, who was lying on her stomach on a bamboo lounger. Rio’s large, gentle hands moved over her pale skin with a devotion you had never seen before. It was beautiful how much she loved her wife, and it made you think back to your conversation earlier.

As you approached them, Rio lifted her sunglasses to get a better look at you, whistling lowly. "Well, would you look at that… I didn’t know we were being treated to a private show, but I love the idea."

Your face instantly heated up, and before you could respond, Rio stood up, grabbing a towel. "I’m heading to the kitchen to make some snacks and grab drinks. Make yourselves comfortable, my queens."

And just like that, you were left alone with Agatha.

The woman lifted her gaze to you, removing her sunglasses, analyzing you slowly, as if pondering something. "That bikini is tiny," she remarked, in a tone that wasn’t exactly scolding but wasn’t entirely neutral either.

You chuckled awkwardly. “I’ve had it since I was 19. I should go shopping.”

Agatha seemed to consider this for a moment before murmuring, “We can take care of that soon.”

You frowned slightly, but before you could question her, she changed the subject.

“You’re going to burn in this sun,” she said simply. Then, she lifted her head, reached for the bottle with a sun drawn on it, and gestured to the lounge chair she had been lying on. “Come. Lie down here.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of her hands gliding over your skin. Agatha’s sharp, disciplined gaze always made you feel small and exposed. Lying there, with her touching you, felt dangerous in a way you couldn’t quite name.

Still, you obeyed, swallowing hard as you felt the chair shift slightly under her weight when she leaned over to reach you. Her fingers pressed gently into your shoulder as she spread the sunscreen. Her touch was firm, meticulous—like she was tending to something precious.

You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the winds brought, but all you could smell was the woman's floral perfume. Shit.

It was impossible to ignore Agatha’s hands. They glided over your shoulders, her fingers working the sunscreen into your skin with a precision that sent your heart racing. A shiver ran down your spine, and you tried to hide it, but you knew she would notice. Agatha always noticed.

“Relax,” she murmured, her voice low and smooth, but carrying an authority that left no room for disobedience. “You’re so tense.”

You tried to obey, but it was difficult to relax when every touch of hers seemed to ignite something inside you. Her hands traveled down your back, her fingers pressing lightly into tense muscles, and you felt a whimper catch in your throat.

“Agatha,” you murmured, your voice trembling, but she didn’t respond. Instead, her hands continued moving, now spreading sunscreen across your back, her fingers tracing down your spine with a slowness that was almost torturous.

Heat rushed to your face, but it wasn’t from the sun. It was something deeper, more intense—something you couldn’t name. Her hands drifted down to the waistband of your bikini, her fingers just barely grazing the exposed skin, and a tremor coursed through you.

“You’re shaking,” Agatha observed, her voice still soft but tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Are you feeling all right?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words died in your throat as her hands slid back up, this time down your arms, her fingers pressing lightly against your skin. Another shiver wracked through you, and you tried to suppress it, but you knew she would notice.

Agatha always noticed.

“Are you always this sensitive?” she murmured, her fingers now brushing against your neck, the touch featherlight but filled with intention. “It’s adorable.”

Heat flooded your face, but it wasn’t from the sun. It was something deeper, more intense—something you couldn’t name. Her hands drifted down to the waistband of your bikini again, fingers barely skimming over the skin, and another tremor coursed through you.

“Agatha…” you murmured again, your voice barely above a whisper, but she didn’t respond. Instead, her hands kept moving, now smoothing sunscreen over your legs, her fingers trailing over your skin with an unbearable slowness.

Your breath hitched as her fingers stilled at the curve of your hip, so close to the crease of your thigh that you could feel their heat through the thin fabric of your bikini.

Agatha leaned in, her hair shining by the sun leaving her brown hair almost golden and that secluded the two of you from the rest of the world. Her ice-blue eyes—so light they were almost translucent—locked onto yours, pupils blown wide like a predator fixating on its prey. You swallowed thickly.

She knew. She knew exactly how you felt.

“So pretty like this…” she whispered, her voice a rasp of velvet as her thumb ghosted over the waistband of your bikini. Not touching—just teasing. “Your skin flushes so easily. It’s like you’re begging to be seen.”

Your heart pounded in your ears, blood roaring in your veins. You tried to look away, but she caught your chin between her fingers, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” she ordered, soft yet lethal.

Obedience came automatically. Your eyes met again, and in them, you saw a reflection of yourself—disheveled, blushing, exposed. Agatha smirked, as if reading every chaotic thought spinning in your mind.

Her thumb finally breached the edge of fabric, barely brushing the untouched skin below your navel. Your body arched involuntarily, a strangled sound escaping your lips.

Your lungs tightened. Your fingers dug into the lounge chair, seeking an anchor, but everything smelled like her—jasmine, power, and danger. Agatha leaned in further, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

“Do you really think you’re hiding it well?”

“I don’t—” You tried, but your voice failed when her fingers pressed again, drawing slow, hypnotic circles that made you tremble.

And then she stopped.

She stopped and pulled away just enough to keep her hands off you.

“All done.” She said it as if she had done nothing at all. “You can go for a swim.”

“Ladies, I’m back!” Rio’s voice broke through the thick air as she returned with a tray of fruit and cold cuts. “This should hold us over until lunch.”

You tore your gaze away from the women for a moment, focusing on steadying your breath, calming your racing mind. You rubbed a palm against your cheek, as if it would wipe away the heat still burning there.

Turning back to them, you offered a small, fleeting smile. “Thanks.” You picked up a slice of watermelon before slipping into the pool. The cool water was a blessed relief against the scorching heat.

Rio didn’t take long to join you, splashing playfully before swimming around you, always maintaining some kind of contact—a light brush of fingers against your arm, a teasing touch at your waist as she laughed at something silly you said. It was easy, effortless, and you couldn’t deny how comfortable you felt around her.

From the other side, Agatha remained on the lounge chair, watching through her sunglasses, her expression unreadable. She looked as composed as ever, but you knew her well enough to catch the subtle way her fingers drummed against the armrest—a small tell, something she would never admit.

“Do you never get in the pool?” you asked Agatha, tilting your head, eyes bright with curiosity.

“I’m not a big fan of pools.”

“Liar,” Rio sang from a distance, biting into a piece of melon from the tray. “She used to swim competitively in her teens. Gold medals and everything.”

You pouted slightly before looking at Agatha.

Your heart sped up at the thought forming in your mind—a sudden impulse to push at her limits, to test the unshakable, untouchable woman. Taking a deep breath, you swam closer to the edge nearest her and tilted your face up, eyes pleading, laced with saccharine sweetness.

“Come in the water with us.” Your tone was honeyed, almost childlike, but with just enough intention to soften her. “Please.”

“I’m fine here.” She didn’t even move, her voice rigid.

“Oh, come on…” You insisted, making a point to blink your eyes bigger, shinier. “Just for a little bit?”

She narrowed her eyes behind her sunglasses. You could feel the silent battle inside her—her natural resistance to anything frivolous against the impossibility of denying you when you looked at her like that.

A pause. A nearly imperceptible sigh slipped past her lips.

Then, with a fluid motion, she took off her sunglasses and placed them on the side table. Her blue eyes were like ice under the sun—cold, but with a glint of something you swore was curiosity.

“You are insufferably persistent,” she murmured, rising with the grace of a queen.

Rio let out a low whistle as Agatha slipped out of her dress, revealing the swimsuit—cut with such precision that it left little to the imagination. "Always stunning, love," she commented, tossing a grape in her direction.

Agatha ignored her, descending into the water with practiced composure, as if every step needed to be perfect, as if her dignity was tied to not showing hesitation. The cold water met her skin gradually—first her ankles, then her thighs, until it reached her waist. Not even the humidity dared to unravel the immaculate bun holding her hair in place.

She stopped there. Came no closer.

"Happy?" Her arched brow carried impatience, but her eyes… her eyes said something different.

Your heart pounded, and the simple realization that Agatha Harkness—cold, proud, unbreakable—had yielded to you was a kind of intoxicating power.

You grinned from ear to ear, warmth flooding your body in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.

"Very!" You said, maybe a little too brightly, but you didn’t care.

Agatha looked away, moving slowly through the water, as if she could pretend none of it mattered. But you knew the truth.

[...]

Monday arrived, dragging with it the relentless rhythm of the film set. Cameras rolled, technicians hauled equipment, and actors rehearsed their lines in hushed tones, as if speaking too loudly might awaken the slumbering beast that ruled over everything.

Agatha.

She stood at the center of the chaos, dressed in a pristine white linen suit that seemed to defy stains and wrinkles alike. Thin, gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she flipped through the script with one hand and gestured with the other, directing lighting adjustments with military precision.

"More to the left. No, your left, Kevin. Christ."

Her voice was like a razor blade—sharp, clean, and leaving a cut that hurt so damn good.

You tried to focus on the notes scribbled in your own script, but it was impossible. Your eyes were magnets to her every movement—the way she adjusted the pendant at her neck when she was impatient, the red flush of her chest when something was done wrong, the curve of her lips when a take was perfect, the click of her heels against the concrete floor as she marched off to scrutinize a detail that seemed insignificant to you.

Focus. You bit your pen, trying to decipher an illegible note from the art director.

But then she laughed—a rare, husky sound—at a joke from one of the cameramen, and your stomach flipped.

Shit.

When you looked up, it was already too late.

Agatha was looking straight at you.

Her glasses had slid down to the tip of her nose, and those blue eyes—cold, calculating—burned through the distance between you as if she were reading every forbidden thought crossing your mind. You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and dropped your gaze to the script, feigning sudden interest in Scene 27.

Click. Click. Click.

The heels drew closer. You smelled her before you saw her—jasmine and power.

"Trouble with the notes?" She leaned over your desk, one hand pressing against the paper, her fingers so close to yours that you could see the subtle sheen of her nude polish.

"I… no. Just trying to decipher Marcus’s handwriting," you laughed nervously, showing her the messy scrawl.

Agatha removed her glasses, hooking them onto the neckline of her suit. "Let me see."

She leaned in further, her wrist brushing against yours as she took the script. Your heart pounded. She knew. She knew you were watching. She knew every casual touch was a match thrown into gasoline.

"Ah, this." She pointed at the note. "Warm colors in the protagonist’s room. Marcus has always been dramatic." Her finger slid across the page, stopping near your hand. "But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

The air left your lungs.

Was she talking about the script? Your stare? The way your knees trembled under the table?

That enigmatic smile never left her lips as she pulled away.

The set was silent, steeped in the thick atmosphere of the scene. The setting was simple but heavy with meaning—fog-covered streets, shadows stretching across buildings, the crushing sense of loneliness engulfing Wanda as she wandered aimlessly.

It was a pivotal moment. Her character, shattered by grief and doubt, desperately searched for her children, only to be confronted with the cruel reality that, to everyone else, they had never existed.

The anguish in her eyes was palpable. The way she searched each passing face, her voice teetering between pleading and rage, sent chills down your spine. It was exactly as you had envisioned when writing that scene—maybe even better.

From the corner of the set, Agatha watched with a critical gaze, her expression unreadable. Every detail had to be perfect, and her rigid posture made it clear she would accept nothing less.

"Cut!" Agatha’s voice cracked through the air like a gunshot, slicing through the tension. The silence that followed was razor-sharp.

"Wanda, your breathing is too controlled. She’s desperate. I want to hear the air catching in her throat. Like she’s about to choke on her own grief. Understood?"

Wanda nodded, her eyes red from crying between takes. You saw her fingers trembling as she clutched the fake wooden staff. The background music—sharp, discordant violins—resumed, winding tighter around the moment.

The air smelled of chalk dust marking positions on the floor, stale coffee from the thermoses, and a hint of Agatha’s perfume—jasmine and amber, dominating as always. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the scent only made the pressure in your chest worse.

You stood beside Yelena, watching the scene unfold. Your fingers grazed the page of the script where your words were printed:

SAGE: You will not find what you seek outside. The abyss you flee from is the same one you carry within.

The ink seemed to pulse under your touch.

The bitter taste of coffee and sour nerves coated your tongue as Wanda started the scene again. She stumbled through the set, eyes unfocused, fingers clutching at the fabric of her peasant dress.

"Where are my children?" Her voice broke in the middle, a ragged sob that made even the camera operator flinch. "Please…"

The sage stepped forward—an elderly actor with eyes painted to look blind. His bony hands reached out for Wanda.

"You run in circles, child," he murmured, his voice fragile as paper. "But the answers are not in the world. They are here."

His hand pressed against her chest, and Wanda recoiled as if burned.

"No…" Wanda’s whisper was barely audible but carried a weight that sent shivers down your spine. "They are alive. I feel them."

Agatha didn’t breathe. No one did.

Your nails dug into your palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks on your skin. This was your script. Your twist. And Wanda was making it… sacred.

Cold sweat slid down your back, mixing with the scent of burning wood from the artificial fire effects. Agatha leaned forward, her fingers white from gripping the armrest of her chair.

The sage lifted a trembling hand.

"Know thyself, witch. Or despair will consume you."

The woman frowned, irritated. "I am not that."

The words left Wanda’s lips like a dull blade, thick with denial and fear. Her whole body seemed to shrink at the very idea, as if the mere insinuation was a burden too heavy to bear.

The sage didn’t move. His clouded eyes remained fixed on her, empty and yet full of cruel wisdom.

"Then why does the earth tremble beneath your feet?"

"I am not this." She repeated once more, but now her voice trembled. As if the certainty that had once sustained her was crumbling.

Agatha leaned even further into her chair. Her blue eyes burned over the set, absorbing every micro-expression, every tremor in Wanda’s hands. The tense jaw. The rigid posture. The refusal to look directly at the sage.

Wanda was at her limit.

And that was exactly what Agatha wanted.

"Your children are dead." The sage’s voice was barely a whisper. But it was like thunder tearing through the sky.

The impact was instant. Wanda lunged forward, her eyes blazing with pure fury and pain, the veins in her arms standing out as she gripped the old man’s tunic tightly. "LIE!"

The word echoed across the set.

The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to suck the oxygen from the air.

Something crackled. Faint. Low. But audible.

The flames of the fake bonfires grew.

Agatha stood, the shadow of a smile playing on her lips.

The power was there. Hidden. Suffocated. But present.

And Wanda?

Wanda was still fighting.

Her hand trembled as she let go of the sage, her chest rising and falling in quick gasps.

But when she looked at him, something had changed.

"Cut!" Agatha's voice sliced through the silence like a whip, and the spell was broken.

The crew finally exhaled. The cameraman wiped the sweat from his forehead. Some whispered among themselves, in awe.

Wanda was still there, at the center of it all. Chest rising and falling. Eyes unfocused, as if still lost in the scene.

You couldn’t help it.

You smiled.

This was it.

This was magic.

Agatha, with her imposing posture and piercing gaze, gave one last command before stepping away. "Great work, everyone! Let’s wrap for lunch." Her voice echoed with authority, and people started dispersing, relieved for a moment of rest. The set slowly emptied, filled with the murmurs of conversations and the clatter of equipment being put away.

You took a deep breath, still feeling the impact of the scene. Wanda had delivered a brilliant performance, and seeing your writing come to life like that was indescribable.

"Turns out, you are something."

Her voice came suddenly, slow and slightly amused. When you turned, you found Wanda with her arms crossed, a mischievous smile on her face.

"Was that a compliment?" you teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe." She shrugged. "I don’t impress easily. But you made the magic happen. Turned it into something real. So, yeah, you’re something, magic girl."

Warmth spread through your chest at the admission, but before you could respond, Wanda was already walking away to get lunch.

You let out a small laugh and made your way to catering, grabbing a plate and sitting in a relatively quiet corner.

The smell of fresh food filled the air, and the chatter around you created a comfortable background noise. You ate absentmindedly, but you couldn’t shake the persistent feeling of being watched.

Instinctively, you lifted your gaze.

Agatha.

On the other side of the space, she sat with her legs crossed, lazily poking at her Caesar salad, but her eyes were locked on you.

Your stomach flipped. It wasn’t an easy expression to read—she didn’t look angry, nor exactly satisfied. She was just… watching.

You tried to ignore it, to focus on your food, but your body was all too aware of her presence.

Then, you felt the vibration in your jeans pocket.

You discreetly pulled out your phone, careful not to draw attention. A new message.

Agatha.

My trailer. Be discreet.

Your heart skipped a beat.

The simple words carried an immense weight. What did she want? Had you done something wrong? Your mind started racing, retracing every detail of the day, every word, every gesture. But there was no time to hesitate.

You took a deep breath, trying to appear calm, and started walking toward Agatha’s trailer.

Your heart pounded against your chest as you crossed the set, each step toward her trailer feeling heavier than the last. You didn’t know what to expect. The tone of the message didn’t indicate urgency or anger, but it also offered no clues about what was coming.

You swallowed hard, hesitated for a second in front of the door, but before you could raise your hand to knock, it opened.

Agatha.

Her eyes swept over you from head to toe, a flicker of satisfaction gleaming in her expression before she stepped aside just enough to let you in.

You hesitated at the threshold, feeling the trailer’s warm, enclosed air mix with the electric tension.

The door clicked shut behind you.

"You called me." Your voice came out smaller than you’d intended, an involuntary hesitance pressing you against the wall as if some instinct warned you that stepping back was the safest choice.

Agatha smirked, crossing her arms just below her chest, the motion emphasizing her generous curves. Your gaze flickered there for a split second before you could stop yourself, but you looked away too fast—too obvious.

And Agatha always noticed.

"You did well today," she said casually, not looking up. "You transformed the character, gave her life. A purpose to justify her means."

The praise hit like an arrow straight to your chest. Your breath faltered, the impact coming from a place you didn’t entirely understand.

"Thank you." The murmur slipped from your lips before you could control it.

Only then did she lift her gaze, and something inside you recoiled.

Her eyes were intense, gleaming in the dim light, pupils sharp like a predator scenting its prey’s nervousness. And Agatha liked that.

She took a step forward. Then another.

Her bare feet glided over the soft rug, silent without the imposing sound of her Louboutins. Still, every movement felt calculated, a dangerous dance where only she knew the steps.

"You wrote about a desperate mother." Her voice was a whisper wrapped in velvet, laced with humor. "A woman discovering powers that could destroy entire nations."

Another step.

Your back nearly fused with the cold metal of the trailer door. The temperature contrast sent heat crawling up your neck, your ears, the center of your chest.

Her hand lifted, pressing flat against the door beside your head.

You held your breath.

Her other hand reached for a strand of your hair, long fingers curling lazily around it. The touch was slow, indulgent, almost affectionate—but you knew there was nothing innocent about it.

Then, she pulled.

A subtle but precise motion, just enough to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet the sharp gaze burning against your skin.

Your eyes locked.

She was too close.

"Do you always write about the things you want?"

The whisper was warm against your lips, a breath of temptation that made your stomach twist and your breath stutter.

Your eyes dropped.

The small, plump, inviting curve of her lips. So close you could almost feel them, almost taste them, your mind already conjuring the flavor.

Your legs felt like jelly, and you were sure the only reason you hadn’t collapsed was the door supporting your weight.

"What—"

"The need to have someone take care of you—is it really that strong?"

Her tone was a mix of curiosity and something deeper—something indecipherable, lurking in the shadows of her slow, honeyed voice.

The hand that had been playing with your hair slid down, tracing a lazy path along your side until it found your waist.

Cold fingers slipped beneath the hem of your white tank top, touching your warm skin in a contrast that stole your breath.

"A mother."

The word hovered in the air between you, but its weight went far beyond what was heard.

It wasn’t just a provocation.

It wasn’t just a game.

There was something in the way she said it—as if the word meant as much to her as it did to you. As if she was also touching on something she shouldn’t. Something deep. Something painful for her too.

"Is that what you're looking for?"

Her fingers tightened around your waist. And you whimpered, already feeling soaked for her down there.

Pathetic.

Agatha closed her eyes for a second, taking a deep breath as if trying to restrain herself. But when she looked at you again, it was already too late.

Her mouth crashed against yours.

The kiss wasn’t a question. It was domination.

Her lips molded to yours with raw, hungry demand, without hesitation. It was hot, desperate, an invasion that dissolved any sense of identity that wasn’t her. Agatha took. Demanded. And you, pathetic and surrendered, opened up to her as if there was no other choice but submission.

The wet sound of your mouths meeting echoed through the confined space of the trailer, each ragged breath turning into a drawn-out sigh, heavy with desire. Her tongue slid against yours, slow and indulgent at first, only to deepen the kiss the next second with a hunger that almost hurt.

You moaned into her mouth, and Agatha smiled into the kiss—a rough, wicked sound that made something inside you melt. Her fingers dug harder into your waist, pulling you closer, deeper.

Her other hand remained firm at the nape of your neck, fingers pressing lightly into your scalp as she tilted your head just the way she wanted. She dictated the rhythm.

Slow. Then fast.

Bite. Lick.

She explored you as if marking territory. As if she wanted to imprint her taste on you until you could never forget.

The air grew heavy, breaths mixing, the scent of her skin, the woody perfume that always seemed to cling to her, becoming an invisible cage around you.

Agatha pulled back just enough to catch your lower lip between her teeth, dragging slowly, savoring, testing your patience, your obedience.

"You need to be taken care of that badly, don’t you?"

The whisper came against your skin, and you shivered.

She bit your collarbone.

You gasped.

And that’s when you felt it.

Her leg slotting between yours, the perfect pressure, a silent promise of what was to come.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your head falling back against the door, chest rising and falling in desperation.

Agatha smiled against your skin.

"I can give you that," she whispered. "I can give you everything."

Her hand slid under your tank top, cold fingers tracing a slow path over your stomach.

Your body trembled.

"Say it," she murmured against your ear, lips brushing your skin in a way that made your whole body vibrate.

Your hands shook at her sides, fingers curling into the fabric of her blouse, seeking something to hold onto, anything to keep you from simply melting right there.

She pressed her hips into you, a reminder of her strength, of the absolute power she had over you in that moment.

"Say it," she repeated, this time her voice carrying a hint of impatience.

You couldn’t look at her. You couldn’t form words.

Agatha didn’t like that.

Her hand slid lower, fingers pressing exactly where you needed them most—and you moaned. Soft. Almost inaudible. But enough to make her smile.

"Oh. Honey…" she whispered, amused. "You can’t hide this from me anymore."

She pressed you harder against the door, her body practically covering yours, those piercing blue eyes slicing into you like sharp blades.

"Say it," she demanded, her voice raspier now, laced with something much darker.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your mouth opening and closing, unable to form a coherent response.

She slid her hand over your hip, fingers curving slightly, tracing slow, torturous circles against your skin.

"Say it."

Her breath burned against your mouth, every syllable sinking into you like a sweet, cruel thorn.

Your body arched against hers, your head falling back, lightly hitting the trailer door. You felt everything, absolutely everything—and it was suffocating, addicting.

Her eyes never left yours, merciless, demanding.

"Say it," Agatha ordered once more, her patience wearing thin.

Pleasure and humiliation burned across your skin in equal measure. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your body pulsing under her hand, your mind a blur of desire and desperation.

The word echoed in your mind, urging you to accept something dark, enticing you…

And then, finally, you gave in.

Your voice came out small, fragile, carrying everything you had never been able to admit before.

"M-Mommy…"

Agatha closed her eyes for a second, drinking in the word as if it were forbidden nectar. A low moan slipped from her lips, and when she looked at you again, her eyes were darker, hungrier.

"Good girl," she murmured.

And then, she took you for herself.

Her fingers, once firm on your waist, slipped below the button of your jeans, knuckles brushing the sensitive, shaved skin of your mound. You gasped, your hips twitching involuntarily, but she held you with a grip strong enough to leave marks.

"Quiet," she ordered, her voice a hot whisper against your neck. "We don’t want anyone to hear, do we?"

Her knee pressed deeper between your legs, the raw pressure making your muscles tremble. You tried to swallow, but your throat was dry, words trapped in a knot of shame and need. Agatha smiled, lips curving into an arc of triumph as her hand finally dipped lower, fingers finding the wet heat beneath the thin fabric.

"God—," she murmured, closing her eyes for a moment as if savoring the physical proof of her power over you. "You’re so wet, sweetheart. All that young pride… and deep down, this is all you are."

Her middle finger slid slowly through your entrance, collecting your slick before tracing torturous circles over your swollen clit. You bit your lip, wide eyes locked onto hers as if she were the only anchor in a sea of violent waves.

"Look at me," she commanded, and you obeyed, trapped by the glacial intensity of her blue gaze. "Who do you belong to?"

The question was a knife. You shook your head, denying, but your body betrayed you, hips moving in sync with her fingers.

Agatha laughed, low and rough. "Hmm. Your body speaks the truth your mouth won’t admit."

She pushed two fingers inside you—without warning, without mercy. You cried out, nails digging into her back, but she didn’t stop. Her pace was relentless, each movement deep and precise, as if she knew every inch of you better than you knew yourself.

"Is this what you want?" she whispered, lips against your ear. "To be reduced to this? To a little toy I make whimper?"

You tried to deny it, but all that came out was a long, strangled moan when she curled her fingers, hitting that spot. Your body arched, muscles clenching around her, but Agatha didn’t let you fall.

"That’s it," she whispered, lips pressed against your ear. "You’re so dumb for me, aren’t you? So desperate for a touch, for a word, for anything I’m willing to give you."

Her fingers were relentless, tracing precise circles that made your body tremble. You tried to hold on, tried to maintain some control, but it was impossible. Agatha commanded every movement, every moan, every sigh that escaped your lips.

“This is good,” Agatha smiled, a grin both sweet and deadly. “Because I have plans for you, darling. And you’ll love every second.”

“Mommy,” you whimpered again, your voice broken, barely a whisper.

“Louder,” Agatha ordered, her fingers quickening their pace. “I want to hear you say it.”

“M-Mommy,” you repeated, stronger this time, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

Agatha growled, abruptly withdrawing her fingers. You moaned in protest, legs shaking, but Agatha gripped your chin, forcing your gaze upward.

Her hand, slick with your arousal, rose to your mouth, fingers pressing against your lips. “Lick,” she commanded. “Lick it clean. Every last drop.”

You hesitated, shame burning your cheeks, but the fire in Agatha’s eyes left no room for disobedience. Your tongue darted out, trembling, licking Agatha’s fingers with humiliating devotion. The taste was salty, yours. Agatha watched every movement, her breath ragged, observing as you devoured yourself.

“Rio told me everything,” Agatha pressed your pussy harder against her thigh, forcing another whimper. “Every detail.” She growled against your lips, staring with hunger and devotion.

Agatha brushed her lips against yours—not quite a kiss, but a ghostly touch, a warning, a promise. Your body was trapped between the rigid door and the firmness of Agatha’s thigh, every inch of the woman’s presence burning against your skin.

“She told me how you moaned my name in her lap,” Agatha’s voice was a thread of silk soaked in desire and disapproval. “How you begged without even realizing what you were saying.”

Her fingers rubbed your pink, throbbing bud, her palm positioned perfectly to grind back and forth. You closed your eyes, the memory of what Rio had done to your surging like an electric shock—and with it, raw, searing guilt.

“You want me as much as you want her,” Agatha murmured, her teeth grazing your lower lip before tugging it slowly, almost cruelly.

Your answer was only a needy moan. Your mind screamed to deny it, to fight Agatha’s game, but you remembered those same veined, elegant hands gripping a steering wheel tightly, the same hands that had massaged you body in the pool.

You want this.

It’s impossible not to.

Agatha smiled, that devastating, superior grin radiating absolute control. Her hand slid to the curve of your neck, squeezing the pulsing point, cutting off your air.

“Mommy, harder—” Your voice was barely audible.

You gasped as Agatha’s fingers tightened around your throat—not to hurt, but to remind you who dictated the rhythm of this game.

“Good girl,” Agatha released your throat and licked the reddened skin. “Mommy’s got you.”

Agatha pushed your knee harder, making your eyes roll back in pleasure. She trailed her fingers along your jawline, as if admiring a masterpiece, then gripped your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered, and you obeyed, tears spilling without permission. “Tongue out.” Agatha arched an eyebrow, daring you to refuse.

You stuck out your tongue, holding the humiliating, uncomfortable position.

“Good girl,” Agatha whispered, her voice laced with a darkness that twisted your stomach. “Now… grind. Do it. Ruin Mommy’s pants.” The command was clear, direct.

And you did.

Your movements started timid and clumsy, Agatha’s eyes gleaming with amusement at your inexperience. Agatha grabbed your ass, dictating the perfect rhythm. “Do it,” she said, her voice rough with desire. “Grind on me like the good little slut you are.”

Your jaw muscles trembled, exhausted. Saliva dripped down your tongue. If you could see your own expression now—flushed, desperate—you’d know you looked like nothing but a dumb whore for Agatha to use.

“Oh. Look at you,” Agatha reveled in your tired expression, your hips growing more desperate for praise. “Mommy’s perfect little pet.”

The whine you let out truly sounded like a wounded animal. It made Agatha smile. “You’d do anything for a scrap of my attention, wouldn’t you?” Her tone was soft, almost maternal, but her eyes glinted with cruelty. “That’s what you are, isn’t you? Mommy’s little bitch.”

You nodded without thinking. You weren’t in your right mind. Agatha made it feel like your intelligence was being fucked away, your critical thoughts replaced by images of her.

Agatha. Agatha. Agatha.

And then, deep in your mind—

Rio.

“Rio…” You murmured, a flicker of uncertainty in your voice.

Agatha snarled like a caged animal, her proud composure crumbling. The director sucked on your exhausted tongue, reclaiming every drop of saliva. It was enough to make your climax.

Your back arched against the door, your legs stiffening and trembling around Agatha. Your moan was muffled by Agatha’s mouth, which ravaged your lips and tongue—too weak now to fight for dominance. Your legs gave out, but Agatha held you.

Tears streamed uncontrollably as the intensity crashed over you. You whimpered, and Agatha pulled your into a warm, almost gentle embrace. “Shh,” she whispered into your ear. “Mommy’s got you.”

Agatha gripped your chin firmly, fingers leaving marks, as she studied every tremor rippling through you post-climax body. Her blue eyes, sharper under the trailer’s dim light, missed nothing—the tears, the ragged breaths, the fingers still clinging to her blazer like a lifeline.

“Crying doesn’t make you weak,” Agatha said, her voice softer but still commanding. “It just proves you know exactly where you belong.”

Her hand drifted to your neck, not to choke but to feel your racing pulse—a gesture of possession, not violence. As if she needed to confirm you were still there, surrendered to her.

With her other hand, she pulled a silk handkerchief from her pocket and began wiping your face. Her motions were precise, almost clinical, but the faintest tremor in her fingers betrayed her as the cloth lingered near the girl’s lips.

“Breathe,” she ordered, and you obeyed, gulping air between shaky sobs. “Slower. Control yourself.”

When finished, Agatha adjusted your clothes with determined hands—smoothing your tank top, tugging your pants back into place. Her touch was casual, but her fingers lingered too long on your hip. As if memorizing you. As if reluctant to let go.

"Good girl," she murmured, her lips curving into something that could have been a smile—if it weren’t so sharp. "So good."

Suddenly, you were already on your feet, the woman checking your state. Agatha buttoned the last button of your blouse, her fingers brushing against your exposed nape, and a shiver ran down your spine.

"Get back to work," she said, her voice returning to that commanding cadence, non-negotiable. "And remember..."

You turned your head just enough to see her in the mirror on the wall. Agatha stood there, immaculate, her tailored suit without a single wrinkle, her painted lips untouched. It seemed as if none of this had affected her—until you noticed the faint tremor in her hand as she adjusted a ring.

Almost imperceptible.

Almost.

Her fingers, usually so steady and precise, faltered for a fraction of a second as she twisted the gold band on her finger. She looked at her hand as if surprised by her own weakness, then closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

She realized you saw it. Her eyes gleamed with something indescribable—a warning, a challenge, a secret.

"Be good for me, pet."

The word was a whip wrapped in velvet. You swallowed, nodding, and she opened the door with a fluid motion. The sunset light flooded the trailer, and the hum of the set felt like a distant world.

Before leaving, Agatha stopped at the entrance, not looking back.

"By 7 PM, have all your tasks completed. Rio will pick us up."

It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order.

And you knew that at exactly 7 PM, you would be there—on your knees, standing, or in whatever position Agatha required.

Because she wasn’t gentle.

She was perfection.

[...]

The clock read 6:32 PM.

Your fingers flew furiously over the keyboard, your eyes burning from staring at the screen for too long. Your hands trembled above the keys as you adjusted the final details of the corrected script Agatha had demanded—you still had to send it to each actor. Your legs were crossed under the chair, muscles taut with stress.

Damn it.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You should review the data before sending it, but there was no time. No time. Your finger hesitated over the “Enter” key for a fraction of a second before pressing it down too forcefully. The email shot into their inbox, and you barely had the courage to check if the message was there. But it was.

There was still the physical paperwork that needed to be left on Agatha’s desk. You stood up so fast that your chair nearly toppled over. You rushed to the printer, the papers still warm when you gathered them into a folder. Your footsteps echoed down the hallway as you slipped through the company like a ghost, dodging employees who didn’t even notice your urgency. When you reached Agatha’s office door, you paused for a second, taking a deep breath. You placed the documents neatly on her desk—perfectly aligned. No crooked margins. No mistakes.

You were free.

No, you weren’t. You had to rush to the bus stop. You couldn’t raise any suspicions. Your legs ached from the effort, but you couldn’t stop. The streets of Los Angeles were packed, but your mind could only focus on the clock.

6:56 PM.

You had to get there. You had to be there when they arrived. Panic started gnawing at your insides.

6:58 PM.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you finally reached the bus stop. The streetlight cast a pale glow over the cracked pavement. The wind cooled the sweat on your nape, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was that at 6:59 PM, the dark car slowed down and stopped in front of you. The window rolled down smoothly, revealing Agatha in the passenger seat and Rio behind the wheel. Rio’s smile was proud.

"Punctual," Agatha remarked, analyzing your flushed face from the effort. "Get in."

You obeyed without hesitation, feeling a shiver run down your spine as you closed the door behind you.

The clock struck 7 PM sharp.

Then, you breathed.

You settled into the backseat, still feeling the lingering adrenaline from the hectic day. The city blurred past the tinted windows, and the familiar scent of leather and woody perfume filled the air, bringing an odd sense of comfort.

Rio, at the wheel, was animated. The sparkle in her eyes was contagious as she spoke about the exhibition she was organizing.

"It’s going to be a spectacle! We’re recreating some of the most iconic pieces from the Modern Age but with a contemporary twist, you know? The essence remains the same, but the reinterpretation adds new layers."

"I’ll only attend if Marie Antoinette graces us with her presence," Agatha teased with a sly smirk, as if it were an inside joke you didn’t understand.

Rio chuckled softly and winked at her wife. "She’ll be there."

You huffed, trying to keep up with her enthusiasm, but something inside you felt off. With every turn, every red light, a thought throbbed in your mind.

You weren’t going home.

Turning away from the window, you bit your lip and dared to ask:

"Where are we going?"

Rio let out a low, amused chuckle, glancing at you briefly. Her eyes were full of promises, and the smile playing on her lips made your stomach twist.

"Agatha said our girl behaved very well today."

Your body reacted instantly to those words. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and a shiver ran down your spine. You didn’t need to look at the passenger seat to know Agatha was watching every tiny reaction.

Her fingers brushed over your knee—a casual touch, yet filled with intent. You tensed, feeling the goosebumps rise under her touch. With two light taps on your knee, as if she were praising you with gestures alone, she withdrew her hand.

"Let’s celebrate that, darling," Rio continued, her gaze back on the road. "After all, a good girl deserves to be rewarded."

The Angelini Osteria was discreet and luxurious. A Michelin-starred Italian restaurant. The kind of secluded place where no one would dare to interrupt you. The entrance was simple, resembling a cozy home. The host guided you to a reserved table, away from curious eyes, away from the outside world.

But nothing could take away the crushing exhaustion weighing on your body.

Your eyes barely managed to focus on the menu. Every word seemed to dissolve before making sense. It was as if your energy had been drained, leaving only a faint echo of yourself. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the haze, trying to pretend everything was normal.

Then, you felt the delicate pressure of Rio’s fingers on your wrist.

She said nothing. Just traced small circles on your skin, as if feeling your pulse, as if grounding you. You blinked, feeling your shoulders relax slightly. That was when you noticed that Agatha wasn’t even bothering to look at the menu. Her sharp blue eyes were fixed on you—calculating, unwavering.

"She’s exhausted," Agatha stated, not looking at Rio, but as if affirming an absolute fact. Her tone was dry, non-negotiable.

A slight wave of embarrassment crept up your throat, as if you had been exposed without saying a word. You tried to protest, but Agatha was already closing the menu, handing it to the waiter without hesitation.

"She’ll have the fileto di manzo with saffron risotto. And bring a fresh orange juice, no sugar," her voice left no room for objection. She knew exactly what you needed.

You opened your mouth to protest, but Rio let out a soft chuckle, leaning in to whisper against your ear. "I know you love carbs," she teased, her voice full of amusement. "But trust me, you need iron more than a plate full of pasta right now. Aggie always knows best."

You swallowed hard, shifting your gaze to the table. The waiter took the order without question, disappearing into the restaurant's dim lighting.

The silence was broken by the clinking of ice in Agatha’s glass. Her long fingers slowly twirled the wine stem, watching you as if she were assessing every reaction. As if she were studying just how far she could push you without breaking you.

When the dish arrived, Rio was the first to move. Without hesitation, she picked up the knife and fork, cutting the meat with the ease of someone who had done it countless times before. The aroma of the food invaded your senses, but you were still distant, lost between exhaustion and the way they enveloped you so effortlessly.

"Open your mouth," Rio ordered softly, holding a piece of meat between the fork's prongs.

You hesitated, but your eyes met hers—golden and patient. She waited, not with impatience, but with an unshakable certainty that you would obey. Slowly, you parted your lips. Rio guided the fork to your mouth with precision, and the rich taste of the meat filled your palate.

"Good girl," Agatha murmured, finally bringing her wine to her lips.

Rio smiled, satisfied, cutting another piece. "Now eat it all."

You chewed slowly, feeling warmth spread through your chest. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced. The control didn’t come from rigidity or coldness. It was encompassing, careful, almost indulgent.

And it was impossible not to yield.

Dinner carried on at a steady pace, and as the food filled your stomach, the crushing exhaustion began to dissipate. The restaurant’s warm ambiance, the scent of fresh herbs, and the rich flavors of a meticulously prepared meal slowly brought some color back to your cheeks.

When the last bite of meat was placed in your mouth by Rio, and you chewed with a satisfied sigh, you realized something almost unfamiliar—you felt whole. Satisfied in a way that went beyond the physical. As if, for a moment, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

That was when the thought came—mischievous, almost innocent.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways at Agatha, hesitant but determined. "Can I... order dessert?"

The corner of her lips curled in a slow, dangerous smirk, a wicked gleam in her blue eyes as she caught onto your boldness. She tapped her fingers against the wine glass, feigning consideration. "Dessert..." Her voice was drawn out, laced with expectation, as if merely the idea of leaving you at the mercy of her decision was already a game.

Rio let out a chuckle beside you, leaning over the table to join in on your little conspiracy. "Oh, Aggie... just look at that face! Are you really going to deny our girl something sweet after such a long day?" Her tone was teasing but affectionate. The unexpected support made warmth bloom in your chest, and you smiled, emboldened enough to meet Agatha’s gaze again.

Her eyes flickered from you to Rio, then back to you, as if savoring the scene before her. She picked up the fork delicately, taking a sip of wine before finally murmuring, without breaking eye contact:

"Well, well, well... chocolate seems the most fitting."

Victory gleamed in your eyes, and Rio laughed softly, pleased. Agatha signaled for the waiter with an elegant gesture, never once looking away from you.

"One chocolate tart for our girl."

[...]

The house was quiet when you stepped inside. The only light came from strategically placed lamps, casting a cozy, intimate glow. The faint aroma of dinner still lingered in the air, blending with the floral scent of Agatha and the ever-present woody note of Rio. You barely had time to process before a soft call reached your ears.

"Darling... come here."

Rio’s voice was wrapped in sweetness, but there was a clear intent behind it. When you turned, you saw her already seated on the couch, her legs crossed with the effortless elegance of someone who commanded any space she occupied. Beside her, Agatha mirrored the action, but her gaze was sharper, analyzing every little detail of you.

You hesitated for a second before approaching, unsure where to sit. The space between them seemed obvious, but as soon as you made a move to settle there, you felt Agatha’s firm hand on your waist. In one swift motion, you were pulled onto her lap, the proximity making your heart stumble into an unsteady rhythm.

She adjusted you with ease, as if you belonged there, as if she were molding your position to her liking. Rio watched, amusement dancing in her eyes, but she didn’t interfere.

"We want to talk to you," Agatha began, her voice low against your ear. "About what this means for the three of us."

You swallowed hard, feeling her warm breath against your skin. Rio’s fingers brushed over your leg—a quiet reassurance.

"We know things have been happening fast," Rio continued, her voice as gentle as her touch. "But we want to make sure you understand and feel comfortable with... what we are."

Your heart pounded in your chest. "What you are?"

Rio’s smile widened, while Agatha let out an almost imperceptible sigh, her fingers lazily tracing circles against your waist.

"We are yours," Rio said simply. "And we want you to be ours."

The air seemed to thin for a moment. You blinked, processing the words, feeling the weight and, at the same time, the intoxicating allure of them.

"It means commitment," Agatha continued, her hand sliding up to your chin, tilting it so you were forced to meet her intense gaze. "It means trust. It means we take care of you, and you belong to us."

Your stomach twisted in nervousness—but also in excitement. It was an idea that burned deep, something you had never experienced with such clarity before. They weren’t just playing, they weren’t just seducing you. They were offering something real.

"And it also means we will set rules," Rio added, her thumb tracing a delicate path over your thigh. "Rules that are for your own good. For ours."

You felt the tension in your body, the dance between submission and defiance stirring under your skin. Agatha noticed—of course she did. Her eyes narrowed slightly before a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.

"But first, we want to know how you feel about this."

You exhaled the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shifting on Agatha’s lap as you tried to think clearly—but your breath hitched when she tightened her grip on your waist.

"I’m still… confused."

You swallowed hard, feeling their presence all around you, each in their own way, guiding you to where they wanted you to be. But the scariest part was realizing that you wanted to be there. Wanted to belong.

Agatha took hold of your chin between her fingers, forcing you to look at her. Her touch was warm, solid. Her other hand caressed your waist—what could have been a casual gesture, but in reality, reaffirmed the control she had over you.

"We know," Agatha murmured, her blue eyes scanning your face, analyzing every flicker of emotion. "But we don’t want there to be any doubts. You already understand what’s happening between us, don’t you?"

You hesitated, your hands clenching around the fabric of your skirt, but you nodded.

How could you deny it?

The care, the structure, the devotion they poured into you—the way each act, each command, each glance filled something inside you that you hadn’t even realized was empty.

Rio smirked, sliding her fingers down your arm in a reassuring gesture. “We don’t want you to feel lost, kitten. But we’re not going to pretend that what we have is ordinary either.”

Your heart pounded against your chest. You knew it wasn’t. No relationship you’d had before even came close to what you felt now. With them, there was room to breathe, but also to be shaped. To be cared for, but also guided.

Agatha leaned in, her lips grazing your temple, her warm breath against your skin. “You need this, don’t you?” The question was spoken in a low, intimate tone, yet it was non-negotiable. As if she already knew the answer.

You bit your lip, feeling heat rise to your face. “I... yes.”

Her smile was small, satisfied. Rio tilted her head, watching you closely. “That means that from now on, when we tell you to do something, you trust us to know what’s best for you.”

The hesitation still existed, but it was a weak spark against the growing certainty inside you. You looked from Agatha to Rio, and understanding settled over you like a warm blanket.

You didn’t have to carry everything alone.

They were here.

“Yes,” you whispered, the response coming out more certain than you expected.

Agatha exhaled softly, as if she had been holding that breath forever. “Good girl.”

Rio smiled more openly and, without rush, ran her fingers through your hair, a touch so tender it made you melt a little more. “You’re so smart.”

They didn’t need to say anything else. The rules were set, and you accepted them. Not because you had to, but because you wanted to. Because within this dynamic, in this safe space between them, you could be exactly what you had always needed to be.

You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to sink further into their embrace. Agatha’s hold around you was comforting, and the yawn that escaped your lips was involuntary.

“Hmmm… looks like our little girl is sleepy,” Rio sang as she twirled strands of your hair around her fingers.

You pulled away from the hug and stood up, rubbing your eyes.

“Good night,” you murmured, intending to head upstairs.

Agatha arched an eyebrow. “And exactly where do you think you’re going?”

You blinked, confused. “To my room?”

Agatha let out a slow, drawn-out chuckle and stood up, her bare feet moving casually across the floor. “No, darling. You’re not.”

Rio tilted her head, as if disappointed, though there was already a glimmer of decision in her eyes. “After everything? After everything we talked about?” Her whining tone was a stark contrast to her usual strong, dominant posture.

You blinked again, confused. “What— I don’t understand.”

“You sleep with us,” Agatha said. Just like that. She took your hand, intertwining her fingers with yours, guiding you to the bedroom as if it had always been this way. As if the idea of you sleeping alone was so absurd it wasn’t even worth discussing.

And before you realized it, you were between soft sheets, nestled between the two of them.

Rio’s scent was something fresh and slightly woody, an enveloping comfort. Agatha, on the other hand, smelled of vanilla and something warm, a presence that slid over your skin like a secret. You felt her fingers trace along your waist, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your pajamas.

“Relax.” The whisper came against your ear.

You stared at Rio, her chocolate-brown eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite define. She smiled, tracing lazy patterns along your arm.

Safe. Protected. You curled up slightly, feeling your heart slow with the fullness and tranquility settling inside you.

The warmth of the two women surrounded you, their bodies so close that every movement felt like a response to your breathing.

You let out a small sigh and closed your eyes, feeling their minty breath all around you. Their arms formed a cocoon around you—warm, comforting... inevitable.

“You did so well today,” Agatha murmured, her voice low and certain, as if she knew exactly what effect she had on you.

“We’re so proud,” Rio added, a smile evident in her tone.

Their pride should have been trivial, but it made something inside you expand, a satisfaction that mixed with your exhaustion.

Agatha’s soft hands traced slowly down your back. “Good girl.”

You sighed, so relaxed that your muscles had already begun to surrender. Your eyes closed on their own, slowly—you tried to fight it. You didn’t want to sleep. But the last thing you heard before sleep claimed you was Rio’s soft whisper:

“You belong here.”

The words were breathed against your hair, her lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

Where you were meant to be.

[...]

The night was a living entity, suffocating, the air so thick that each breath carried the weight of a forbidden secret. You floated between sleep and a fevered haze, your skin clinging to the sheets as if the room itself was devouring you. The scents seeped into your pores, intoxicating. There was no escape.

The first sign came as a scratch against the surface of your consciousness: a hoarse moan, muffled by pillows, followed by the wet sound of flesh against flesh. Your body recognized it before your mind did—Agatha, behind you, her hips arching in a hypnotic rhythm, pressing against your ass with a force that made it clear this wasn’t an accident. Rio, in front of you, thighs spread, grinding against your knee with an urgency that made the fabric of your pajama pants stick to your skin, already soaked.

You tried to swallow, but your throat was dry. Their heat was different—

Agatha, a volcano covered in snow, controlled and deadly; Rio, a wildfire, consuming everything without permission. Their bodies molded against yours as if they knew every curve, every weakness. Agatha’s hand slid over your waist, fingers digging into your flesh possessively, while Rio clutched your knee between her legs, increasing her pace.

“Fuck…” Rio groaned, her voice a muffled thunder, and you felt the shock of the word travel down to your core like a blade. Your muscles clenched involuntarily, a moan catching in your throat. She didn’t stop—each roll of her hips, each slick friction against your leg, was its own form of torture. You could feel her arousal, the viscous heat dripping onto your thigh, and the wetness between your own legs became unbearable.

Agatha leaned in, her lips pressing to your nape in a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness. “You’re wet,” she rasped, her sleep-heavy voice a whisper, not a question but a statement. Her hand slid lower, slow and deliberate, until she reached the hem of your panties, her fingers teasing the elastic. “Want to help or just watch?”

The question didn’t need an answer.

Rio let out a low chuckle, a rough sound that made your clit throb. “She wants both,” she answered for you, her fingers tangling in your hair and pulling your head back, exposing your neck. “Don’t you, babygirl?”

You couldn’t speak. Not when Agatha finally slid two fingers under the fabric, finding your swollen clit with surgical precision. Not when Rio nipped at your lip, stealing a moan that escaped louder than you intended.

The room spun, whispers in a strange language now echoing like a mantra, and you realized—they were theirs. Rio was humming something between clenched teeth, an ancient melody that sent chills down your spine, while Agatha responded in guttural murmurs, each syllable synchronized with the pressure of her fingers.

It was a ritual.

You were the offering.

Agatha’s rhythm intensified, her fingers circling your clit with a pressure that bordered on pain, while Rio guided your hand between her legs. “Touch me,” she commanded, and the heat there was pulsing, alive. You obeyed, fingers sliding through her swollen folds, and Rio arched like a wounded animal, a moan escaping her throat.

“Good girl,” Agatha whispered, her voice sweet venom. “Now feel.”

And you did.

When the orgasm hit her, it was like being stabbed from the inside out—a wave of fire tearing through her body, leaving her breathless, thoughtless, with nothing but the muffled cry against the sheets and their hands holding her steady, owning her, as she trembled. Rio followed moments later, the muscles in her thighs contracting violently around your hand, your fingers buried in Agatha's hair like anchors.

There was no gentleness in the end—only silence, broken by ragged breaths, and Agatha’s tongue wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized you'd shed.

"This is how we belong," Rio murmured, her mouth still pressed against your skin.

And then, you drifts back into sleep, wondering if it had all been nothing but a cruel, burning dream.

~*~

I just saw this picture of Kathryn and I couldn't contain myself 😩

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[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 9)

Synopsis: A night out with friends turns into something far more complicated as emotions run high and unspoken tensions linger. You tried to keep your distance, but some things are impossible to ignore. 

Word count: 5.1K 

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol consumption, Angst, Unspoken emotions, Lingering tension, Mild language 

The room is quiet, except for the soft, steady breathing of your friends. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a faint golden glow through the sheer curtains. It’s peaceful—until you stir slightly, shifting in your sleep, and realize something feels…off. 

Your arm. 

It’s draped over someone. Warm. Comfortable. 

You blink, still groggy, but as your vision clears, the realization slams into you like a truck. 

It’s Agatha. 

Your breath catches in your throat. WTF? Your pulse picks up, your whole body going rigid as the weight of the situation sinks in. 

When the hell did this happen? You don’t even remember moving in your sleep, let alone ending up in this position. 

You need to move. Now. 

Very, very slowly, you start to retract your arm, making sure not to make any sudden movements. But then—Agatha shifts. 

Your entire body locks up as she turns ever so slightly toward you, her face now just inches from yours. Her breathing remains soft, steady, oblivious to your internal crisis. But you? You’re completely frozen, hyper-aware of the way her lips are barely parted, of the faint scent of lavender and something deeper, something distinctly her lingering between you. 

You swallow hard. She’s still asleep. It’s fine. Just move—carefully. 

Your eyes flick to the others—Wanda, still curled up on her side, completely knocked out. Jen, Alice and Lilia, equally dead to the world. No one saw. No one knows. Good. 

You take a slow, careful breath and start again, inching your arm away, moving like you’re defusing a bomb. 

Finally, after what feels like forever, you pull back completely. You don’t dare look at Agatha again as you carefully, so carefully, shift away from her warmth and push yourself upright. 

The second you’re free, you slip out of the mattress and quietly make your way toward the bathroom, your heart still hammering in your chest. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. 

You brace yourself against the sink, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair’s a mess, your face is flushed, and your mind is racing. 

What the hell was that? 

Shaking your head, you reach for the faucet, splashing cool water onto your face, trying—desperately—to get it together. 

When everyone finally wakes up, you do everything in your power to avoid looking at Agatha. You keep your head down, focusing on your food, trying to act as normal as possible. But inside? You’re spiraling. 

Your mind keeps replaying the morning over and over. How long had your arm been around her? Did you move in your sleep, or—God, what if she had been the one to move closer? No. No, that’s insane. Right? You shake the thought away, stabbing at your scrambled eggs like they personally offended you. 

Meanwhile, Agatha is just casually eating pancakes, completely unbothered. Because of course she is. She doesn’t even know about it. Meanwhile, you’re sitting here, losing your damn mind. 

Wanda, ever perceptive, narrows her eyes at you from across the table. “You good?” she asks, sipping her coffee. 

You blink at her, then quickly nod. “Yeah. Just… head hurts. Probably a hangover.” 

It’s not a complete lie. Your head does feel kind of heavy, but that’s not really the problem. The real problem is the fact that you woke up cuddling Agatha-fucking-Harkness and now you have to act like everything is fine. 

The conversation at the table continues, and you do your best to stay quiet, to blend in. But then Lilia, ever the social butterfly, claps her hands together. “Okay, so. I was thinking—since we had a cute little slumber party last night, why not go all out and hit the town tonight?” 

“Oh, I’m so down for that,” Alice chimes in immediately. “It’s been forever since we had a real night out.” 

Wanda nods. “I could use some dancing.” 

You, however, tense at the idea. The last thing you want is another night of potential chaos, not when you’re still recovering from this morning’s crisis. “I don’t know…” you start hesitantly, but before you can even finish, Alice is already rolling her eyes. 

“Oh, come on. We’re all going,” she insists, nudging you. “Don’t be lame.” 

Jen raises a brow at you. “Yeah, don’t be lame.” 

You sigh, already knowing you’ve lost this battle. “Fine.” 

Jen grins. “Great! Then pre-game at my villa. Be there at six.” 

And just like that, your fate for the night is sealed. After breakfast, you retreat to your villa, hoping—praying—that you can shake off whatever this morning was before the sun sets. 

The time passes quickly, and before you know it, the sun has dipped below the horizon, casting deep hues of orange and purple across the sky. You stand before the mirror, putting the final touches on your outfit—a black satin slip dress with a high thigh slit, paired with Bottega Veneta Spritz Strap Pumps. The thin diamond tennis bracelet on your wrist catches the light as you adjust your RCJ 14K Yellow Gold Long Polished Teardrop Dangling Earrings. Your hair is sleek and straight, every strand perfectly in place, and your makeup is soft glam—sultry but effortless. You throw on your Black Saint Laurent Le 5 à 7 Mini bag, taking one last glance at your reflection. 

You’re putting in extra effort tonight, not that you’d ever admit why. 

With a deep breath, you head out and make your way to Jen’s villa for pre-game. Music hums through the space, laughter fills the air, and the energy is already buzzing. You keep your distance from Agatha, making it a point to steer clear whenever possible. Not that anyone notices—after all, you and Agatha aren’t exactly known for being close. Just two people existing in the same space. That’s all. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

Drinks are poured, shots are taken, and the group is in high spirits by the time you all pile into the van heading to the club. The moment you step inside, you quickly drag Wanda to sit beside you, using her as a barrier between you and Agatha. You don’t even glance in her direction, focusing instead on the road ahead. 

Tonight, you’re determined to have fun. To forget. 

Or at least, try to. 

At the club, the music is pounding, the air thick with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and perfume. Neon lights flash in dizzying patterns over the dance floor, illuminating the crowd as they move in sync with the heavy bass. The energy inside is infectious—an intoxicating blend of excitement and chaos, like anything could happen tonight. 

You and your friends weave through the crowd, heading straight for the bar. The bartender barely acknowledges you as he pours drinks with practiced efficiency. Once everyone has their orders, you settle into a booth across from the bar section. The conversation flows effortlessly, laughter mixing with the pounding music and occasional cheers from the crowd. It’s comfortable, fun—until your glass is empty, and you find yourself hyper-aware of a certain presence nearby. 

Agatha. 

You refuse to glance in her direction, even though you know she’s there, sitting with the others. It’s ridiculous, really—acting like avoiding eye contact will make the morning’s incident disappear. But the memory of waking up with your arm draped over her is still seared into your mind, making your pulse quicken despite your best efforts to act normal. 

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you announce, standing up. 

No one pays much attention as you weave through the crowd back to the bar. You slide onto a barstool, signaling the bartender. 

“Whiskey, neat.” 

As you wait, a figure slides into the seat next to you. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” a familiar voice says smoothly. 

You turn, and there she is—Rio Vidal. 

Your brain momentarily short-circuits. 

“Uh… hi,” you stutter, caught off guard. 

Rio smirks, clearly amused by your reaction. Her white silk shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be distracting, tucked into black tailored pants that accentuate her frame. Her hair is in a messy bun, and somehow, that only makes her look more put together. She looks effortlessly hot. 

“You were at my flower shop yesterday. And now here you are,” she muses, tilting her head. 

“Wow, fate,” you tease, mirroring her smirk. 

Your whiskey arrives, and you take a sip, feeling bolder under the influence of alcohol and Rio’s presence. 

“My friends are here, too,” you say, nodding toward your booth. 

Rio follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a raised brow. “And yet, you’re over here. With me.” 

“What can I say? I like good company,” you quip. 

The conversation flows easily. You tell her what you actually do for a living, and Rio raises an eyebrow, setting her drink down with a quiet clink. 

"Wait, you’re a CEO? Of a tech company?" she repeats, clearly impressed, but there’s also a hint of amusement in her tone, like she’s reevaluating you. 

“You don’t believe me?” you challenge, feigning offense, tilting your head slightly. 

“Oh, I believe you." She studies you for a second, then smirks. "It just wasn’t what I was expecting." She takes a sip of her own drink, her gaze lingering on you over the rim of her glass. "Guess I should stop underestimating you, huh?" 

Somehow, you find yourself bringing up last night’s dare. 

“So, funny story,” you start, grinning, “I actually texted you last night.” 

Rio tilts her head. “What?” 

“My friends dared me to text you. Just a ‘hey~’ but, um, yeah… you kinda blocked me,” you admit, laughing. 

Rio chuckles, shaking her head. “That was you? I thought it was some random prank. Guess I should unblock you, huh?” 

Before you can respond, Wanda approaches. She glances between you and Rio, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. 

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” she teases, but her eyes gleam with amusement. 

“Wanda,” you warn. 

“Rio,” Wanda greets, offering a polite nod. 

“Wanda,” Rio acknowledges smoothly. 

Wanda shoots you one last smirk before sauntering off, leaving you with Rio again. 

As the drinks keep flowing, you grow bolder, a little more reckless. Your fingers brush Rio’s arm when you laugh, the warmth of her skin lingering against yours. You lean in just a little too close, your faces inches apart, her cologne mixing with the scent of whiskey on your breath. And Rio—she doesn’t move away. Instead, she smirks, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze again. The moment stretches, charged and unspoken, the club's music pulsing around you like a heartbeat. 

The conversation shifts into deeper territory. Rio talks about her work, her passions—the way she started her flower shop, how she loves the artistry behind arranging bouquets, how she finds peace in the quiet moments before the shop opens. She speaks with a quiet intensity, her hands moving as she describes the feeling of working with something alive, something delicate. 

You find yourself listening closely, watching the way her brows furrow when she talks about the struggles of running a business, how her voice softens when she mentions the flowers her mother used to love. There's something deeply personal about the way she shares these things, as if she’s not used to talking about herself like this. 

The way she gestures with her hands when she speaks, the intelligence in her eyes—it’s familiar. Too familiar. 

She reminds you of Agatha. 

That realization sits uneasily in your stomach, a whisper of something you don’t want to examine too closely. 

“Come dance with me,” Rio suddenly says, extending a hand. 

“Oh, I don’t really—” 

“Come on,” she insists, grabbing your hand before you can protest further. 

You let her pull you onto the dance floor, the alcohol buzzing in your veins. She’s a good dancer—confident, fluid. The way she moves her hips, the way her brown eyes lock onto yours—it’s hypnotic. 

And yet, as you sway to the music, as Rio pulls you closer, your mind betrays you. 

For a split second, you imagine Agatha in her place. 

That thought snaps you back to reality. 

“I— I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt out, pulling away. 

Before Rio can respond, you slip through the crowd, your heart pounding as you make your way to the restroom, desperate to catch your breath. 

While you’re inside the cubicle, trying to steady your breathing, the bathroom door swings open with a loud creak, followed by the sharp click of heels against the tile floor. You freeze. Then, you hear it—that voice. 

Agatha. 

She’s on the phone. 

Your stomach tightens as you strain to listen, her words clipped, her tone sharp. At first, it sounds like she’s instructing Ralph to find something in their house, but the irritation in her voice grows quickly. 

“What do you mean you can’t find it?” she snaps. 

A pause. You imagine Ralph giving some lazy excuse on the other end. 

A scoff. “Are you serious right now?” 

Then, her voice changes—lower, colder. “I left you alone for two weeks. Two. Weeks. And you still can’t handle basic responsibilities?” 

There’s another pause. Then Agatha actually lets out a bitter laugh, sharp and humorless. "Must be nice to just sit back and have a good time while I’m the one keeping everything from falling apart." 

Your breath catches. 

She sounds nothing like the Agatha you’re used to—calm, in control, always with a teasing edge. No, this is different. This is raw, her voice trembling with frustration, exhaustion. Like she’s at the end of her rope. 

Ralph must say something that makes it worse because her voice turns even more bitter. 

“Real problems?” she repeats, disbelief dripping from her words. “What do you even know about real problems, Ralph?” 

Her footsteps pace across the bathroom floor, the sharp tap of her heels echoing in the quiet space. 

“You have no job. No responsibilities. You just sit in a house that I pay for, acting like you’re the one suffering.” 

Silence. Then, a sharp inhale—like she’s trying to hold something back. 

“You don’t even care, do you?” she asks, softer this time. But there’s something broken in her voice now, something she can’t hide anymore. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

It’s not your business. You shouldn’t be listening. But you can’t move. You can’t stop hearing it. 

Then, the final blow comes. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Agatha says, and her voice isn’t raised, isn’t full of anger—it’s just… final. “We’re done, Ralph. It’s over.” 

Silence stretches. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. 

Then, a quiet, “Okay then.” 

And the call ends. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but heavy breathing. Then, the unmistakable sound of a quiet sob. 

Your chest tightens. 

You stay frozen in the stall, hands gripping your own arms, feeling like an intruder in a moment that wasn’t meant for anyone else to witness. 

Then, Agatha moves. You hear the creak of another cubicle door opening, then the soft click of it closing. 

Now’s your chance. 

You push the door open as quietly as possible, stepping out on light feet, careful not to make a sound. You glance once at the closed cubicle where Agatha is, then slip out of the bathroom, the air outside feeling heavier than before. 

You make your way back to the bar section, swallowing hard. When you reach Rio, she gives you a curious look, brow slightly furrowed. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, studying you. 

You force a smile, shaking off the weight in your chest. “Yeah. Just—needed a moment.” 

Rio doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press. 

You pick up your drink, taking a longer sip than necessary, forcing yourself to focus back on her. It’s fine. You’re fine. 

But out of the corner of your eye, you see Agatha walk out of the bathroom, heading toward the booth seating. She looks composed, but there’s something in her eyes—something not quite put together. 

And you know. 

She’s not okay. 

After some time, Jen walks over to you, looking a little uneasy. She sighs, rubbing her temple before speaking. "Hey, we’re heading out early. Lilia’s not feeling well—her stomach is killing her. And Alice… well, she’s a little too drunk right now." 

You glance over at Alice, who is giggling at something Wanda is saying, her head resting lazily against Lilia’s shoulder. Wanda looks like she’s already bracing herself for the chaos of getting them both back to their villas. 

"Do you need help?" you ask, already preparing to get up. 

Jen shakes her head. "No, we got it. But…" She hesitates, then nods in Agatha’s direction. "She doesn’t want to leave. Said she wants to drink more. Can you keep an eye on her?"  

Your stomach twists. Yeah, you do know why. 

You glance toward Agatha, sitting alone at the booth, swirling the last of her drink, her eyes distant. You swallow, forcing down the hesitance rising in your chest. 

"Yeah," you say finally. "I got her." 

Jen offers a grateful smile and squeezes your arm lightly. "Thanks. I owe you one." 

She turns back to Alice and Lilia, helping Wanda guide them toward the exit. You watch them leave, then exhale slowly, glancing back at Agatha. 

You’re still talking to Rio, but your attention keeps drifting. You steal glances toward Agatha, watching the way she nurses her drink, her fingers idly tracing the rim of the glass. There’s something heavy in her posture, something resigned. You know why she’s like this, and it breaks you a little to see her like that. It takes everything in you not to go to her immediately, to fix whatever’s weighing her down. 

Rio notices. 

She nudges your arm, her eyes flickering to Agatha. "Hey, I was thinking of staying a bit longer, but…" She trails off, tilting her head slightly toward the woman sitting alone. "Your friend needs you tonight." 

You shift uncomfortably, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You don’t want Rio to go—not yet. But at the same time, you don’t want to stay put either—you want to go to Agatha. But she’s right. 

"You sure?" you ask, glancing at her. 

Rio smiles, an easy, knowing look in her eyes. "Yeah. You got this?" 

You hesitate for a moment, looking back at Agatha. There’s something about the way she’s sitting, like the weight of the world is pressing down on her shoulders. 

You nod. "Yeah. I got this." 

Rio gives you a small smile and squeezes your shoulder briefly before stepping back. As she turns to leave, you call out, "Unblock me and give me a call, okay?" 

She glances back over her shoulder, smirks, and nods. "We’ll see." 

And just like that, she’s gone. 

You stand up from the bar stool and head toward the booth where Agatha is sitting. She’s slouched against the seat, swirling the last of her drink, eyes distant. You hesitate for a second before sliding in beside her, leaving just enough space to not feel intrusive. 

There’s a beat of silence before Agatha speaks, her voice laced with something unreadable. "So… is the date over?" 

You huff a quiet laugh, picking up your whiskey. "It wasn’t a date." 

She hums, taking a long sip of her drink like it’s water. "Could’ve fooled me." 

Something about her tone makes you pause, but before you can figure it out, Agatha lets out a shaky breath—and then, just like that, she breaks. 

Tears slip down her cheeks, silent at first. Then, her shoulders shake, and she quickly wipes at her face like she’s ashamed to be seen like this. Your chest tightens at the sight. 

You inch closer, hesitating only for a moment before placing a gentle hand on her back. She leans into the touch ever so slightly. 

"Are you okay?" Your voice is quiet, careful. 

Agatha swallows hard, staring at the table. It takes her a few seconds before she finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. "What did I do wrong?" 

She keeps going, her words spilling out faster than she can catch them. "I tried, you know? I really did. But it was never enough. It’s like… no matter what I did, he always had one foot out the door." 

You don’t say anything—just let her talk, let her get it all out. 

"It’s over, Y/N," she says, voice breaking. "Like, really over." 

You knew this already, but hearing her say it still twists something deep inside you. You squeeze her arm gently. "I’m sorry, Agatha. I know this… I know this hurts." 

She sniffles, laughing bitterly. "You don’t have to do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Act like you care. We both know I’ve been nothing but a pain in your ass." 

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply. "Oh, don’t flatter yourself. You think you’re the only one? We’ve both been a pain in each other’s ass." 

Agatha lets out a dry chuckle, wiping at her cheek. "Fair point." 

You soften just a little, tilting your head at her. "But I do care, Agatha. More than you think." 

Agatha turns to look at you then, eyes glossy and searching. For a moment, you think she might say something, but instead, she reaches for her drink and downs the rest of it in one go. 

Eventually, the two of you move to the bar. The crowd has thinned out, leaving just a few stragglers nursing their drinks. You don’t drink anymore, but Agatha does. She’s still crying, though it’s quieter now, more subdued. 

She nudges you with her elbow, a small smirk playing on her lips. "You’re actually a good listener. Who would’ve thought?" 

You chuckle. "I have my moments." 

"Mm." She rests her chin on her palm, studying you. "I guess you’re not so bad." 

"High praise." 

The night stretches on, and before you know it, Agatha is completely drunk. You don’t hesitate to call an Uber. When it arrives, you help her up, but she stumbles against you, unable to walk straight. 

"Alright, come on," you murmur, wrapping an arm around her waist to guide her outside. She leans heavily against you, her breath warm against your shoulder. 

You place her inside the passenger seat and slide in beside her. The driver doesn’t say anything, used to late-night drunks, but you keep talking to Agatha, making sure she doesn’t fall asleep. 

"We’re almost there," you whisper as the car pulls up to the resort. 

She suddenly perks up, a drowsy smile on her lips, her head lolling slightly to the side. "You know what?" she slurs, blinking up at you like she’s just had the most brilliant idea. 

You tilt your head, amused. "What?" 

And then, completely out of nowhere, she starts singing, voice hushed and syrupy. "Can’t take my eyes off of you…" 

You blink, caught entirely off guard. "Agatha—" 

She points a wobbly finger at you, her expression serious despite the alcohol in her system. "You’d be like heaven to touch…" 

Your face is on fire, but you can’t stop the small chuckle that escapes. "Oh my god." 

She keeps going, her voice lilting unevenly, slightly out of tune but full of feeling. "I wanna hold you so much…" Her eyes meet yours, and for a second, something flickers between you. Something dangerous. Something you don’t have the strength to analyze right now. 

You shake your head, breathless in disbelief. "Alright, Frankie Valli, let’s get you to bed." 

She giggles but doesn’t stop singing, leaning into you as you guide her toward her villa. "At long last, love has arrived…" 

"Oh, for the love of—" You sigh dramatically, but there’s no real frustration behind it. 

She clings to your arm, her grip surprisingly firm. "And I thank God I’m alive…" Her voice hitches, and there’s a moment—just a fleeting second—where she looks at you like she means every word she’s singing. 

Your throat tightens. You pretend not to notice. 

By the time you get her to the door, her voice is softer, the words slurring together. "Can’t take my eyes off of you…" 

You sigh, unlocking the door with some difficulty. "Alright, Agatha. Time to sleep." 

She hums, resting her head against your shoulder for just a moment before murmuring, "Mmm. You’re warm." 

You swallow hard, ignoring the way your heart stumbles over itself. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, inside." 

And even though she’s drunk, and this whole situation is ridiculous, you can’t help but feel your heart clench at the sight of her like this—so vulnerable, so utterly unlike the Agatha Harkness you once knew. 

You guide Agatha upstairs to her bedroom, careful with every step as she leans heavily against you. When you finally reach her bed, you help her sit down gently, her body swaying slightly. Her eyes are glassy, lost in thoughts you can’t quite reach. 

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear without thinking. She doesn’t respond, just stares at the floor. 

You hurry downstairs, filling a glass of water and grabbing some Advil from the kitchen. When you return, she’s not lying down like you expected. Instead, she’s still sitting at the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking, quiet sobs wracking her frame. 

Your stomach twists. 

“Agatha?” You set the glass and the Advil down on the nightstand and immediately sit beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

She lets out a shuddering breath, wiping at her face. “Whatever I do… I’ll never be enough.” 

Her voice is so small, so broken, it nearly shatters you. 

Your heart clenches as you reach for her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leans into you, her body warm despite the chill in her words. “That’s not true,” you say firmly. “You are enough, Agatha. Ralph is just too damn stupid to see it.” 

She laughs wetly, shaking her head. “You don’t mean that.” 

“I do.” You pull back slightly, looking at her. “You are brilliant. You’re sharp, funny in that mean, sarcastic way. You care about the people you love, even if you pretend not to. You have this way of making people feel… seen.” 

Your throat tightens as you speak. You don’t even realize you’re getting emotional until your voice cracks slightly on the last word. You blink rapidly, trying to hold it together. 

Agatha notices. 

She gently pulls away from the hug, and when you meet her gaze, there’s something intense in the way she looks at you. Her eyes are searching, tracing every part of your face like she’s trying to memorize it, like she’s grasping onto something unspoken between you. 

Then, so softly, she whispers your name, her voice barely above a breath, like it holds the weight of everything she can’t say out loud. 

Your breath catches, a lump forming in your throat as the moment stretches, fragile and heavy all at once. 

Before you can fully process what’s happening, she cups your cheek, her touch warm, grounding. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, your mind screaming— 

And then she leans in. 

Her lips meet yours, gentle and soft, everything you’ve ever wanted—except not like this. Not when she’s vulnerable, not when she’s breaking right in front of you. 

You freeze for a second, torn between every part of you that has dreamed of this moment and the part of you that knows it isn’t right. 

With every ounce of willpower, you gently pull away, your hands on her shoulders. “Agatha…” 

She blinks at you, confused, her lips still parted. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing right now,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

A flicker of something passes through her eyes—hurt, maybe, or realization. But you don’t let yourself look too closely. You stand up, stepping back. “You need to sleep, Agatha.” 

She doesn’t argue, just watches you with something unreadable in her gaze. And then, just like that, you turn, walking to the door. 

You close it softly behind you as you leave her villa, your heart pounding, your mind an absolute mess. 

When you get to your villa, you head straight to your bedroom. The silence is suffocating. After the noise of the club, the villa feels too quiet. Too empty. But your mind is loud. The moment you close the door behind you, it all crashes down at once. 

You drop your keys onto the table with a shaky breath, your fingers lingering on the cool surface as if grounding yourself will stop the spiraling thoughts. You stumble toward the bed, collapsing onto it without bothering to change. Your dress clings to your skin, the faint scent of perfume and alcohol mixing with something heavier—something painful. 

You replay the kiss over and over again. Not just the kiss itself, but the way Agatha looked at you before it happened—the glassiness in her eyes, the slight tremble in her lips, the way she whispered your name like it meant something. Like you meant something. 

Your heart clenches as you remember how she leaned in, like you were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. And for a second, you let yourself believe it. For a second, you let yourself want it. But now, in the quiet of your room, the reality is sharp, cutting through any illusion you might have entertained. 

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. What else is there to do? Cry? Maybe. But what good would that do? 

If this kiss had meant something, Agatha wouldn’t have done it like this. She wouldn’t have done it drunk, desperate, tangled in the mess of her failing marriage. You know it wasn’t about you. It was about escaping, about numbing whatever pain she was feeling. And you were just there. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to sleep, to forget—but how could you? Every time you close your eyes, you see her again. Feel the ghost of her lips, the heat of her breath, the way she fit against you like she belonged there. 

Your fingers brush against your lips as if trying to erase the feeling, but it lingers. It sinks into your skin, into your chest, into every part of you, refusing to let go. 

With a frustrated sigh, you press a pillow over your face, trying to drown out the ache, the longing, the stupid, unrelenting hope that still clings to the edges of your heart. But it doesn’t help. Nothing does. 

Because even with your eyes open, even with the distance between you, Agatha is still there. And that’s the cruelest part of all. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi 

[candycandy00]

Once Upon a Time - A Toji x Reader Fanfic Part 2

Retold fairytales featuring the JJK men! This is Snow White featuring Toji! You live in a snowy village and have a crush on your handsome neighbor Toji, unaware that he’s been hired by the queen to kill you.

Part 1 | Part 2

Read Choso x Rapunzel Here!

Read Sukuna x Sleeping Beauty Here!

Read Gojo x Cinderella Here!

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Reader as Snow White. Age gap (Reader is early 20’s, Toji is mid 30’s). Rough sex. Slight size difference kink. Death of side characters.

Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more and @benkeibear!

You awake the next morning to the sound of a fire crackling. For a moment, you wonder how your father managed to tend the fire without your help, then you remember you’re not at home.

Rising up from the rug on the floor, you first notice Toji’s coat falling from your shoulders. Then you notice that you’re naked beneath it. Oh. So that really happened. It wasn’t just another of your dreams. 

You find your dress a few feet away and begin pulling it over your head and tying the laces at the front. A sound comes from behind you, and you turn to see Toji in the kitchen area, standing over the small stove. There’s a kettle being heated. 

“Thought I’d make us some coffee,” he says.

You nod numbly, still processing the night before as you look around. The cabin looks different in the light of day spilling in through the two main windows. What seemed warm and cozy last night looks gray and dull today. 

Looking out a window, you see that the storm is over. There’s no snow, no wind, only the silence that follows a blizzard as the woods are buried under a blanket of heavy white. Trudging through that snow will be difficult, but you feel certain you and Toji can do it. 

You join him at the small table, taking a warm cup and letting it heat your hands for a moment before taking a sip. 

Toji takes a drink of his own, then sits his cup on the table. “We need to talk.”

You look up in alarm. His tone is serious enough to make you worry. Is this going to be the part where he ultimately rejects you? Tells you last night was fun but it can never happen again? 

Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself and say, “Okay. What do we need to talk about?”

The next words out of his mouth are the last ones you expected. 

“What’s your connection to the queen?”

You blink. “The queen? I’ve never met her.”

He leans slightly over the table, toward you. “Are you sure? Think really hard. Maybe you met her when you were a kid.”

You find yourself drawing back a little from the table, unsure of where he’s going with these questions. “If I ever met her, I don’t remember it,” you say. “Why would you think I have a connection to the queen?”

“Because she hired me to kill you.”

You freeze. What did he just say? Surely you heard him wrong. “Huh?”

His eyes are focused on yours, trapping you in his steely gaze. “The queen hired me to kill you. She told me to make it messy, so it seems personal.”

Your heart begins racing, a spike of fear shooting through you as the warm mug in your hand begins to tremble. You sit it down on the table, nearly spilling it, then look toward the door of the cabin. Could you make it out? 

“Relax,” he tells you. “If I was gonna go through with it, you never would’ve woken up this morning.”

Your eyes return to his face. In a small, shaky voice, you ask, “Why didn’t you?”

His serious expression relaxes a little. “I just decided I like you better alive than dead.”

Hearing him say that calms your nerves a bit. It’s true that it would have been incredibly easy to kill you while you slept, so if Toji was going to murder you, he would have done it then. 

“But why would she want me dead?” you ask. 

Toji leans back against his chair. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. At first I thought it was because you’re prettier than her, but-“

“I am?”

He almost smiles at you. “According to her weird magic mirror anyway.”

Now you’re even more confused. “She has a magic mirror?”

“Yeah. Every day she asks it to show the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. A couple days ago it showed you.”

You feel yourself blushing. Are you that beautiful? You’ve never seen yourself that way, and you don’t recall getting any extra attention in the village. You wonder if Toji agrees with the mirror, but you’re too shy to ask. 

Apparently he can take a hint. 

“I don’t know about the whole kingdom, but you’re definitely a lot more beautiful than the queen,” he says. 

The comment makes your heart skip a beat, but you don’t have time to focus on that. You look up as Toji continues what he was going to say. 

“It’s not just the mirror,” he tells you. “She called you a threat to her rule, then referred to you as a loose end. There’s some connection there.”

Your mind is racing. You’ve never met the queen, unless it was before you were old enough to remember. But why would you have ever met her? “I should ask my father,” you say. “He might know something.”

Toji shakes his head. “It’s a bad idea for you to go back to the village. The queen will have people watching.”

“But I can’t just hide here! My father is ill. He can’t make it on his own. Please, take me back to the village just for a little while, so I can check on him and ask someone to look after him while I’m gone.”

Toji looks at you, at your determined, worried expression, then sighs. “Fine. I’ll take you back, but you can’t stay long. If you wanna live, you’re gonna have to hide out for a while.”

You stand up from the table and move over to hug Toji, who doesn’t hug you back but doesn’t pull away. “Thank you.”

After pulling on your cloak, gloves, boots, and scarf, you join Toji outside the cabin, who is looking out over the forest. “I don’t think anyone followed us here,” he says. “The weather was probably too bad.”

You nod, taking his word for it. The snow is much thicker than the night before, all traces of your footprints long gone. Trudging through this to get back to the village won’t be easy, but you have to do it. You have to check on your father, and ask if he knows about some connection to the queen. 

The trek back is a quiet one. Toji doesn’t talk much, and you feel a bit awkward. Last night you felt so close to him, but today he seems so distant. Did he lure you to the cabin to kill you? If so, what made him change his mind? Was it your love confession? Or the sex? So many questions haunt your mind as you move through the woods. 

When you reach the village, it looks mundane compared to the wild revelations you’ve had this morning. Most villagers are inside, probably huddling around their fireplaces. A few of the men are working to make walking paths through the thick blanket of snow, a couple are hauling firewood into their homes, and a group of children are playing by tossing snowballs at each other. 

It’s all so very normal, you feel perfectly at ease as you open the door to your house and shake the snow from your cloak. You pull off your gloves as you walk through the living area, noting that the fire is going strong. The neighbor must have added more wood last night before leaving. You hear Toji step inside behind you and close the door, but he doesn’t follow you as you make your way to your father’s room. 

Until you scream. 

Because your father is lying in his bed, a sword standing straight up, impaled through his stomach and pinning him to the straw mattress. Blood has soaked the covers and now drips from the bed, making a small pool on the floor. 

Toji rushes into the room, then immediately pulls you into his arms. “Don’t look,” he says, one strong hand rubbing your back. 

After a few seconds, he pulls away and says, “Let me go see what happened.”

You nod, keeping your face turned away as he goes over to examine the scene. Tears are flooding your eyes, no matter how much you wipe them away with your hands. “Who could do this?!” you cry. “He was just a sick old man! He never hurt a soul!”

You hear Toji’s voice from across the room. “This is a standard issue sword for royal guards. The queen must have ordered-“

His voice cuts off, and before you can question it, you hear his footsteps approaching quickly. Then all at once he’s standing right in front of you, his hands firm on your shoulders. 

“Listen very carefully,” he says, looking at you intently. “Your father is still breathing. He looks like he wants to see you. But he is dying. There’s nothing we can do to stop that.”

Your eyes shift over to the grisly scent once again. You nod weakly to Toji, but you can’t stop the hope blooming in your heart. He’s not dead yet! Maybe… maybe you can do something to help him! 

Carefully, with Toji by your side, you step over to the bed. Your father is staring up at you, and his eyes tear up. “My darling…” he whispers, reaching one trembling hand toward your face. 

You grab his hand and hold it tightly, kneeling down to hear him better. “I’m here, father!”

“I have to tell you… who you are…”

“It’s okay! Don’t strain yourself, please!”

His eyes focus in on you, and he seems to gain a bit of strength in his determination to speak to you. “You were born… to the former king and queen… my closest friends…”

You freeze. “What?”

“Your mother died in childbirth… that was true. Your father… wanted a mother for you… so he married the current queen. He died… only two months later.”

Tears are overflowing from your eyes. “You’re my father!”

He smiles, but squeezes your hand and goes on. “The new queen ordered your death… but I begged her… to spare you. She agreed, if I would take you to a remote village… and never tell anyone the truth. You were barely taking your first steps… so I resigned as royal advisor… and raised you as my own.”

Your father pauses and coughs, blood speckling the collar of his shirt. “She broke the agreement,” he says desperately, his grip on your hand tightening. “She fears you will claim… your rightful place as queen! She will come for you!”

Suddenly he lifts his free hand and points toward the dresser on the other side of the bed. “There… in the bottom drawer!”

You press your lips to his forehead. “I understand! I heard you! I’ll be careful and I won’t let the queen kill me!”

A look of relief passes over his pained face. “I was… so proud… to be your father.”

You smile through your tears. “I and I have felt so fortunate to be your daughter!”

A second later, his grip goes slack, his hand sliding from yours and dropping at his side. His eyes are closed now, and you know they will never open again. 

You let out a sob, collapsing across his bed, just above the sword, not caring that blood is staining your dress. 

Minutes pass with no sound in the room but your cries, until you hear Toji’s voice again. You almost forgot he was here. 

“I’m sorry, but we have to go. If you want to keep your promise and not get killed, I need to get you back to the cabin.”

You rise up and look at your father’s face, then toward the dresser. “Wait,” you say, wiping your face again, “he said something about the bottom drawer.”

Toji steps over and yanks the drawer out, his hands rifling through the contents. He holds up an envelope with your name on it, scrawled in your father’s handwriting. “This must be it. You can open it later, but we need to go. The queen no doubt has someone watching your house, and once they report that you’re here, she’ll send a whole company of soldiers.”

“What? Why so many?!”

“Because by now she knows I didn’t do the job, and I’m with you,” Toji says. “She knows she’ll need a fuck ton of soldiers to deal with me.”

You wonder about that, about how Toji knows the queen so well. He was just a Huntsman, right? But you don’t have time for questions now. You rush to your room and shove some clothing into a bag, then meet Toji at the front door. You glance back a toward your father’s room. “What about his burial?”

Toji is opening the door and ushering you toward it. “A neighbor will find him and take care of it. He’d much rather you get away safely than make sure he gets a proper burial. Trust me.”

You wonder if that’s his opinion as a father, but remain silent as you step outside. Just as you do, you hear a strange sound, like something moving quickly through the air. You turn to your right, where you see a thin blade stabbing straight toward you. 

Toji sees the attacker before she even turns. He reaches forward and catches the blade between his thumb and fingers, then wrenches it free of the soldier’s grasp. Before the soldier can even react, Toji has slammed an elbow into his face, shattering his nose and knocking him to the ground. 

The soldier clasps one hand over his bloody face, staring up at Toji with wide eyes. 

Toji holds the blade up, quickly examining it. “Wonder why you’re using your side dagger and not your sword,” he says, meeting the soldier’s indignant gaze. “You’re the one who killed the old man, aren’t you?”

The soldier removes his hand and yells in a broken voice, “I did what my queen asked of me! Unlike you, you traitorous dog!”

Toji’s eyes slide over to his lovely neighbor, curious what sort of reaction she has to this conversation. Will she be horrified? Sad? No. When Toji sees her face, there’s only rage there. Hell, if she had a weapon she’d probably kill this guy herself. 

That’s surprising.

But they don’t have time to indulge her. Toji flips the dagger around to point the blade downward, then rams it into the soldier’s throat. Blood bubbles up from the man’s mouth, his body jerking as he dies. 

Toji grabs her hand and pulls her along with him, taking her back into the woods where they can disappear. The queen probably has at least one more agent in the area to keep watch, but there’s no way they’re half as familiar with these woods as Toji is. 

An hour later, the two of them are back in the cabin. It should be safe for now. Only local hunters know about the cabin, and it’s located deep in the woods. 

Toji isn’t sure what to say to the crying young woman who quickly went into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. He’s never been great at consoling people. When his wife died, he didn’t want anyone to speak to him. Even hearing someone breathe nearby made him angry. But he moved on, eventually. He never stopped thinking of his wife, never stopped missing her, but it got easier as the years went by.

Over the next few days, Toji doesn’t see much of his “housemate”. She comes out of the bedroom occasionally to eat the food Toji hunts and cooks or to use the bathroom. She doesn’t talk much, except to thank Toji for his help and say she has a lot to think about. 

For his part, Toji is uncertain how he feels about her, how much time and energy he wants to put into protecting her. She’s the true heir to the throne, and he’d love nothing more than to see the queen lose her crown, but this heir is so sweet, so naive, he doubts she’ll decide to pursue it. 

And if she doesn’t… well, he likes her but he’s not going to risk his life for someone content to hide for the rest of her life. 

After five days have passed, she emerges from the bedroom and stands in front of Toji in the kitchen, the envelope he found in the drawer clutched in her hand. 

“It’s a letter from my father,” she says, “explaining what he told me in more detail. He thought the queen had the king - I mean my birth father - killed, but could never find proof.”

Toji sighs. “Sounds like something the queen would do.”

She holds out a silver necklace. “He also left me this. I think it’s supposed to be important.”

Toji takes the necklace and looks closely at the pendant. He recognizes it instantly. It’s in the shape of a cross that ends in an anchor, with golden vines wrapped around it. “This is the royal family’s crest,” he tells her. “Every kid born to the royal family is given one of these. It’s basically proof you’re the heir.””

He hands the necklace back to her and she stares at it numbly. All of this must seem surreal to her. A week ago she was just a normal young woman living in a small village. Today she’s the rightful queen of the land. 

She looks up at him, meeting his gaze. “Toji, can you please help me?”

Here it comes. She’s going to ask him to protect her, to help her hide or perhaps escape to a neighboring kingdom. She’s such a pure, sweet woman, but he’ll turn her down. 

“Help you do what?” he asks, already knowing the answer. 

“Kill the queen.”

Toji blinks. Did he hear her right? 

She goes on, unbothered by his confusion. “She killed both my fathers, and wants to kill me. I can’t forgive that, and I can’t just walk away. I don’t even know if I want to be a ruler, but I know I can’t tolerate her sitting on the throne.”

Toji can’t stop a grin from spreading over his face. “Tell you what, if you pay off my gambling debts once you get access to the royal treasury, I’ll kill anyone you want.”

She steps closer, putting one hand on his arm. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without your help. You’ve saved me twice now. I knew I was right when I said you’re a good man.”

There’s a spark of something kinetic between them, and Toji thinks she’s much more attractive now than she was a few days ago. The fiery resolve in her eyes is intoxicating. But he laughs as he says, “A good man who just agreed to kill someone for money.”

“Someone who deserves it,” she says back, her body inching closer to his. 

Toji’s arms wrap around her, pulling her up against him. “I like this new side of you,” he says.

She looks away almost shyly, but seems to relax in his arms. “I don’t think it’s new. Something just had to drag this side of me out.”

He leans down and kisses her, lightly grinding his hips into her. “I can drag something out of you alright, but only if I can ram it back in.”

Her eyes flick up to his face again. In a small voice, she says, “You can do whatever you want to me. Because I love you.”

Toji suddenly pushes you against the nearest wall, your back scraping the wood of the cabin. His hands are tearing your dress open and jerking it down off your shoulders. His movements are hurried, as if he can’t wait to get you undressed. It’s so very different from the way he touched you before. There’s an urgency this time. 

Maybe last time he was just indulging a love struck young woman. Now it seems like his passion has truly been ignited. 

You pull at his shirt, eager to see that perfectly sculpted body again. He obliges you, ripping the fabric open so fast that the buttons are sent scattering across the floor. Your hands glide over his chest, feeling the muscles there, feeling his heartbeat. 

He pulls your dress the rest of the way down, letting it pool at your feet, then down go your panties. You step out of the pile of clothes and kick them out of the way, then wrap your arms around Toji’s neck as he pick you up. Your legs move around his waist as he settles you in the right position against him. 

When his throbbing cock plunges into your drenched pussy, you cry out, then bury your face in his shoulder. He fucks you against the wall, your body sandwiched tightly between it and Toji’s firm body. With each thrust, your back hits the wood again. You know you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but right now you don’t care. 

You just want to forget. In these moments of mindless pleasure, you want to forget your father dying before your eyes, your burdensome lineage, the fact that your life has been turned upside down. You only want to feel Toji inside you, filling the emptiness you’ve felt the past few days. 

His hands are on your thighs, his fingers leaving imprints in your skin, his mouth finding yours and devouring your lips. His thrusts become harder, rougher, leaving you whimpering his name and begging for more. You want him to claim your body, make it his, reduce you to a crying mess so that you won’t have to think about anything else. 

His skin is so hot against yours, his muscled abdomen rubbing exactly the right spots to send you over the edge. When you cum, he’s kissing you, eyes open and staring at your face, his grip on your thighs tightening almost painfully. He doesn’t stop fucking you, his hips continuing to buck into you as you go limp against his chest. 

Before he cums, Toji pulls out of you, splashing the wall with his seed before easing you back onto your feet. You fall into blissful oblivion as he places your exhausted body on the couch. 

It’s late in the morning the next day when Toji tells you he’s leaving the cabin for a few hours. “I know a few former guards who hate the queen as much as we do,” he says. “They might be willing to help us.”

You nod as you pour yourself a cup of tea in the kitchen. Any help at all would be very welcome. Even if it’s just someone to distract the guards while you and Toji sneak into the castle. 

Toji gives you a quick kiss on the top of your head before stepping out, and you settle into the couch to read a book you grabbed from home. The first couple of hours pass uneventfully, the only sounds in the cabin being the crackling of the fire and the pages of your book being turned.

But in the afternoon, there comes a knock at the cabin door. You freeze, wondering who it might be. Toji wouldn’t knock. Is it a hunter from the village? Or, the more frightening possibility, a royal guard or soldier who spotted Toji in town and knows you’re alone? 

You quietly get up from the couch and creep over to the door, hoping to hear some clue that could help you determine who is on the other side. There’s a knocking again, and it strikes you that it’s not a very hard knock. Then you hear a voice. 

“Hello? Is anyone here?” 

It sounds like an old woman. It’s a weak, frail voice. Still, you can’t be too careful in this situation, so you don’t answer. 

“Please, if anyone’s here, could you help me?” the voice pleads. “My legs gave out. I just need somewhere warm to sit and rest for a bit before walking back home. I saw the smoke from the chimney.”

You move to the nearest window and peek out, toward the door. You don’t see anyone. No soldiers, no hunters. You don’t have a direct line of sight to the woman, but if there was anyone with her, you’d probably see them. 

After a few more moments, you hear soft footsteps crunching snow, and a small old lady steps into view as she limps away from the door. She looks so pitiful, so weak, you find yourself running to the door and opening it. 

The woman turns around and looks at you, then smiles. “Oh, bless you, dear!”

You hurry over and take a basket from her hand, noting it’s unusual heft, as you help her inside. 

“What are you doing out in the woods alone?” you ask her as she eases herself onto the couch with a groan. 

“I was crossing through from town back to the village,” she says. 

You fix her a cup of warm tea and sit down beside her. “That’s an awfully heavy basket you’ve got.”

She laughs and pulls the basket into her lap. “I’m a fruit seller,” she says, opening the basket and revealing several red, shiny apples. “Would you like one?”

“Oh, that’s alright!” you tell her.

She pulls one apple out and reaches it to you. “Consider it a gift for letting me warm up in your cabin.”

You hesitantly take the apple and sit it on a small table beside the couch. “Thank you. It looks delicious.”

The old woman smiles kindly. For the next half hour, she sits and chats with you, telling you about her husband who died two years ago and her no good son who refuses to help her sell fruit. Then, she slowly gets to her feet and bids you farewell. 

After watching her disappear into the forest, you close the door to the cabin and return to the couch, picking up the apple as you go. 

Toji is in town, waiting to meet up with a former guard he was friendly with, when a hunter he recognizes from the village approaches him. 

“Hey, Toji. Are you still using that old hunting cabin in the woods?” he asks. 

Toji’s eyes automatically narrow. “Not recently,” he lies. “Why?”

“There was an old fruit seller asking if anyone lived out in the woods. I told her about the cabin but stressed that no one’s usually there. I think she went anyway.”

“A fruit seller?” Toji asks, feeling a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. 

The Hunter nods. “An old woman. She had a basket full of apples.”

Toji frowns. “Apples in the dead of winter?”

The man shrugs. “I guess she had a late harvest.”

Toji leaves. He wastes no time with small talk or goodbyes. He simply runs as fast as he can back to the woods, because he remembers something the queen told him years ago. Something he’d dismissed as delusional fantasy at the time. 

She said that if she utters a specific incantation in front of the magic mirror, it can change her appearance to look like anyone she wants. 

If that was true, then the old woman could have been…

He stops thinking, only focusing on running. He tears through the woods at inhuman speed, and in record time he arrives at the cabin. He throws the door open and runs inside. 

There he finds her, his young lover, sprawled on the floor in front of the couch, a half eaten apple lying a few inches from her outstretched hand. 

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy XIII

a yandere art professor John Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge. If you haven't seen the movie that's ok, I will fill in the gaps as we go...) warnings: dark adult themes, violence, sex, drugs, yandere shit. plz don't read if u can't handle it ->chapter map

XIII.

-You thought you’d done a good job talking yourself up to it, but you are so embarrassed, when you get up on the model stand, and it's time to start class…and you simply can't do it. You freeze, absolutely unable to bring yourself to take off your robe, to expose yourself again after your near brush with…whatever the fuck those creeps intended to do with you. 

“I…”

You don't even know where to begin to explain. You wait for John to say something cutting or sarcastic. To be a jerk about it, annoyed that you're stalling his class.

You watch warily as he approaches the model stand, hands in his pockets, the very picture of the brooding artist. Yet when he looks up at you…there’s an empathy in his dark eyes that squeezes your heart with a fist. He could have pushed you over with a feather when he asks, “Are you alright, y/n?”

Sadly, you shake your head, hugging yourself. “I’m…not sure I can do this right now. I'm so sorry.” You sway on your feet, and he must sense something wild inside you, a mare threatening to bolt, or a statue ready to tumble, because he holds up his hands as though to steady you–those large, eloquent hands with their impossibly long fingers.

You don’t know what possesses you, when you take his fingers in yours, holding on to him like he is a life line. They’re strong, and calloused, and for the first time since waking up after your mishap you feel somewhat anchored to the world around you. 

He lets you hold on to him, his expression softening for you the way it used to, before you had your heated little tiff over Matt’s work. His voice is low, and calming, acting like a balm for your troubled soul. 

“That's ok, y/n. It's your choice. Do you maybe think you could sit for us with your robe on?”

You think about it a few moments before nodding. 

“Alright.” He squeezes your fingers encouragingly. “Let's do some warm ups, then we'll pick a pose.”

You nod, and somehow, this small gesture of support empowers you again to do your thing. 

- You're not sure how he knew you needed it, but in the end you decide on a reclining pose. John produces blankets and pillows from the closet to make you a comfortable nest on the otherwise hard model stand, and you hate to admit it, but…you fall asleep. 

You haven't been sleeping well, and something about being here in this place you love, rather than your cold and lonely apartment fulfills something you've been missing the past few weeks. 

By some miracle, as though even your sleeping brain knows, you do not move from your position even in slumber. It takes a gentle hand upon your ankle to rouse you,  and you wake with a start to find John standing over you. 

The room is empty of students; through the windows you can see that night has fallen outside. Fuck.

“I'm so sorry,” you immediately apologize, bolting up right. The class ends at six. How much longer did you keep him here?

“It’s ok,” he says in his soothing baritone. “Are you…ok, y/n?”

You look at him looking at you so earnestly with those infinite dark eyes–it ties you up in knots, and you feel like you can't hide a thing from him. Like…he already knows, and just wants to give you an outlet to talk about it, if you want. 

“Something …bad happened at the Monster Masque,” you admit in a whisper, looking fixedly at the corner of your blanket beneath you. “I've just…felt weird, ever since.” 

His frown is like a thunderhead, forbidding and beautiful. “Do you need help, y/n?”

You shake your head. “No. I think…the matter is closed.”

“Oh?”

“I think…someone took care of it for me.”

“Who?”

“I…don't know. Maybe someone I met at the ball. I think…” You look to him, drowning, and you can't help but compare his stare to the black satin shine of your Lone Wolf’s eyes. Dear lord, do you have a type. “I think he saved me.” 

John lifts a single dark brow to this. “Sounds like you have a guardian angel, y/n.” 

A shaky little laugh escapes you. “Yeah.” You think that guardian demon might be more likely, but you don’t say it aloud. 

When you dismount from the modeling stand the concrete floor is shockingly hard and cold beneath your feet; your leg tingles with pins and needles, having fallen asleep. You take a step and would have stumbled–-but John catches you, holding you in his strong arms. 

You swear you didn’t do it on purpose, but you find it’s a very nice place to be. There is something hauntingly familiar about being held like this, tucked against his chest with his arms around you. You look up at him from so very close, and you realize something is different. 

“You cut off your beard,” you say, maybe with way more wonder in your voice than the observation actually warrants, but there's something about being able to see the sharp lines of his jaw that moves you to your toes. 

“I trimmed a little.” He doesn't scold you for staring at him like a star struck idiot. He seems…content, to stand like this with you, while you are reeling in this bottomless freefall into deja-vu.

He has a distractingly beautiful mouth, lips full and infuriatingly kissable. You cannot tear your eyes from the lower half of his face; the sum total of its lines strum some forgotten chord inside you.

Is it possible?

Your memory is so fractured from that night. Nothing is clear amidst the bits and pieces that remain to you. The gaps are large as a canyon in your mind, yawning fissures in the landscape of your memory. Whatever those boys drugged you with…it really fucked you up, and just thinking about it makes you want to hide under John Wick’s chin and not come out for a week. 

You decide that you are wishfully projecting your hopes onto this man. That he had much better things to be doing on Halloween, than masquerading around in an animal costume just to flirt with you. 

“Have you been eating, y/n?” he asks, squeezing your sides gently. You suppose he remembers how much padding you had from the last time you were in his hands. The memory of that lightning-charged squabble compared to how he handles you now makes you weak all over again. 

You shrug, embarrassed for some reason. “Not…well.” 

He nods, because he already knew the answer. “Come home for dinner with me.”

“I…would hate to bother you.” Deep down you want to say yes, and yet you cannot shake the dogged mantle of your hesitance. 

“No bother. I think it would be good for you.” 

He's being polite, yet there is a firm insistence in his tone that leaves no further room for argument.

“Okay.” You manage to keep the tremor out of your voice as you agree, and you decide to give yourself a point for bravery. Your score’s been running in the negatives lately, and maybe this will be good for you.

Or maybe you'll ruin it, the way you ruin everything, eventually.

TBC...

___

->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits

[supernotnatural2005]

"I got you" - Drabble

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: You're feeling low and Dean is there to comfort you.

Word Count: 834

Warnings/tags: Mentions of depression, feeling low, fluff, sweet Dean.

AN: I've been feeling a little low lately and I guess this transpired into a little Drabble. Also this is for anyone else who can relate and would love a comfort cuddle from Dean ❤️

Masterlist

The bunker was quiet. Too quiet.

Dean had always thought of silence as a bad sign. It meant something was wrong, something lurking just out of sight. And right now, that something was you.

You had been with them for years now, a constant presence in their lives. You weren’t just another hunter passing through, not just someone they worked with. You were family. And for Dean, more than that, even if neither of you had ever put a name to it. He just knew that without you, things didn’t feel right.

For days now, you had been slipping away. Not physically, but in a way that scared him more. You weren’t talking much. You barely ate. You moved through the halls like a ghost of yourself, your usual spark dimmed into nothing. His jokes—the dumb ones that always got at least a scoff or an eye roll—didn’t even earn a glance.

At first, he told himself you just needed space. That maybe you were tired, or still shaken up from the last hunt. But then space turned into isolation. And isolation turned into something darker.

Even Sam had noticed, and if Sam was bringing it up, Dean knew it had to be bad.

“She’s not okay, Dean,” Sam had said the night before, voice low, concern written all over his face. “I tried to talk to her, but she just brushed it off.”

Dean had nodded, pretending he wasn’t already losing sleep over it. Pretending that every time he saw you drifting further away, it didn’t scare the hell out of him. Because it did.

And now, standing in the doorway of your room, that fear settled deep in his chest.

You were curled up on your bed, knees drawn to your chest, staring blankly at the wall. The lamp beside your bed was still on, casting a dull glow, but you hadn’t moved. Hadn’t so much as flinched at the sound of the door opening.

Dean had seen you hurt before. He’d seen you bloodied and bruised, stitched you up after hunts gone wrong. But this? This was different. This wasn’t something he could fix with gauze and whiskey.

He had known this was something you struggled with, something that had nothing to do with monsters or demons. You had told him once, in a quiet moment between hunts, that it wasn’t always about the job. That sometimes, your mind just turned against you. That there weren’t always reasons or triggers, just days when you felt stuck, when everything felt too heavy, when even breathing felt like a chore.

Dean had listened. He’d heard you. But he had never seen it like this.

He hesitated for only a second before stepping inside, shutting the door behind him. The room felt cold. Maybe it was just in his head, or maybe it was the fact that you had barely moved in days, barely been here even when you were physically present.

He wasn’t sure what to say. Dean Winchester, king of smart-ass remarks, suddenly speechless. But words didn’t feel right, not now.

So instead, he moved to the bed, toeing off his boots before climbing in behind you. The mattress dipped under his weight, but you didn’t react. Carefully, he eased himself closer, slipping beneath the covers and pressing his chest against your back. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, pulling you into him like he could keep you from slipping away completely.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Just silence. Just the faint sound of your uneven breathing. Then, finally, your shoulders trembled.

Dean felt it before he heard it—the sharp inhale, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket like you were holding on for dear life. And then the dam broke.

A choked sob tore through you, and that was it. He turned you in his arms, tucking you against his chest, holding you tight as your body shook with everything you had been holding back.

“I got you,” he murmured, voice low and steady. One hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair as the other rubbed slow, soothing circles along your back. “I got you, sweetheart.”

You gripped his shirt, your tears soaking into the fabric, and he just held you. No empty reassurances, no telling you that everything was fine. Because he knew that wasn’t how this worked. He knew you weren’t okay. But that didn’t mean you had to go through this alone.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Dean pressed his lips to your hair, lingering for just a second longer than he should have. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was keeping you here, keeping you with him, even if he couldn’t fight this battle for you.

And as he held you close, feeling your body slowly relax against his, he silently promised himself—whatever it took, however long it took—he’d be right here.

Because you were his. And he wasn’t letting you go.

AN: I know this is a little more dark and gloomy compared to what I usually write, I guess this is just an expression of reality in some fiction. For those who have experienced this or are going through something similar, you're not alone ❤️

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @cevansbaby-dove @shadysoulangel @piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27 @idontwannabehere7 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith @zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse @impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88

[littlestl4mb]

valentines day with luigi and he's come down with a cold but refuses to acknowledge it and still tries to take you out to dinner, do fun things with you/care for you etc and you're like bRO you need to take care of yourself!! u literally have to force him on the couch with tea otherwise he won't ever rest

omg bro YES. i think that man was raised on the notion that he has to be on 100 mode all the time. if he’s not busy, he feels like a failure. he hardly lets himself rest; he grinds his gears until there’s no grease left to sustain him— until the machine of his body is grating upon itself just to keep sustaining its momentum. 

in love and relationships, he’s definitely like this too. well, he thinks he has to be this way anyways. thinks that it’s what has to be done— putting others first without second thought for himself. 

with all his work, hobbies, and busying himself with you— he doesn’t realize he’s pushed himself past his physical limits until there’s a sudden accompanying ache in his body. a sore throat that hardly lets him swallow. a pounding head that allures to the cold that’s brewing in his system. and still- he disregards it. ‘there’s no time to be sick right now.’ he tells himself. he convinces himself he can push off whatever ailment he’s harboring until next week. when it’s not valentines day, when he doesn’t have an elaborate day planned. when he doesn’t have to worry about letting someone- well the most important person to him- down. he tells himself he’ll load up on DayQuil and theraflu today and reward himself with a long nights sleep afterwards. because surely he can control whether or not he gets sick. right.

when he shows up knocking at your door with an extravagant bouquet of roses in hand, a dainty box of chocolates tucked between his top and bottom teeth, and a little gift bag dangling from his wrist, he’s so certain that he can make it through today. besides, he thinks the pain and discomfort is worth it when you open the door a few seconds later. he wishes he had another hand with a camera in it just to capture the look of delight and surprise on your face. 

“happy valentines day, baby” he mumbles, the box still tucked between his teeth while his other hand wraps around the heavy vase of the flowers again. he’s hardly trying and yet he looks so puppy eyed standing at your door with his arms full of the largest bouquet of flowers you’ve ever laid eyes on. 

you’d usher him in and help him put everything he’s carrying down onto the counter. and kiss his repeatedly while thanking him for the thoughtful gifts. the little gift bag, as it turns out, has a printed itinerary of your plans for the evening (you know, a walk together through your favorite park, two tickets to a museum, and then a mini menu of the elaborate dinner he’s planning to make you later that night). oh, and a casual gold locket necklace that has a photo of you two printed out and glued inside of it. (the engineer in him deff went CRAZY making sure the image was the perfect size and that it fit perfectly). 

and surprisingly! luigi makes it through a good part of the day without you knowing he’s sick. he maybe lets a sniffle get out here or there, and his voice sounds hoarse on occasion, but he tells you it’s just his allergies. which you’re skeptical of, but you give him the benefit of the doubt. and besides, he’s so determined to celebrate the day with you that you can’t stop him. 

…..well…. until things suddenly take a turn for the worse. 

it hits him like a brick wall when you’re at the museum. the pounding in his head returns and this time it’s ten-fold. his body heats up with a flame that somehow can’t quell the immense coldness he feels. his body practically vibrates as he’s struggling to contain the sudden shivers he has.

“oh, look at this painting of the two birds curled together on the branch. it’s so us, don’t you think?” you point to a painting that you’re looking at, your head turned away from him. when you turn to look back at him to see his response, you’re met with a ghastly version of luigi. he’s pale like he’s seen a ghost, and his eyes are glossed over. his curls are starting to stick to his forehead from how warm he is despite his shivers :(

“hm? oh yeah,” he croaks out and nods his head in agreement. 

and you don’t know how you missed it before, or how he was so good at hiding it. it leaves you feeling guilty knowing he must’ve been feeling unwell for so long, and yet he pushed through it so selflessly for you. 

“oh my god, lu. are you okay? we need to go home,” you frown, your smaller arm looping around his while you guide him towards the nearest exit. 

getting home is more or less of a black screen to him. he knows he gets into the car at some point, and that you two get back to your apartment at another point. maybe there’s a stop made along the way, but he’s not too sure about that. and despite it all, the man still tries to waltz into the kitchen, determined to make the dinner he planned on making for you. he’s stubborn that way. 

“luigi, can you please lay down? you can make dinner another night,” you insist. the back of your hand presses softly against his forehead, which he hums almost deleriously at. the sign of a fever burns brightly against your own skin. 

“no, i’m fine. really. i’ll just make the risotto and then i promise i’ll go lay down.”

you shake your head at him, but say nothing. you busy yourself with boiling some water for tea. only leaving luigi’s side to grab some bottles of vitamins and nyquil from your bathroom medicine cabinet. 

when you return, he’s leaning against the counter with his fingers pressed into his temples. desperate to quell the throbbing in his skull. “can we turn the heat up in here? jesus, it’s freezing,” he mumbles. (the thermostat is at 73, you know things are bad because that man definitely runs warm as it is, usually he's asking for you to turn the heat down)

you set the medicine down, and reach out to wrap a hand around his bicep. with a soft squeeze, you tug him away from the kitchen counter. he’s too tired, too achey to even fight back anymore. his body submitting to the fact that maybe he should just listen to you. 

you take the opportunity and guide him to the couch. he doesn’t protest when you take out a pile of soft blankets and layer them on top of him. he’s too tired to. and he can’t lie to himself— getting tucked into your couch makes him feel a whole lot better. it’s kind of funny how fast he gives into being taken care of. he pretends like he doesn’t want it because he’s so used to being the one to take care of things.

when you stand up from his side, he lets out a pitiful whine of protest, “noooo, where are you going?”

“i’ll be back,” you assure him. true to your word, you do return. a cup of lemon-ginger tea with honey in one hand, and the bottle of nyquil in the other. you sit yourself by his side as you give him the cap of dark blue liquid. once he’s downed it, you hand him the cup of tea and tell him to drink it, that it’ll soothe his throat. and once he’s done that, you make him take a handful of vitamins too. 

“will you be okay if i get up and make some dinner? was thinking of making that one chicken noodle soup recipe. y’know, the one from scratch.” 

luigi pouts in his typical way but gives a little nod of his head. your fingers lightly graze through the mess of curls on his head for a few moments in attempt to comfort him. he looks so soft sometimes that it almost hurts. he doesn’t let many people see him so weak either but he has a lot of trust in you <3 

and then when you’re making him the soup, you make sure turn on a light hearted movie for him to watch. intermittently you check in on him to make sure he’s doing okay. his fever start dying down, which helps your worrying. he’s constantly trying to thank you, and also apologize for “ruining” valentines day :( but you shush him each time. 

i think he really starts to lean into being taken care of in the following days. like if you’re doing something in another room he calls out “babyyyyy, where are you? this cold is so bad” and no doubt he’s still feeling sick but he also starts to use it to his advantage. he swears he’s dying, that he needs you to run your fingers through his curls again to make him feel a little better. he’s pouty and whiny and needy. and you don’t even care because that’s your sweet baby lu and if he needs to be babied then so be it! he deserves it! so if he asks for more blankets, you bring him more. if he asks for more tea, you brew him some immediately. if he asks for you to just sit by his side, there’s no hesitancy from you at all. 

ngl i wouldn’t be surprised if he also pretended to be sick way longer than he actually is just for a few extra days of being pampered by you 

[kathlare]

uncharted waters

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie grapples with a late period and mounting anxiety, unsure if she's pregnant.

Wordcount: 2.3 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

February 22nd, 2025 - Los Angeles, CA

The Los Angeles sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Amelie’s bedroom, casting soft golden light across the bed she hadn’t moved from in the last hour. Her phone lay on the nightstand, face down, ignored. She had been staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on her stomach, the other anxiously twisting the edge of the blanket between her fingers.

Her period was late. Almost two weeks late.

At first, she had convinced herself it was stress. She had been traveling, working nonstop, barely sleeping. It had to be stress. But then the nausea started, creeping in during the mornings, lingering throughout the day. At first, she thought it was food poisoning or jet lag, but when it didn’t go away, something inside her started to spiral.

She wasn’t ready for this. They weren’t ready for this.

Her stomach twisted, and she groaned, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes before blindly reaching for her phone. Her fingers shook as she scrolled through her contacts, hovering over Lando’s name. She wanted to call him, tell him everything, hear his voice, let him calm her down like he always did. But he was in Bahrain, starting pre-season testing, and she knew if she called him sounding even slightly off, he’d worry. He’d want to fly back immediately, and she could not deal with that right now. Not until she knew for sure.

Instead, she scrolled further, her pulse hammering in her throat as she tapped on Chandler’s name.

—Ames?— Chandler answered on the first ring, her voice groggy. Amelie glanced at the clock—barely past nine. Right. Chandler wasn’t a morning person.

—I need you to do something for me,— Amelie blurted, ignoring the way her throat felt tight, how her skin felt too hot despite the chill in the room.

A pause. Then, —Are you okay?—

—I just need you to go to the store for me.— Her fingers curled around the blanket, gripping it so tightly her knuckles ached.

—What kind of store?— Chandler asked, but Amelie could already hear the shift in her tone—the sharpness, the alertness of someone waking up fast because they knew something was wrong.

Amelie swallowed hard, exhaling shakily before whispering, —A pharmacy.—

—Ames…— Chandler’s voice softened, the teasing edge she usually carried replaced by concern.

—I just need you to do it. Please,— Amelie whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

The silence stretched between them, the weight of what she was asking settling into the space. Amelie squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.

—Okay,— Chandler finally said, gentle but firm. —I’ll be there soon.—

Amelie barely mumbled a thank you before hanging up. She let the phone slip from her fingers, pressing both hands against her face as she tried to steady herself. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating.

She had spent the last few days pretending she wasn’t panicking. She had told herself over and over that it was nothing, that she was being ridiculous. But last night, lying awake in bed, she had started counting the days again. And the numbers weren’t adding up.

Lando had always been careful. They had always been careful. But nothing was foolproof, and the idea that maybe—maybe—one time had been enough sent her spiraling.

She could feel the anxiety clawing at her ribs, a relentless pressure that made it impossible to think straight. If she was pregnant—if she really was—what the fuck were they going to do?

She and Lando had talked about the future before, in a vague, dreamy kind of way. Kids were always a someday thing, far down the line when they had done everything they wanted to do first. When his racing career had settled. When she had the time to breathe between projects.

Not now. Not when everything was moving so fast.

Her stomach twisted again, but this time it had nothing to do with nausea.

She barely noticed when Chandler arrived, only realizing it when her bedroom door creaked open.

—I brought, like, five different kinds because I wasn’t sure which one was the best,— Chandler announced, setting a paper bag down on the bed beside her.

Amelie sat up slowly, her limbs feeling like lead.

—Thanks.—

Chandler hesitated before sitting down next to her, her expression careful.

—Are you okay?— Chandler asked quietly.

Amelie let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through her hair. —No. Not really.—

Chandler sighed, shifting closer so their shoulders touched. —Do you want me to stay while you take it?—

Amelie hesitated. She wanted to say no, to pretend she was strong enough to do this alone. But the truth was, her hands were already shaking, and she didn’t trust herself not to throw up before she even managed to take the test.

—Yeah,— she whispered. —Please.—

Chandler nodded and reached for the bag, pulling out the boxes and reading through the instructions. —Alright, let’s do this. Pee on the stick, wait five minutes, and then either freak out or breathe again.— She shot Amelie a wry smile, but her eyes were soft.

Amelie exhaled slowly, nodding before dragging herself to the bathroom. The moment she was alone, the walls felt like they were closing in.

She stared at the test in her hand, heart hammering so hard it echoed in her ears.

She could picture it too clearly—Lando’s face if she told him. The way his eyes would widen, his brows pulling together, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. He loved her. She knew that. But they were still young, still figuring things out. Would he be scared? Would he resent her?

Would she resent herself?

Her breath came in short gasps, her pulse erratic. She gripped the sink, forcing herself to inhale through her nose, out through her mouth.

She had to do this. There was no going back now.

With shaky hands, she did what she had to do and placed the test on the counter, stepping away from it like it might explode. Five minutes. Five minutes felt like an eternity. She clenched her hands into fists, pressing them against her thighs, trying to steady herself.

Her mind ran wild.

What if it was positive?

Would they keep it? Could they keep it?

Lando was in the middle of his career, still climbing, still proving himself. And her—God, she wasn’t ready to be a mother. She barely knew how to take care of herself most days. There were still so many things she wanted to do, so many places to go, so much of her life she hadn’t figured out yet.

Her chest tightened as a new wave of nausea hit her, but she didn’t know if it was from the anxiety or something else.

She felt like she was drowning in the unknown.

Chandler knocked softly. —You good in there?—

No. Absolutely not.

—Yeah.— Her voice was hoarse, but she didn’t trust herself to say more.

—How much time left?— Chandler asked, quieter this time.

Amelie swallowed, glancing at the timer on her phone. Two minutes.

Two minutes and she’d know. Two minutes and everything could change.

She leaned against the counter, gripping the edge as she forced herself to breathe. She wished Lando were here. Wished she could crawl into his arms and let him tell her it was all going to be okay. Because if there was one thing about Lando, it was that he never let her spiral too far before pulling her back. He’d joke, make her laugh, hold her tight, remind her that no matter what happened, they’d figure it out.

But he wasn’t here. And she didn’t even know if she wanted to tell him.

Her phone buzzed against the counter, and she flinched. Lando. Speak of the devil.

Lan🧡: Morning, baby. Hope you slept well. Call me when you wake up xx

She exhaled shakily, staring at the message for too long. Her fingers twitched, itching to reply, but she couldn’t. Not yet.

Not until she knew.

A long, slow beep rang from her phone. The timer.

Her heart stopped.

For a moment, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Chandler knocked again, voice hesitant. —Ames?—

Amelie forced herself forward, one foot in front of the other, her fingers icy cold as she reached for the test.

Negative.

She blinked, staring at the little screen, waiting for the result to change, for the universe to play some kind of trick on her. But it didn’t. It stayed the same.

Negative.

Her breath left her in a shuddering rush, her knees nearly buckling.

She wasn’t pregnant.

She wasn’t pregnant.

The relief should have hit her all at once, should have made her sag with the weight of it, but instead, something inside her twisted, something she didn’t want to name. Her throat ached, her vision blurred.

She wasn’t pregnant.

But then why did she feel like crying?

She opened the door, and Chandler took one look at her face before pulling her into a hug.

—It’s negative,— Amelie whispered, her voice breaking.

Chandler exhaled against her hair. —Oh, honey.—

Amelie let out a shaky laugh, swiping at her eyes. —I don’t even know if I’m happy or not. I feel so fucking stupid.—

—You’re not stupid.— Chandler pulled back just enough to look at her. —You were scared. And that’s okay. It’s a lot.—

Amelie nodded, chewing on her lip.

—Did you want it to be positive?— Chandler asked, gentle but curious.

Amelie hesitated.

—No,— she said, but the word didn’t come as easily as she thought it would.

Chandler gave her a knowing look. —It’s okay if you don’t know how to feel. Just because you weren’t ready doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have been a thing.—

Amelie swallowed hard, nodding as she wiped at her damp cheeks. She wasn’t ready. She knew that. But some part of her—a tiny, stupid part—had still felt something at the thought of it.

She wasn’t even sure what that something was.

Chandler squeezed her hand. —You wanna lie down for a bit? Or do you need a distraction?—

Amelie let out a weak laugh. —I don’t even know.—

—Okay. Well, you’re not gonna sit here and spiral. Let’s eat something. I’ll make you food.—

—You don’t know how to cook,— Amelie pointed out, her voice hoarse.

—Fine. I’ll order something and pretend I cooked it. Same thing.—

That got a real laugh out of Amelie, even if it was quiet.

She let Chandler pull her into the kitchen, let her talk about the most ridiculous things to keep her from thinking too much. And for a little while, it worked. But the moment Amelie was left alone, her mind wandered.

By the time the afternoon sun slanted across the floor, her chest felt hollow with exhaustion.

And then, as if he could sense it from halfway across the world, Lando called.

She stared at her phone for a moment before swiping to answer.

—Hey,— she said, trying to sound normal.

—Hey, baby.— His voice was warm, a little raspy like he’d just woken up from a nap. —Tried calling earlier. You alright? You’ve been a little… I don’t know. Off?—

Amelie closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against her temple. Of course he’d noticed. He always did.

—Yeah, just tired. Been feeling a little sick lately.—

Lando hummed. —Still? Thought you said it was just jet lag.—

She hesitated. —Yeah. Probably. Nothing serious.—

—Ames.— His voice softened in a way that made her stomach twist. —What’s going on?—

She swallowed hard. She could brush it off. She should brush it off. But the weight in her chest was too much.

—Lan, I…— Her throat tightened, and before she could stop herself, her voice broke.

Silence. Then a sharp inhale.

—Hey, hey,— he said quickly, his voice urgent now. —What’s wrong? Talk to me, love.—

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to her lips to keep the sob from escaping, but it didn’t work. A shuddering breath rattled out of her.

—Amelie, you’re scaring me.—

—I thought I was pregnant,— she whispered.

Lando’s sharp inhale was immediate.

—I just took a test. It’s negative.— She let out a wet laugh, wiping at her face even as the tears kept coming. —I don’t know why I’m crying. I should be relieved. I am relieved. But also… I don’t know, Lan. I don’t fucking know.—

Lando was silent for a moment, his breathing uneven through the speaker. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than she had ever heard it.

—Oh, baby.—

That was all it took to break her completely. She covered her mouth, another sob escaping.

—Why am I like this? Why does my brain have to make everything so fucking complicated?—

—Because it’s big, Ames. It’s not just something you brush off.—

—But we’re not ready,— she said desperately, like she was trying to convince herself. —We have so much shit going on. You’re in the middle of your career, I’m still working so much, we’re so young. It would’ve been… it would’ve been bad. Right?—

Lando hesitated. —It would’ve been… hard. But not bad.—

She blinked. —What?—

—Not bad,— he repeated, voice steady. —Hard, yeah. Probably fucking terrifying. But, Ames, if it had been positive, we would’ve figured it out. We always do.—

Her breath hitched.

—And yeah, we’re young. We have a lot of things we still wanna do. But that doesn’t mean we’d be bad at it. It doesn’t mean we wouldn’t be good.—

Her heart squeezed.

—I just…— She took a shaky breath. —I didn’t wanna tell you. I was scared you’d freak out. I mean, you love kids, but you’re still racing and, fuck, Lando, I just didn’t know how you’d react.—

Lando let out a breath, a mix of exasperation and affection.

—Ames. I’m not gonna pretend I wouldn’t have panicked at first. But I wouldn’t have left you to deal with it alone. I’d have been right there, okay?—

Her chin wobbled.

—You’re mine, love. You think I wouldn’t do whatever it takes to make sure we’re okay?—

—Lan.— Her voice broke again.

—I wish I was there with you.— His voice was rough. —I fucking hate that you had to go through this alone.—

—I wasn’t alone. Chandler was here.—

Lando let out a small laugh. —Alright, fair. Chandler’s good. But she’s not me.—

—No, she’s not you,— Amelie murmured.

There was a pause before Lando spoke again, quieter this time.

—Did you… did you want it to be positive?—

She hesitated.

—No. But also… I don’t know.—

—Okay.—

—Okay?—

—Yeah.— He exhaled. —It’s okay not to know, baby. It’s okay to be scared, even if it wasn’t what you wanted. It’s a big thing. It means something.—

Her eyes burned again.

—But for the record,— Lando continued, —whenever that day comes, whether it’s years from now or whenever, you’re gonna be fucking incredible, Ames. And I’ll be right there with you. Always.—

She let out a watery laugh. —You’d be a menace as a dad.—

Lando snorted. —You mean fun as a dad.—

—Menace.—

—Well, if our kid gets my chaos and your attitude, we’re fucked either way.—

That actually made her laugh, a real one this time.

Lando hummed. —There’s my girl. Missed your laugh.—

She wiped at her face, her heart aching in that stupid, overwhelming way it always did when it came to him.

—I miss you,— she whispered.

—I miss you too, love. So much.—

Silence stretched between them, not awkward or heavy, just there. A quiet understanding.

—Maybe we shouldn’t have sex for a while,— Amelie joked, her voice still a little shaky.

Lando’s response was immediate and dramatic. —What? Absolutely not! That’s a terrible idea. Who even are you?—

She laughed, a genuine, warm sound that filled the space between them. —Someone who just had a mini-freakout about potentially being pregnant, Lan. Maybe we should take it easy.—

—Take it easy?— He scoffed, the sound laced with playful disbelief. —Ames, we’re like, the most sexually compatible people I know. Taking it easy is not in our vocabulary.—

—Oh, shut up,— she said, rolling her eyes despite him not being able to see her. —We’re ridiculous.—

—Ridiculously perfect,— he corrected, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. —And ridiculously horny. Let’s be honest.—

Amelie blushed, even though she knew he was just trying to make her laugh. —You’re incorrigible.—

—And you love it,— he countered, the playful grin practically audible in his voice. —Besides, you’d miss my… enthusiasm.—

—Enthusiasm?— she repeated, her voice laced with playful skepticism. —Is that what we’re calling it now?—

—What else would we call it?— he asked, feigning innocence. —My unwavering dedication to your pleasure?—

She let out a snort. —You’re impossible.—

—But I’m your impossible,— he said, his voice softening again. —And I’m not going anywhere, Ames. Not through this, not through anything. We’ll figure it out, whatever it is. Always.—

Amelie felt a wave of warmth spread through her, chasing away the last lingering shadows of her anxiety.

—I know,— she whispered. —I know you will.—

—Good. Now, tell me about your day. Did you eat anything other than Chandler’s questionable cooking skills?—

She chuckled, recounting the rest of her day, the small details, the little moments that made up her life. He listened intently, his responses peppered with teasing remarks and genuine concern.

As they talked, the weight in her chest began to lift, replaced by a sense of calm she hadn’t felt in days. Lando had that effect on her. Always had. Even from thousands of miles away, he could make her feel like everything was going to be okay.

—You know,— she said, interrupting his story about a particularly frustrating testing session, —I really do miss you.—

—I know, baby. I miss you too. More than you know.— His voice was soft, vulnerable. —I’ll be back before you know it. Then we can… you know… make up for lost time.—

She laughed, the sound light and carefree. —You’re unbelievable.—

—Unbelievably in love with you,— he countered, his voice earnest. —And unbelievably ready to see you again.—

—Me too, Lan,— she whispered, her eyes drifting closed. —Me too.—

They talked for another hour, the conversation drifting from lighthearted banter to whispered confessions. By the time they finally hung up, the sun had set in Los Angeles, casting long shadows across her bedroom.

Amelie lay in bed, a soft smile playing on her lips. She still felt a little raw, a little shaken, but the anxiety had receded, replaced by a sense of peace.

She wasn’t ready for a baby. Not yet. But she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that when the time came, she and Lando would face it together. They would figure it out, just like they always did.

And maybe, just maybe, they’d even be good at it.

She drifted off to sleep, the sound of Lando’s laughter echoing in her ears, a comforting reminder that no matter what happened, they had each other. And that, she realized, was more than enough.

[meyhew]

are we on trial? | a glimpse into the night before andrew testifies

Nausea squeezes his stomach like a noose and Aaron wills the tequila to slide down his throat instead of coming back out. Katelyn’s fingertips scratching soft patterns along his scalp is the only reason he succeeds. 

“You sure you don’t want to sleep?” 

She has asked this too many times now—first when Dan and Matt were still here, then when they left and Aaron picked a movie without looking from Matt’s endless collection, and again when he got up from the couch for more of Matt’s alcohol. On any other night Aaron would tell her to quit it, but tonight he can’t. Tonight the sound of her voice is the one thing keeping him tethered to some semblance of sanity, even if it is to ask the same question again and again. 

Aaron shakes his head in a silent no. He knows what sleep will bring. Red hands and scarred wrists, his brother sitting in a pool of blood, Aaron’s-reflection-Andrew trapped in a mirror touching his temple, the sound of Andrew’s maniacal laughter chasing him out of his own head until he thrashes awake in his bed. He’d rather spend the night wide awake putting poison in his body.

As though sensing where his thoughts have drifted to, Katelyn says, “Have you told him I won’t be there tomorrow?” 

“Not yet. He’s been in a foul mood.” 

They all have, which surprised him. He knows his teammates well enough by now to have expected their indignant anger, but he wasn’t expecting their sadness. Dan’s lack of focus or Allison’s bitchiness toned down—it has all left Aaron a little dazed. Even Neil has curbed his antagonism, though that shouldn’t be a shock considering his very loud opinion about the uselessness of the trial. It doesn’t do much to earn him Aaron’s respect, but for once at least their resentment isn’t directed at each other. Their glum faces are an unexpected balm, though Aaron would sooner slit his throat than admit it to them.  

Katelyn pries the bottle of tequila from his hand and puts it a safe distance away. She turns the TV off and the remote disappears somewhere in the now-dark room. 

“Any more, and you’ll be throwing up all morning,” she says, not unkindly. 

Aaron sighs. He knows she’s right; he bulldozed past his safe limits an hour ago. The couch they’re on is small, but making it to the bed right now seems impossible. He turns his face towards her and Katelyn welcomes his weight. There are moments when disbelief takes over rational thought, this being among them. How is this real for him? How does he get to have her? It feels to good to be true, like one of these days she’s going to realize how fucked up he is, how fucked up his life is, and she’s going to walk away from him like she should have months ago. Instead, she’s there everyday, an unwavering presence by his side. 

He kisses her exposed collarbone and Katelyn presses a hand to the back of his head, holding him close to her. Not that she needs to. Not that he wants to be anywhere but here. 

“I can come by the courthouse at the end,” Katelyn murmurs. “If you want me to, obviously. Go somewhere.” 

As tempting as the idea is, he knows it’s a bad one. Maria and Luther will be there. That cop from Oakland will be there. Andrew’s would-be mother will be there, the one Aaron shut the door on. The ghost of his own mother lingering in different bodies. He doesn’t want Katelyn to have to see them, not until she must. 

Are you protecting her or Andrew? 

“I’ll find you afterwards.” 

She doesn’t take offense to his rejection and Aaron loves her more than he did a moment ago. “Do you want to talk to him?” 

him him him him him

“He’s probably asleep.” Even as he says it, he knows it’s not true. And, really, what’s there to say? 

“You won’t know unless you try.” She fishes around for something and a moment later offers him his phone. 

Aaron shakes his head. 

Katelyn gently pushes him back. “Well, go. I’ll be right here.” 

For a moment that stretches out indefinitely, they gaze at each other with something unsaid hovering in the air between them. Then Aaron leans in for a kiss, a tether, and Katelyn opens her mouth to him without hesitation. Her hand is warm on his cheek when she shoves him lightly. 

“Baby, go.” 

Aaron’s legs feel leaden as he trudges out of his room and towards his brother’s. He bypasses the lock for the keys in his pocket. Andrew didn’t want Aaron to have a spare and Neil didn’t see the point, but Aaron had insisted. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words that had been clawing at his insides. Sometimes he still gets stuck in his useless body in that house in Columbia, locked out of a room his brother was bleeding in, laughing at his own pain. He knows it won’t happen again—it can’t happen again—yet the disconnect between his heart and his brain is unbearable. The words died within him, but it didn’t matter. Andrew understood his silent plea demand and dropped a key on his open textbook one afternoon. 

They have never talked about it and Aaron has never used the key. 

Now he pushes the door open to find Andrew sitting in the window. It’s such a familiar sight it draws Aaron up short. 

Andrew has to testify tomorrow—today—and he’s sitting cross-legged in the window with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He doesn’t turn at the sound of the door opening, doesn’t give any indication he even noticed it, and Aaron doesn’t need him to. He stands there without saying anything and Andrew keeps smoking. 

Is that how miserable I look right now? Aaron wonders. 

Andrew looks the same as he always does, or so it seems; the line of his spine is rigid, a light trembling to his hands Aaron can spot even from the doorway. His brother is not a person who shakes. 

“Stay or go,” comes Andrew’s voice. 

Aaron closes the door behind him and crosses his old room towards the window. He hops up to squeeze on the sill across from Andrew. 

“Where’s Neil?” 

Andrew doesn’t look his way. “Sleeping.” 

“So why aren’t you?” 

Eyes the same as Aaron’s slide his way. The fear, the rage, the irritation that’s been bubbling up underneath Aaron’s skin is nowhere to be seen in Andrew’s bored gaze. Aaron ignores his silent why aren’t you? and grabs the pack of cigarettes at Andrew’s knees. He waits for a warning, a hand to snatch it back from him, but nothing comes. Andrew lets him have his way and Aaron pushes a stick between his lips. 

Almost-reflections. Like looking at himself in clear lake water: a distorted, blurry, almost-image of himself. Where Aaron is wearing a white Palmetto crewneck, Andrew is in his signature all black getup, arm bands and all. Even now, even here. Not that Aaron wants to see the mangled skin on his twin’s arms. Every time he remembers it, he thinks, that could’ve been me. He saved me from ending up like him. 

He wonders if Andrew gets them, too. The bad dreams. It seems unlikely for his shield of a brother to be haunted in his dreams, but they are too alike. Case in point: sitting here speeding up their death instead of preparing for the reckoning tomorrow. Aaron really should stop smoking. It’s not a good look for him, but it’s an easy crutch. And it’s the only way he can sit with Andrew. 

“Katelyn’s not going to be there tomorrow,” he says. 

Andrew cuts him a vicious look. “She is not doing me a kindness. I do not need it.”  

“Jesus, Andrew. Who, then, if not you?” 

“The intricacies of her psyche are not my problem.”

“You could say thank you.” 

“Fuck you.” 

They don’t thank each other. Why should they? His blood is his blood is his blood. Sometimes Aaron wonders if they were put together in the hospital, the way many twins are paired up for skin to skin. Because they’re not used to being alone. Because they naturally reach out for each other. Because being pressed up chest to chest releases oxytocin. Did he and Andrew have that? Or were they separated before they even got to know each other’s smell? He wonders if that’s why there’s sometimes this empty pocket inside of him where nothing else seems to fit. 

He wants to ask what Andrew will say tomorrow. So many versions of the truth and only one that will matter to people: Aaron killed a man. Wouldn’t matter to them that his brother was lying on a bed with his pants at his ankles, blood streaming from his face. Wouldn’t matter to them that Andrew never asked for any of it. He was Andrew Minyard and they already knew the kind of man he was. Of course his brother would be the same. Of course they’re both the same. 

Aaron doesn’t ask. They don’t speak at all. But it helps Aaron to know that Andrew can’t sleep either. 

[lokisprettygirl]

Come As You Are (Eric Draven! Bill Skarsgard's Version x Female Reader) (18+) (Slight Au)

Read Chapter 10 here //Series Masterlist

Chapter 11

Summary : Melody's arrival brings a realisation.

Warning: 18+, smut, dirty sexual thoughts,, Description of self harm, dry humping, drug use, Eric is a past drug addict with suicidal tendencies, self harm, use of cuss words, description of claustrophobia, reader is in her early thirties, mention of sexual assault, death and murder, Consumption of alcohol and weed, periods

Eric returned late that night, he didn't have any of the answers that he was looking for. Kronos just left him to his own devices and told him that this was his fight, that he couldn't really change his fate by warning him about every danger out there that awaited him, he chided him that he'd never find his soul if he knew everything that was going to happen to him or the people around him..

Kronos also reminded him that reunion with his soul would be a journey, it will come in pieces when he will be loved truly by another soul.

Bullshit..all of that was bullshit. Besides he had given up on finding his soul again.

Now he had his ex girlfriend living in his current girlfriend’s apartment and he had no idea who the fuck this Roeg lookalike was or where exactly to find him.

He opened the door of your apartment as discreetly as he could as it was late and you must have been asleep. As he entered he saw Melody sleeping on the couch, that couch wasn't comfortable, he needed to do something about that but right now he needed to see you.

Your bedroom was unlocked so he entered quietly.

Melody opened her eyes and watched the bedroom door closing, a sense of irritation creeped into her nerves. He didn't even check on her? Didn't even come to her to ask if she was feeling okay? That bothered her alot.

You were sleeping in your usual attire and that made him smile. God you looked perfect like this. He still couldn't believe how easily you had accepted his reality. No screaming, no overreaction, no calling him crazy, you just owned it and you were still willing to be by his side, not just that but you accommodated Melody even though he knew you didn't like her much. He'd have despised it so greatly if it was one of your exes just lounging in his apartment right now.

He took off his hoodie and the shirt before he climbed into the bed to submerge in your warmth. He didn't want to ruin your sleep but you made it difficult at times, he turned you on your back gently and looked at your face for a moment before he leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingered on your skin longer than he intended to.

And as you felt his touch you opened your eyes,

“You're back or it's a dream?” You asked him in your groggy sleepy voice so he chuckled.

“Told you I'd be back soon”

“Come here” one of your arms curled around his back while the other caressed down his back as you pulled him closer, he couldn't resist anymore so he placed his lips on yours, wanting to have a taste of you, you were safe and in his arms but he was afraid he had put you in such grave danger.

His fingers mindlessly slipped under your tank top making you gasp in his mouth as his thumb brushed over your now erect nipples. It wasn't your fault you found yourself always turned on when he was so close to you, touching you like this, kissing you as if he couldn't live without it.

“Did you meet him? The Kronos guy?” You asked him so he nodded but didn't respond “Mmmm okay ummm-”

“Shhhhh not now” he shushed you.

Okay Daddy. Whatever you say.

“I just need to know..if you're feeling okay” you asked softly so he smiled.

“I'm good baby ..as long as you are safe”

Next morning when you woke up, for once he was still in the bed with you so you admired his sleepy form and gave him a bunch of kisses before getting out of the bed to go to the living room.

You wanted to see what Melody was upto. As you stepped out of the room you saw her pacing back and forth, arguing with someone on the phone.. perhaps that actor who put the ring on her. Bill something..now that you thought about it he kind of resembled Eric with his tall frame and big eyes.

Maybe she had a type or Maybe she was trying to fill a void Eric had left behind.

“Uhhh do you mind?” She said as she looked at you so you scurried into the bedroom again.

Wait a second, this was your apartment. How dare she?

As you closed the door Eric turned around in his sleep, trying to pat with his hands in an attempt to find you next to him, when he didn't he opened his eyes immediately so you crawled into the bed and got on top of him.

“Where did you go?” He asked you so you shook your head.

“Nowhere”

He could barely keep his eyes open due to the sleep and you found him really adorable like that, especially when the kohl around his eyes were all smudged. That's what he used, a kohl pencil. Made his eyes pop he said, he also said that it made him look really dangerous but you weren't really sold on that reasoning.

“Eric..i have a question about your immortality” you said to him so he chuckled, considering how nosy you were he was surprised you hadn't bombarded him with questions since he had revealed his truth.

“Since you're not technically mortal…would I get pregnant if you cum inside me?” His eyes were wide open now as you asked him so nonchalantly.

“Y/n..baby it's 9 in the morning” he said as he cupped your cheeks and made you lay down on his chest as he chuckled “I don't know we will have to test that theory someday” he said, making your face flush in response.

“Hey?” He said, ”Can you not go to work today?”

“They'll fire me baby..I just took the week off”

“I just don't want you out of my sight..”

“I do need to earn though..I hate my job but I need money” you sighed. You would have loved to stay here with him all day but you had bills to pay.

“I'll get you money..I'll get you all the money..i have plenty of it baby” You smiled as he said that so softly.

“Yeah? Going to be my sugar daddy?”

“Yeah..I'll take care of you sweetheart, just give me some time of yours ..I just need time to make sure it's safe out there for you okay?”

“Mmm so I'll just play house with your ex while you're out all day?”

“I know it's not ideal..I just can't risk your safety. I'm sorry I brought you into my messed up life” he mumbled, his voice tinged with a sense of vulnerability so you pressed your head up to peck his lips.

“I clearly remember forcing my way into your life..besides i don't care as long as I have you..I'm here for you baby”

After you both showered, separately, much to your disappointment, he didn't think he would have kept his hands off you if he saw you soaking wet and completely naked from head to toe and doing something sexual while his ex-girlfriend was in the next room made him feel a certain way.

“I will get breakfast..don't cook” he said to you as he kissed your forehead so you nodded.

He didn't even look at Melody as he stepped out and you couldn't tell if it was indifference or she just reminded him of their past and the realisation that she wasn't his anymore. You deluded yourself into believing that it was indifference.

After making the sick call at the diner, you were in the kitchen making a cup of tea when Melody walked in.

“I need some water” she said to you so you pointed towards the fridge.

She just gave you the snotty rich girl vibe that you didn't like, you had googled her thoroughly, her mother was apparently a famous model or something before she committed suicide so she was always rich.

“Still writing notes huh?” Melody spoke as she looked at one of the notes Eric had left behind on the refrigerator door for you. You often kept them in a box but due to your cousin's wedding you had been pretty distracted for the last two weeks.

“Yeah..” you said to her, not knowing what else to say.

So he used to write notes for her too? Okay so what? That was part of his personality..it's just something he did.

“So how did you two meet?” she asked you as she leaned against the refrigerator.

“Well he moved in front door..”

You answered. She let out a snicker so you looked at her,

“Sorry i just thought you'd tell me a grandeur love story”

Bitch!!!!!

At Least you didn't meet him in a rehab, made him escape with you, threw him back into drugs again and then got him killed by a devil worshipper.

“Well that's just how we met..I'm just glad he was in a better place when we did..not doing drugs and all anymore” you said to her and you could see her face falling apart at the comment. That was a cheap shot you took but she was asking for it.

You had yet to hear a small thank you from that you were allowing her to be in your apartment

Half an hour later Eric returned and placed her breakfast on the coffee table.

He brought waffles for Melody.

“You still remember,” Melody said to him as she smiled. “Waffles with no cream”

Ahh so that's why he didn't like it either.

“I just have a good memory,” he said to her before he walked into the kitchen so she rolled her eyes. She hated how dismissive he was to her even though he knew her life was in danger now.

“Hey baby..i got you waffles.. lots of cream and fruits” he said softly as he kissed your cheek so you smiled.

“What did you get for yourself?” You asked him so he shrugged

“I ate at the breakfast place..don't worry” he zoned out for a bit so you stood in front of him and cupped his cheeks to make him look at you.

“What is it?”

“Nothing baby ..I just ..are you sure you don't want to get yourself out of this mess?” he asked you, his voice trembling with fear as if you'd just up and leave.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.. of course not. Don't even think that I'd ever want that”

“Then you have your answer ..i told you I don't abandon people, especially not those i love..and i have never loved anyone as much as I love you” he placed his hand around your waist and pulled you closer as you said that. A part of you feared he asked that question because he was having second thoughts about you now that Melody was here. You wished your insecurities weren't so deeply rooted in you but you had been abandoned so many times that someone like him choosing you felt too good to be true.

“I love you” he murmured.

And those thoughts did die down for a moment when he said those words so earnestly.

You and Eric spent your day in the bedroom while Melody was in the living room all alone, in the evening your doorbell rang and it startled you because nobody visited you. Like ever. Never. The only person who ever came on your door was usually Eric and he was right next to you right now.

“Stay here okay?” He said to you but you followed him into the living room, you saw Melody looking at the door nervously as well, a part of you felt bad for her in that moment.

As Eric looked through the peephole he turned around to look at you, confusion written on his face.

“It's your friend Dina?” he mumbled almost under his breath so you ran towards the door to see yourself.

“What the hell?” you exclaimed as you didn't know why she was there.

“Ummmm you both should go to the bedroom..hide” you said to him so he nodded before he looked at Melody and she followed after him, a bit too excitedly for your liking.

“Heyyyyyyy” you mumbled an exaggerated greeting as you opened the door.

“Thank God..I need to rant and you didn't come to work.. Laura said you had hepatitis or whatever..you look fine to me..anyways -” she said it all in one breath.

“Nooooo.. I do have hepatitis. Okay? I caught something during the family visit..don't think I can work for like a week now ..it's so bad”

You coughed to sell your act even though you didn't really need to cough. Should have googled hepatitis symptoms. Why did you even pick hepatitis? Does hepatitis even-

“Anyway get well soon girl..is your neighbour home?” She winked at you so you shrugged nervously. He was definitely home.

“No..not home…definitely not my Home .. imagine that..him being here” you chuckled nervously so Dina agreed.

“Such an asshole that man-” she rolled her eyes as she strutted inside and sat down on the couch.

“Big ass .. big and firm” you retorted.

“But so hottt though..god I had a dream about him last night” she said.

Eric was standing at your bedroom door with his ears pressed up against the frame but he couldn't hear much more than you trying to do something out there that you were exceptionally bad at. Lying.

As he turned around Melody was right behind him so he bumped into her.

“Why are you sneaking up on me like that Jesus” he whispered to not make his voice loud.

“Sorry-” she said as she looked up at him. “You haven't changed at all ..still look the same as the day I saw you last” she said to him so he walked past her to sit down on the bed.

“Perks of immortality” he mumbled, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“Do you still go to that lake we used to visit?” She asked as she sat next to him so he groaned.

“We don't need to do this okay?”

“What?” she feigned the look of confusion.

“This.. catching up like we are long lost friends” he snapped.

“I always wanted to stay in touch with you...it was you that-”

“Stay in touch after you no longer wanted me as your lover? Are you fucking kidding with me?” He grumbled under his breath, it was getting harder to not raise his voice.

He was happy with you, he had moved on, he is happy with you, why did she have to come back like this and fuck with his head?

*******

“So then I told him that obviously you asked me out on a date then you are going to pay, i don't see how I am wrong here..anyways then he went on and on and on about how he didn't like girls who weren't independent and I'm like bitch I'm a waitress..I'm independent but willing to be dependent if the right offer comes along-”

Dina did what she did best..she blabbered.

Somewhere along the line you had zoned out completely and not even listening to her, your mind was distracted by the fact that Eric and Melody were in your bedroom together. You didn't trust her for some reason, the way she had been looking at him since she had come made you feel utterly insecure. She had it all but apparently that wasn't enough for her.

Maybe she indeed loved him and he just became too much for her, however you didn't understand her decision to leave him, you couldn't wrap your head around it, that man lost his soul for her and she just left? You could just imagine his sad little face, the look of dejection when she finally told him that she was done, just thinking about it made you want to hold him.

*******

“You left and never looked back Melody, you could have found me if you wanted to, like you did now, but you moved on, got yourself a shiny husband-to- be so don't you dare give me those looks now okay?” He said to her firmly but he felt like a jerk as her eyes welled up and she placed her head into her palms.

Great. Now what was he supposed to do?

He just stood there and allowed her to cry and luckily ten minutes later Dina was gone so you opened the door and saved him from the awkwardness of it all.

He stepped so fast out of there and into the living room, didn't even look at you, as you looked at Melody and her sullen face you realised that they must have had a serious conversation.

She glared at you before she got up and followed Eric into the living room.

“Give me the keys to your apartment, I don't want to stay here” Eric sighed as she said that to him, he contemplated for a moment before he shoved the key in her palm..she'll be next door, he can keep an eye on her from here. She didn't need to be in the same house. He was capable of protecting her now.

As she left you walked towards him.

“Are you -” you began but before you could finish he interrupted you.

“I'm fine y/n..don't hover over me okay?” He said as he took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up, his voice was snappy and it did hurt you but you didn't respond, instead you turned around and went to the bedroom.

If he needed space he just had to ask for it, but not like this, especially not now when you felt so afraid of losing him, it made you feel so pathetic and so unwanted.

He sighed deeply and sat down on the couch to calm his nerves before he got up and walked into his apartment. Melody was sitting on the couch.

“Let's not argue..i don't want that, you still matter to me” he said to her honestly so she nodded.

“Sit down..” she said as she patted the spot next to her so he thought about it for a moment before he sat down. “I know what will make us feel better,” she said as she took out a packet from her bag. He recognised those yellow pills really well..

“I thought you quit,” he said to her as he grabbed the packet from her hands to inspect it.

“I did, it's just the stress because of Roeg or whoever he is-”

He chuckled as she said that, she told him that he hadn't changed but then she hadn't changed much either. Still the same Melody that loved to indulge in her own self destruction. One would think she'd value her life more after dying once.

“I can't do this anymore” he said as he gave it back to her so she looked at him perplexed as if he had said something so absurd.

“You're immortal now, it's not going to matter”

“It does matter.. i have been clean for years, can't fall back to the old ways..and I can't do this to her, she believes so much in me even though I have never deserved it from her” her jaw clenched as he was clearly referring to you. Just listening to him talking about you like this irritated her.

“Ofcourse” she gave him a fake smile. He knew he needed to apologise to you for his behaviour just now so he got up.

“Call if you need anything..lock the door” he said to her before he made his way straight to your bedroom.

As he entered he found you all bundled up on the bed, sniffling, and his heart clenched.

“Baby-” his voice was dripping with tenderness now as he crawled into the bed.

“Are you going to leave?” You asked him between the tears and his heart just about broke.

“Where would I even go?” He asked as he turned you on your back and wiped your tears with the pad of his thumbs.

“I know she's important to you and you perhaps still love her..I don't want to come in between if you do.. I'll go..i just want you to be happy” his eyes welled up as he heard your broken voice.

“Stupid baby..so stupid..so selfless and so stupid” he mumbled as he cupped your cheeks to kiss you as deeply, and as passionately as he could. Words wouldn't be enough so he just wanted his touch to remind you what you meant to him, how special you were to him, he'd never leave you, he'd never put you through the pain he had been through once, not even for the woman he sold his soul for.

Your arms curled around his neck as you pulled him into a tight hug.

“I love you..” he whispered between his gentle kisses so you nodded. “You're so adorable baby..I love you so much, you're stuck with me I promise. I'm so sorry i didn't mean to hurt you”

He kissed down slowly until he had settled nicely between your legs, his mouth working until he had you crying again but from pleasure this time, he felt it all so deeply for you, love, lust, affection, all in such equal amounts.

How could you possibly think he'd just let you go? Break you so cruelly, he was no longer capable of it.

Next morning he was helping you in the kitchen since he was the one who kept you stuck at home all day, while chopping the vegetables he had cut his fingers with the knife. He wasn't a pro afterall, chopping up bad people was somehow much easier.

As you noticed the blood you grabbed his hand immediately and dragged him to the sink to run the cut under the cold water, all while glaring at him for being so careless.

“It's going to heal baby..your sauce will burn to crisp..go” he chuckled as he leaned down to kiss you so you groaned before you went back to the stove.

He turned off the tap, that's when he noticed that his blood had turned red before his wound closed up slowly.

And then came the epiphany.

His soul was in remission and he knew it was because of you. Only you.

❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️

Taglist: @m-riaa @erebus-et-eigengrau @peachychyy @enchantresss97 @fandomxo @mariaenchanted @mariaenchanted

[oneforthemunny]

you mentioned rockstar eddie watching her have their babies and still being obsessed ofc, and i’m wondering how janitor eddie would be, esp if she was feeling self conscious

so here's my thoughts on this, because i love janitor!eddie from the bottom of my heart, but... he's a little ball of anxiety and sometimes it makes the situation soooo much worse. like he gets in his own head, and stays in his own head, won't tell you what's going on just starts acting weird, so you think it's you and in reality, he's just in need of prozac lmao.

since oliver was adopted, there was no "down period" ya know? if anything, i think watching you be a mom to him and be sweet to him and kind and loving, it made eddie even fucking more insatiable than before in the most love sicken devoted way.

after you gave birth to olivia, it was different. through the pregnancy, he'd already been a little nervous with you. there's a full blurb about it, where he's nervous to touch you because he doesn't want to hurt you. bless him, there's not a lot out there at the time (early 90s) about having sex and being pregnant lol. so he's just scared. better to stay hands off than hurt you. which in the blurb, doesn't last because once you tell him you want to and it's ok, he's actually feral.

but after olivia, the doctor tells the usual, no sex for this six weeks or it can hurt you. eddie, ofc, asked a million questions about every single thing (turned a thirty minute visit into an hour and a half), but specifically about what could happen, how would you know if you're healed, what did they do to verify that everything was good, was there a test- like a million questions.

six weeks turns into eight, and it's really not too bad because you're both exhausted and literally collapse into each other. but around ten weeks, the routine is becoming more normal, olivia's sleeping through the night, you both feel like you can catch your breath, but eddie's still so distant with sex? like everything else is so good, but if you try to initiate, kiss him a little deeper, make yourself into the little spoon and back your ass up on him, he stills and shuts it down.

by eleven weeks, you're frustrated. by twelve, almost three months, you're hurt. wayne kept the kids for the night, wanted to give you two some alone time and wanted to spend time with his grandbabies, and you think it's perfect. you're about to go back to work, and it seems like a good time to "break the seal" so to say.

you have a dinner at home, he cooked, wined and dined you, is so so soooo fucking sweet and lovey. you're on the couch, watching a movie, but really making out like you used to. you can feel him, feel him getting hard, and when you try to make a move, he starts like panicking. apologizing, and trying to hide it.

"fuck, i-i'm sorry. i don't, just gimme a second, an-and i'll-"

"-so do you just think i'm disgusting now?" tears in your eyes, you're beyond hurt. you'd heard so many stories about men who saw their wives give birth and didn't want to have sex anymore, deemed them gross, but you never in a million years though eddie- your sweet, kind, perfect eddie would be one of them.

eddie is on the brink of an anxiety attack, because ???? why would you think that? you're the prettiest, most beautiful girl in the world to him, and he tells you so.

"then why... why are you not wanting to have sex?" you blubber around your tears. hormones still wild even after, emotional from the hurt too.

"i know you're hard. i can see it." you point to his crotch, his semi still prominent. "so it's me."

"no, no. what? no." eddie thinks he might throw up, head spinning so fast. "it-it's not you-"

"-yes it is! why else wouldn't you want to? it's because i had a baby, and-and you think-"

"-don't." eddie's throat is tight, swallowing his heart. "it's- i- i just- i don't want to hurt you."

"hurt me? you are hurting me. you're hurting my feelings because you won't even touch me."

eddie does nearly throw up, swallows bile and it's like his world is turned up side down. he was so fucking scared, petrified, of having sex with you after and accidentally ripping something. that maybe you weren't healed, that the doctor made a mistake, and he'd fuck you and cause you to like, internally bleed and die or something insane. or that he'd just hurt you, that it would hurt and he'd hear you in pain, and he'd never forgive himself.

you'd just given him everything he ever wanted, made the ultimate sacrifice out of love, and he would not- could not hurt you over that. if he did, he'd genuinely be unable to live with himself.

after he finally just tells you that, instead of being so fucking weird, you calm him down. tell him it doesn't hurt, that you'd let him know if it did.

"just... just use your fingers first. and if it hurts, we can stop and i'll go to the emergency room. i promise. you won't hurt me." you tell him, gently cupping his cheek.

and really, it didn't take much convincing after he finally spilled what had been eating at his mind, once you soothed him. i mean, he had also been in agony. every time you'd take off your top or bend over to pick up a toy, he'd have to run to the bathroom because he was so fucking hard.

it was never unattraction, it was genuinely just his own mind and anxieties and spiraling.