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d1stalker · 9 months ago

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All of You, All of Me [Logan Howlett]

Summary: In a world of black and white, the only person who could bring colour to your life is the last one who'd want to.

Warnings: au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, fem!reader, slow burn, angst, running away from feelings, pining, grovelinggg WC: 14.2k - MASTERLIST - A/N: help i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to get this long, but this fic is my baby

----

You've always cherished the idea of having a soulmate—someone who would love you unconditionally, waiting just for you as you them. The thought of finding that perfect match, the one who complements you in every way, is something you’ve always dreamed of.

But as you get older, the hope you carry seems to dwindle more and more each year. Everyone around you has found their other half, reveling in the newfound ability to see colours in all their glory, and soaking up every moment of shared affection.

Everyone, except for you.

Your world remains a stark, colourless void, as if the universe is deliberately withholding the one thing you desire most.

And to make matters worse, despite not finding your soulmate, you are unequivocally, irrevocably in love with someone who has.

Logan Howlett.

You can’t remember a time where you didn’t feel anything toward him. His rugged, lone-wolf demeanor snuck its way deep into the crevices of your heart, and made itself a home there.

You and him formed an unlikely friendship, formed through the desire to fight back against all the people who’ve wronged mutants. Over the years, you had accepted the fact that while he wasn’t yours, at least you were alone together. Well, until she came.

Jean Grey.

She was strong, charming, and everything you felt you weren’t. It was no wonder her and Logan were meant to be together—the stoic, brooding mutant and his graceful, strong-willed counterpart.

You remember the day it happened so vividly, it’s almost like you were the one who found their life partner. You and him had been walking around the mansion, when Charles had called you into his office to meet someone new. One look at their faces when they made eye contact and you knew you’d lost him.

It pained you to see them all over each other, all the time. Your once-regular walks in the garden became rare, then vanished entirely. On missions, he no longer looked out for you; his attention was consumed by protecting her. And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t deny they seemed perfect for each other—just as soulmates should be. You had no right to feel jealous.

Then, just as quickly as she had entered his life, she left it.

The Pheonix was too strong, ripping her apart from the inside out. The pained scream he let out as not only his heart died, but as the world around him faded back into black and white, was forever ingrained into your memory.

Logan was never the same after that.

—

You trudge down the familiar halls of the mansion, your feet heavy with the weight of the day. It’s been long, filled with training sessions, team meetings, and a lot of paperwork. All you want to do is retreat to your room, lose yourself in a book, or maybe just sleep until the ache in your chest dulls.

As you walk, you hear faint commotion down the hallway—a low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something being moved. But you pay it no mind, too lost in your thoughts to care. Another mission, another discussion, another moment where you aren’t needed. It’s all so routine now.

Lost in your reverie, you don’t notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, the impact jolting you back to reality.

“Oh, sorry—” you begin, stepping back, but the words die on your lips as you look up.

It’s Logan.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, shock rippling through your body as you process his presence. And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, taking him in—the man who was once your closest friend, the man who was torn apart by grief and loss. His clothes are rumpled, his skin rougher than you remember, like he’s been through hell and back.

You hadn’t seem him in a long time. After the devastation, he stopped talking to everyone. He holed himself up in his room for days at a time, only coming out in the dead of night to eat. Either that, or he was away on a mission–anything to stay distracted.

But now, looking at him, there’s something different off. Something you can’t quite place your finger on. Did he always look like that? Maybe it’s the way the light above is reflecting off of him. Or maybe it’s—oh.

Looking around in surprise, you watch as the usually dark, stoic walls explode into a deep, rich shade. The carpet below you—no longer a mural of grey—radiates colors you can’t name. Your hands, his eyes, his hair-

You want to open your mouth and say something, anything, to the man who has caused your world to shift on its axis, but he’s already turned, walking away from you.

“Give me a fuckin’ break.”

----

Brown. Logan’s hair is brown.

After Logan leaves you paralyzed in the hallway, you run to your room, find the book on colors you had stashed in your bedside table, and throw open the cover. In it is a diagram that displays every known colour and their names. You learn that your favorite pair of pants are maroon, your bedsheets are navy green, and the X-Men suits are bright yellow and blue.

You stare at the page, each word blurring as your mind tries to process the impossible. Logan’s hair is brown. The thought keeps repeating in your head like a mantra, over and over again, until it becomes a steady thrum, drowning out everything else.

Brown.

You sit back on your bed, letting the book slip from your hands, the pages crumpling as it hits the floor.

Why him? Why me? Why now?

You begin to fidget, the adrenaline of the prior moment causing your heart to flail in your chest like crazy. You can’t stay here, you think to yourself. The idea of locked in your room with only your thoughts for company does not sound appealing. You need air, something to ground you, something to clear the haze clouding your head. Without thinking, you jump out of bed and find yourself heading up to the roof, the one place where you can breathe without feeling like the walls of the mansion closing in on you.

The trip up the stairs feels longer than ever before, each step heavy under the weight of your mind. It’s like every thought adds ten pounds. When you open the door, the cool night air hits you like a welcomed slap to the face, and you exhale deeply.

Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing. You’re in a daze - wondering if you made up the entire thing in your head. The only proof that you haven't, and that Logan being your soulmate is real, is the colours that coat the mansion’s grounds. The moonlight bathes everything in what you now know as a soft, silver glow, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking out into the distance.

It doesn’t make sense, and the more you try to wrap your head around it, the more tangled your thoughts become. You don’t want to face the possibility of what it could mean, but you can’t just brush it aside either. It has quite literally changed your entire life.

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet your racing mind. But when you open them again, you freeze.

Logan is standing at the other end of the roof, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sky. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and for a split second, you consider turning back, retreating before he sees you. It would be a wise idea - he didn’t want to talk to you then, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to you now. But, it an act that can only be seen as your own body betraying you, you take a step forward.

The sudden movement catches his attention, and his head snaps in your direction, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Why are you here?” he asks accusingly.

You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Seeing him out here was the last thing you had expected, and now that he’s in front of you, you are at a loss of words.

Logan’s eyes narrow, and he pushes off the wall, walking toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I needed air,” you manage to say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just needed to clear my head.”

“Well, find somewhere else to do it,” he snaps, “I don’t want company.”

“Logan, I—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, not even bothering to hear you out. “Don’t start. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it.”

You blink, taken aback, and hurt at his coldness. “What are you talking about?”

He lets out a low, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? God, I… this is all so fucking stupid.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

“Enough!” he barks, his voice echoing in the night. “I’m not interested, alright? Whatever it is you think is happening between us, it’s not real. It’s just some stupid trick of the universe, and I’m not playing along.”

His words hit you like a physical blow - like you’ve just been shot at right in the heart - and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snaps at you, “And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like there’s something here,” he gestures between you two, “when there isn’t. You’re not mine, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

The finality in his tone leaves you breathless, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. You have nothing to say back, he’s not giving you any slack. The reality of his rejection sinks in with a brutal, crushing weight, you have to put in effort to not stumble over.

After a long moment, you finally collect yourself. Then, “Okay,” you whisper. “I understand.”

Logan’s expression doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows colder, more distant.

“Good. Then stay away from me.”

You nod, eyes filling with tears. You quickly turn your face away, not wanting him to see just how much he’s hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge your apology. He just turns away, his back to you, effectively shutting you out.

You stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away for the second time that night. The colours that seemed so vibrant, so full of life just a moment ago, now feel like a cruel reminder of everything you could never have.

—

When you eventually return to your room, all you can do is lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your encounter with Logan on the roof replays in your mind on an endless loop, each harsh word he’d thrown at you cutting deeper than the last. It’s causes pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, pain that seems to have no end, no respite.

If he doesn’t want you in his life, you’ll accept that. You have to - it’s not like you have a choice. Soulmates are a two-way street.

You can’t force him to feel something he doesn’t, can’t make him see you in a way he clearly never will. And you understand, don’t you? You can’t even imagine how difficult this would be for him. Losing your soulmate, and then the universe saying Fuck You and giving you another?

You’ll never ever forget how wrecked he was when Jean died. How her death shattered him into pieces so small you weren’t–no–you’re still not sure he’ll ever be whole again.

And you—where do you stand in the grand scheme of things? Just as the unfortunate recipient of a bond that neither of you asked for? Are you even allowed to be upset about this?

—

Waking up the next morning, you honestly wish you hadn’t. You knew you weren’t on good terms with Logan after his little rooftop showcase of emotions, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts to treat you.

His face is stuck in a perpetual scowl when you’re in his vicinity. He’s leaving every room the moment you enter, refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge your presence in any way. It’s as if you’ve become invisible, a ghost haunting the same halls you once shared with him. There’s only one thing you two seem to wordlessly agree on: don’t tell anyone.

Each day following becomes a struggle, an unbearable test of your strength as you try to make it through without breaking. You begin to avoid Logan as much as he avoids you, but the mansion is only so big, and there are always moments when you catch sight of him in the distance, his broad shoulders hunched, his brooding face glaring daggers in your direction.

It hurts you every time, an unending torture that leaves you stumbling. Still, you bite your tongue and keep moving, pretending you don’t care.

But you do care. You care more than you want to admit, more than you think is possible. Because despite everything—despite the rejection, the coldness, the anger—you still love him.

And that’s the cruelest twist of all.

So you endure it, day after day, week after week, month after month. Letting it tear you apart piece by piece, because what else can you do? You carry this burden alone, just as you’ve carried your feelings for him all these years. And maybe one day, the pain will fade, the bond will weaken, and you’ll be able to move on.

—

The only person you tell is Charles.

“What’s on your mind, my child?” he asks one day, while you’re sweeping the dust in his office.

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to your hands as you focus on cleaning. You know he’s just asking out of courtesy, and that he could easily crawl into your mind and figure it out himself. He probably wouldn’t even need to put in that much effort, given how loud your thoughts are. But still, you don’t yield to his probing.

“Nothing, really,” you mutter, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just… tired, I guess.”

Charles watches you carefully, his eyes full of the warmth and compassion he always has, but this time, it makes you feel uncomfortable. Like he can see right through the facade you’re trying so hard to maintain, which you have no doubt, he does.

“I’m here to help, whatever the burden.”

You want to groan. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose but damn does it feel like he’s trying to guilt you into confessing that you just recently had your heart shattered.

“I know, Professor. But… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“You forget, I worry about all of you,” he replies gently. “It’s in my nature.”

The chuckle that crawls out your throat is nothing short of bitter. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay. Do you really want to explain to him the insurmountable suffering you’re in, the rejection you faced from the one person who is supposed to be your soulmate? How can you tell him that the bond the universe forged is the very thing tearing you apart?

“It’s just… I don’t know how to make sense of it, Professor,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s so… wrong.”

He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Wrong how?”

Knowing that you’re teetering into confession territory, you hesitate, needing time to collect your thoughts.

“Logan… he… we… It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?” you eventually get out. Not your best work, but you know he’d get the gist.

Understanding dawns in Charles’s eyes, and you can see the sympathy there, the quiet acceptance of the truth you’re struggling to voice. “The bond you share… it’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”

You nod, feeling the tears well up again. “But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me.”

The professor sighs softly, and he looks at you like you’re a lost puppy. “Logan has been through so much, more than most could bear. His heart has been wounded in ways that are difficult to heal, and it’s not surprising that he would resist this new connection.”

“So why me?” you ask. “Why bind me to someone who will never love me?”

Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully, he says, “I wish I had an answer for you, my dear. The universe works in mysterious ways, ways that often defy our understanding. But I do know this: the bond you share is there for a reason. Whether it’s meant to bring you closer or to teach you something important… that remains to be seen.”

“It feels like a punishment,” you whisper, the tears finally spilling over. As much as you hate being put on the hot seat, you can admit that it feels good talking to someone about it. “Every day, it hurts more. And he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“The heartache you’re feeling is profound, but you must understand that it’s not your fault. Logan’s reaction isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of his own pain and fear.”

He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your own before continuing.

“To love, even when it’s not returned, takes incredible courage. But you must also take care of yourself. Give Logan the space he needs, and in the meantime, allow yourself the grace to heal.”

So you do. In the days that follow your conversation with Charles, you make a promise to yourself—to try, really try, to focus on your own life, to reclaim the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by the pain of this unrequited love.

The colours are still there, vivid and vibrant, and though they sometimes feel like a bittersweet reminder of what could never be, you find moments where they bring you joy. You marvel at the deep blue of the sky, the rich greens of the trees, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and paints the world in golden hues. It’s like seeing the world anew, and in those moments, you allow yourself to feel happiness.

Moreover, you busy yourself, volunteering for every assignment that comes your way. The adrenaline, the focus, the purpose—they all help to drown out the pain, even if only temporarily. And when you return from each mission, tired but satisfied, you feel a little more like yourself again.

The mansion, too, becomes less of a prison and more of a home once more. You start spending more time with the others, rejoining them for meals, for training sessions, for movie nights.

You laugh with Rogue, spar with Scott, and even find yourself engaging in playful banter with Remy. It’s not perfect, and there are still moments where you catch yourself faltering, when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under, but those moments are becoming fewer and farther between.

You’re healing, slowly but surely, and with each passing day, you feel a little stronger, a little more in control of your life—of your emotions.

But then there are the times when you cross paths with Logan, and those moments are the hardest.

One evening, after returning from a particularly grueling mission, you find yourself heading toward the kitchen, your mind on the sandwich you plan to make. The place is quiet, most of the team out on various assignments, or finishing up on some work, and you relish the peace as you walk down the corridor.

However, just as you reach the kitchen door and push it open, you find Logan standing there, preparing to exit the room at the exact same moment. Your heart lurches, and you stop dead in your tracks, almost like a deer caught in headlights.

His gaze meets yours, and all you can see is his impassive, stoic expression. He steps back, giving you space to enter, but the tension between you is palpable.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Logan doesn’t say anything, barely nodding—if you could even it that— before brushing past you, his shoulder grazing yours. The brief contact sends a jolt through your system, and you have to force yourself to stay still and not physically react.

Once he leaves, you let out a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the encounter. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him—so long since you’ve seen the deep brown of his hair that you love so much. You hate this.

Why does he have no reaction to at all? Why is it only you who seems to care?

Because you are the only one who does care.

You move into the kitchen, still intent on eating, but it’s a challenge. Your hands are trembling.

—

It all comes to a head one night during dinner. In this rare occasion, both you and Logan are in the same room. You’re supposed to be celebrating Rogue and Gambit’s anniversary, and even though you insisted that they share this special moment together alone, they didn’t take no for an answer.

That’s how you find yourself, sitting at the grand dining table with all your friends, and Logan.

He’s across from you. Just your luck.

He refuses to spare you a single glance, his eyes staying busy the whole night. And while it’s been months and months of this, you have never gotten used to it. Still, you can’t help but sneak a few looks at that chocolate-coloured hair. Brown.

Everything seems to be going smoothly, the food is delicious and the dessert even better, but when Gambit presents Rogue with a giant painting, that’s when you slip up.

“I love how you blended the red with the blue!” You compliment, loving the way he managed to create the perfect contrast between shades. You’re too caught up in staring at the artwork to realize the table as gone deathly quiet, all eyes on you.

Rogue's expression is one of gentle confusion, her head tilted slightly as she tries to make sense of your words. “Darling, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”

In any other situation, you’re sure the team would have laughed at how comically large your eyes got, and how all the blood draining from your face makes you look like a gaping fish, but in this moment, nothing is funny. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, and when you finally muster the courage to glance at him, you see that his all-too familiar glare you’ve been subject to for the last half-year. It makes your heart thud painfully in your chest

“I…” you begin, but you falter. Your mind is going through a thousand thoughts per minute, searching for an excuse you can use to deflect, to pretend it was just a mistake, but the silence is too heavy, too demanding.

Rogue’s confusion deepens, her gaze flickering between you and Logan, who is now staring at you with an expression that’s impossible to read. She starts to say something, but Remy gently places a hand on her arm, shaking his head slightly as if to tell her to let you speak.

Logan’s gaze stays locked on you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and before you can react, he stands up and walks out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and the tension in the room thickens. You feel a rush of embarrassment flood through you, your heart sinking as the reality of what just happened crashes over you.

You lower your head, your eyes stinging with tears that you fight desperately to hold back. But it’s no use. The emotions you’ve been trying to keep buried for so long bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the tears start to fall.

“I think I need a moment,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling as you stand up from the table. Without waiting for a response, you hastily excuse yourself and head for the door, not before mumbling a quick apology to the couple in which you were there for.

Soon you find yourself outside in the gardens, the nightly breeze hitting your face as you make your way to a secluded bench. You can’t even appreciate the beauty in what you see, because all you feel is the overwhelming sense of failure and sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.

Sitting down heavily on the bench, you bury your face in your hands and let go. The sobs come hard and fast, each one ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. You’re heartbroken and angry and absolutely over it, but at the same time you feel like a massive asshole because who are you to be upset with a man who’s mourning the loss of a soulmate?

It’s not fair.

You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in your grief, but eventually, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, wiping at your eyes, and see Scott walking toward you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, unable to find your voice, and Scott sits down beside you on the bench.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

Scott clicks his tongue in disagreement, his gaze focused on the gardens ahead. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s clear you’ve been carrying this burden for a long time. It’s no wonder it slipped out tonight.”

“So everyone knows now?” you ask. He nods.

“It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” he concludes, and you groan, bringing your hands to your face.

“I just… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be pitied.”

“Pity isn’t what anyone feels right now,” Scott says softly. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been hurting, and we didn’t see it. That’s on us.”

“It’s not your fault,” you bring your hands down from your face. “I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I thought I could handle it, but… clearly I was wrong”

With a serious expression, Scott turns to look at you. “I know what you’re going through, more than you might realize.”

You glance at him, surprised by his words. “You do?”

He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was in love with Jean, remember? When her and Logan found out they were soulmates… it tore me apart. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, and for a long time, I couldn’t.”

The mention of Jean’s name brings a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, but there’s also a strange comfort in knowing that Scott understands your pain. “How did you… how did you get through it?”

He sighs, “It wasn’t easy. It took a long time, and I had to accept it.”

You wipe at your eyes again, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Taking a longer mission, just to get away for a bit. Maybe then I can figure out how to move on.”

He is quiet for a moment, considering your words. “If that’s what you need to do, I understand,” he says, “sometimes, a change of scenery can help. Though I think you should try to talk to Logan again.”

Letting out a bitter laugh, you shake your head. “I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me. He’s made it pretty clear how he feels.”

“He’s hurting too,” He decides, “He’s not handling it well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You both need closure, and running away won’t give you that.”

“What if it just makes things worse?”

“It might.” Scott places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “But it might also give you both the chance to start healing. You deserve that chance.”

You nod slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Take the time you need,” he says. “We’re all here for you.”

“Thanks, Scott. That means a lot.” You offer him a small, grateful smile.

With a final nod, he turns and walks back toward the mansion, leaving you once again alone in the quiet of the gardens. You take a deep breath, the idea of leaving still tugs at you, but now, there’s also the thought of confronting Logan—of finding some kind of closure, whatever that might mean.

You really don’t want to do it, and you’re pretty sure it’s just going to end the same way it did last time - with him shutting you out. But Scott’s words echo in your mind, reminding you that healing often requires confrontation, not avoidance.

Goddamn it.

You huff as you stand up from where you’re seated. You can’t keep running from this, can’t keep letting him run from this. You need to talk to Logan, to lay everything out on the table, even if it tears you apart in the process.

Your anxiety builds with each step as you approach his room, and you pause outside his door, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he could hear it if he was listening. This is it. There’s no turning back now. With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand and knock.

There’s a long, agonizing pause, making you strain to hear any movement on the other side. For a second, the silence causes you think he might not answer, that he might just ignore you like he’s done so many times before. But then, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. Your heart catches in your throat as it slowly opens, revealing Logan standing there, his expression hard and unreadable.

The moment he realizes it’s you, his eyes darken, and he immediately moves to close the door, shutting you out yet again. However, you’re not letting him get away that easily. Before the door can fully close, you stick your foot out, blocking it with more force than you intended.

“C’mon, Logan,” you press. “You know we need to talk.”

He freezes, his grip on the door tightening until his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, nostrils flaring. He still doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he can will you away if he tries hard enough. But he doesn’t push the door shut either. The room is thick with suspense, both of you standing there in a silent standoff.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, Logan steps back, opening the door just a smidge wider, barely enough for you to squeeze through. It’s a reluctant invitation, but it’s all you need.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice rough, edged with irritation. “Talk.”

You step into the room, and he closes the door behind you, lingering close to it, as if he’s ready to bolt at any second. You feel vulnerable and exposed. It’s suddenly hard to gather your thoughts when he’s standing so close, when the heat of his presence and the distance he’s placed between is right in your face.

“Why did you come?” Logan questions. He still refuses to look directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“Because we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening,” you reply, “We need to talk about what’s going on between us.”

His jaw tightens further, and his teeth grind with barely contained frustration. He finally looks at you, his eyes hard and defensive. “There’s nothing to say,” he says bitterly. “I told you how I feel. I thought that was enough.”

“It’s not enough!” you shoot back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just push me away, pretend like this bond doesn’t exist, and that’s supposed to solve everything? It doesn’t work like that, Logan.”

He flinches slightly at your words, but his keeps his expression hard. “Well what do you want me to say?” he demands, his voice rising. “That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt you? Because I am, and I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be what you want me to be.”

His words hurt.

“I know you told me how you feel,” you start, “but you’ve never let me tell you how I feel. You’ve never given me the chance to say that it’s been tearing me apart.”

A flash of guilt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you needed to say it. I already knew.”

“That isn’t fair,” you argue.

“You don’t understand,” he counters, “I lost Jean. I loved her, and when she died, it broke something in me. And now… now I’m supposed to just… move on? With you? It’s not that simple.”

“I never asked you to love me, Logan,” you say, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. “I never pushed for anything more than friendship—it’s not like you gave me the chance! You’ve been shutting me out, ignoring me, making me feel like I’m nothing more than a burden, like I don’t even matter!”

You can see that the pain in your voice hitting him hard, but he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he looks away, his expression conflicted. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters, the words sounding hollow even to him

“Protect me?” you echo incredulously. “All you’re doing is make me feel like shit. Like I’m worthless. I can’t even be your friend, to help you through this.”

You pause. “You expect us all to know how you’re feeling, but you can’t even communicate it.”

Logan winces, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, filled with a torment you’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get caught in his throat. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he admits, his tone filled with a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t know how to let you in. Without her, I feel like… I can’t let anyone in.”

Your eyes soften a fraction his confession, but there’s also a deep frustration that burns inside you, a frustration born of months of pain and rejection.

“You haven’t even tried,” you say softly with a quiet resignation, “You haven’t even tried to let me in, to see what we could have been, even if it was just as friends.”

What follows is a long, nagging silence. You let it linger, giving Logan the chance he needs to think of something to say. But there’s no answer, no promise that things will change, and then you realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not going to take that step, too broken to try.

That’s when it really hits you.

Whatever you were fighting for, was a losing battle from the start.

You give up.

This time, it is you who turns your back on him.

“Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself.”

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t glance back. You walk out of the room, the door closing softly behind you, and with it, the last remnants of hope you had for something more.

—

You decide to go on the mission.

It’s nothing complicated. Your task is to survey different regions of Europe, ensuring that there are no burgeoning anti-mutant operations threatening the safety of anyone. The primary goal is gathering information, and quiet observation. No violence, Charles told you in the debrief.

The lack of immediate danger doesn’t make leaving any easier, though. This is as much about finding yourself as it is about fulfilling your duty.

Rogue and Kitty are with you during your final preparations, helping you pack the essentials and offering support in their own ways. They don’t ask many questions, probably sensing that this decision was not just made on a whim. And for that, you’re grateful.

“I still think you’re crazy for going solo,” Rogue says with a half-smile as she zips up your bag. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

You manage a small smile in return. “Thanks, Rogue. I just need some time…”

Kitty, who’s been quietly folding clothes and tucking them into your bag, looks up, seriousness clouding her gaze. “We get it. Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And don’t hesitate to call if you need backup.”

“I promise,” you assure.

She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small device—the X-Men communicator gadget. She holds it out to you, and you reach your hand out.

“Here,” she says softly, pressing the device into your hand. “This is so you can update us on your whereabouts, your status, or any important mission details. Even if you don’t need anything, just… let us know you’re okay, alright?”

You look down at the communicator in your hand, and close your fingers around it, nodding as you meet Kitty’s gaze.

“Alright, I’ll check in regularly. I won’t leave you guys in the dark.”

Rogue finishes the last bit of organization. “You’ve got this,” she says, “And we’ve got your back, even from a distance.” You nod, appreciating their support more than you can express.

It almost feels like a walk of shame—leaving the mansion. Everyone knows why too, and that makes it a thousand times worse. But you won’t let it get to you. With one last look, you get in your car and begin on the windy path to the airport.

—

When you arrive in Europe, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Each city, each town, has its own unique charm, its own story to tell. The bustling uphill streets of Porto, the serene canals of Venice, the ancient ruins of Athens—they all offer a distraction from the turmoil inside you.

The only good part about this whole mess is that you can see colour, and truly appreciate the sights before you.

You move from one place to the next, blending in with the crowds, quietly observing, gathering information, and sending brief updates to the team through the communicator Kitty gave you. Every message is short, to the point, just enough to let them know you’re safe and on track. You don’t share much beyond the essentials, not wanting to burden them with your personal struggles.

Then, in a small café in Rome, you meet a man named Marco. He’s a traveler like you, exploring Europe with a curiosity that matches your own. He’s warm, easygoing, and before long, the two of you strike up a conversation over coffee.

He is charming in a way that makes you feel at ease, his laughter infectious as he shares stories of his travels. You don’t tell him much about yourself, keeping the details of your mission and your mutant abilities hidden. To him, you’re just another traveler, searching for something—though he doesn’t pry into what that something is.

As the days pass, you and Marco continue to cross paths, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t know about your past, about the things you’re running from. With him, you can be anyone, and for the first time in a long while, you start to feel a little lighter. You find yourself laughing more, the weight on your chest lifting a little each day. You don’t talk about the mission, and you certainly don’t talk about Logan.

One evening, as you’re both sitting on the steps of the Spanish Steps in Rome, watching the sunset, he turns to you with a grin. “So, where are you off to next?”

You hesitate, not wanting to reveal too much, but then you smile. “I’m heading to Florence. There are some places I need to check out.”

His eyes light up. “Florence? I’ve been meaning to re-visit. Mind if I tag along?”

A part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance you’ve carefully maintained, but another part—the part that’s been lonely for so long—nods in agreement. “Sure, why not?”

—

Back at the mansion, things haven’t been as positive. The once lively atmosphere has dimmed, replaced by an uneasy tension that lingers in the halls. The X-Men carry on with their duties, but there’s a noticeable shift—a missing piece that everyone feels but no one talks about. Logan, in particular, has become even more withdrawn, if that’s possible. The man who was once brooding and distant now seems even more so, his mood volatile and unpredictable.

His behavior has become a source of concern for the team. He’s always been rough around the edges, but now, it’s like the slightest thing can set him off. He snaps at everyone, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. On missions, he’s reckless, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, as if he’s trying to outrun something—or someone.

In many evenings, Logan finds himself in the mansion’s gym, trying to work off the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for months. The room is always empty, save for him, the steady rhythm of his fists pounding against the punching bag being the only sound. Sweat drips down his face, his muscles straining as he channels all his frustration and anger into each punch. Yet, no matter how hard he hits, he can’t seem to shake the thoughts of you that have been haunting him.

This night, door to the gym creaks open, and Logan doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He can sense the other man’s presence, feel the weight of his gaze as he steps inside. He doesn’t slow his punches, doesn’t acknowledge Scott’s presence, but he knows why he’s here. They’ve had this conversation before—or something like it—but nothing’s changed. Nothing’s gotten better.

Scott watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He’s been watching Logan spiral for weeks now, but he’s kept his distance, knowing that he’d only be pushed away. But this can’t go on—Logan can’t keep doing this, can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he refuses to confront.

“She wouldn’t want this,” he finally says, voice cutting through the steady thud of Logan’s fists against the bag.

Logan’s movements falter for just a second before he resumes, his jaw tightening. “Who?” he growls, not bothering to turn around. “Her or Jean?”

Scott doesn’t flinch at the harshness in the other man’s tone. He steps closer, his eyes steady on their target as he answers, “Both.”

Finally, Logan stops. His fists still as he leans against the bag, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His shoulders are tense, the weight of Scott’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s lost—of who he’s lost.

Taking a step closer, Scott’s voice is firm. “Look, I’m not a spiritual person. But I also don’t think the universe messed up with this.”

Clenching, his fists, Logan knows what the other man is getting at, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Doesn’t want to think about what could have been, what he’s been too scared to even consider.

“I know you know how I felt about Jean,” Scott says quietly, knowing he’s breaching a sensitive subject. “Losing her… it killed me too. And if I had been given a chance—a real chance to be with her, to make things right—I would have taken it. No hesitation.”

Logan’s breath hitches at that. The truth is, he’s been running—running from you, from the bond you share, from the possibility of something real.

“I’m not saying you should chase after her,” he continues. “But I am saying that you need to stop running from her. The universe doesn’t just throw things like this at us for no reason. And you know that.”

The weight of Scott’s words settle over Logan like a shroud. He knows the other man is right—deep down, he’s always known. But that doesn’t make it any easier. The fear, the guilt, the pain of losing Jean—it’s all still there, gnawing at him, holding him back.

There’s something else too, something he’s been trying to ignore but can’t any longer: the way he feels about you, the way he’s always felt, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. One of the first thought’s that ran through his head when his world re-erupted into colour was that, had this happened before Jean, maybe it could have worked. Maybe he could have been what you wanted, felt something real.

Scott takes a step back, giving Logan the space he needs. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “Think about what you really want. And don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”

Logan doesn’t respond, but Scott doesn’t need him to. He’s said what he needed to say, and now it’s up to him to decide what comes next. With a final look, Scott turns and leaves the gym, the door closing softly behind him.

The clawed mutant stands there for a long time, his fists still clenched, his mind racing. He knows he can’t keep doing this—can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he can’t change, something he’s too afraid to confront.

But change is terrifying, especially when it means facing the truth. The truth that maybe, just maybe, the bond he shares with you is something worth fighting for. Something that Jean wouldn’t want him to throw away.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Logan finally lets his fists unclench, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely knows where to start—but he knows one thing for sure: he's can’t run away anymore. Not from this, not from you.

—

You’ve now spent days in Florence, wandering through the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the works of the Renaissance masters, and evenings enjoying the quiet serenity of the Arno River. With you, Marco. You’ve grown to trust him. He’s never made you uncomfortable, never had any intentions to take advantage of you, and knows all the best restaurants.

But there’s always been a small, nagging doubt that you’ve pushed aside—a feeling that something isn’t quite right. You’ve ignored it, convincing yourself that you’re just being paranoid after everything you’ve been through. After all, he has been nothing but kind, always knowing the right thing to say, always showing up just when you need someone.

It isn’t until the two of you are exploring a quieter part of Florence, that the doubt flares into something more. You’re walking through an old, narrow alleyway, the kind that tourists rarely venture into, when Marco suggests you take a shortcut through a small, unmarked door in the side of a building.

“I found this place the last time I was here,” Marco says, his smile as easy as ever. “It’s a hidden gem, leads right to a beautiful courtyard. You’ll love it.”

You hesitate, something in his tone—or maybe it’s the way his eyes gleam just a little too brightly—sets off alarm bells in your mind. You’ve come to trust him though, haven’t you? You’ve traveled together for weeks, shared countless stories and laughs. Surely, he wouldn’t lead you into danger.

Still, as you step through the door, the darkened space beyond immediately feels wrong. The air is colder, damp, and the walls are lined with strange, unidentifiable equipment. You glance back at Marco, and that’s when you see it—the change in his expression. The warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.

Before you can react, you feel a sharp prick in your arm. Your vision blurs, and your body goes numb almost instantly. You stumble back, trying to push away, but your legs give out, and you collapse to the floor.

Marco looms over you, the smile gone from his face, replaced by a look of triumph. “Did you really think I didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a mutant, and you thought you could hide it from me?”

The world around you spins as the drug takes full effect, but you force your mind to stay focused. “What… why?” you manage to whisper, the betrayal cutting deep.

“Why?” He laughs, the sound harsh and devoid of any warmth. “Because mutants like you are worth a fortune. My clients pay top dollar for… research subjects. And you, my dear, are about to make me very, very rich.”

You try to move, to fight back, but your body refuses to respond. Panic rises in your chest as he kneels beside you, pulling out a small device that looks like a portable scanner. He runs it over you, and it emits a low hum as it registers your vital signs, confirming what he already knows. You’re weak.

“You won’t get away with this,” you say.

“Oh, but I already have,” he replies with cruel satisfaction. “No one knows where you are. And even if they did, it’ll be too late by the time they find you.”

With the last bit of strength you can muster, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you fumble with the X-Men communicator that Kitty gave you. His attention is momentarily distracted as he prepares a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and you seize the opportunity. You manage to pull out the communicator, your fingers barely able to grip it. Then, with a deep breath, you press the SOS button, the screen flashing to life.

You type in the message as quickly as you can, your vision blurring even more as the drug takes hold.

Location: Florence.

Message: Help.

Just as you hit send, Marco notices what you’re doing. His eyes widen in anger, and he grabs your wrist, yanking the communicator out of your hand. “You little—!” he snarls, but it’s too late. The message has already been sent.

His face contorts in rage as he slams the gadget against the ground, smashing it to pieces. He glares down at you, his hand tightening painfully around your wrist. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time.”

Your strength is nearly gone, the drug pulling you into unconsciousness, but you manage one last defiant look. “You won’t win,” you whisper with the last of your energy.

Marco releases your wrist with a sneer, standing up and looking down at you with contempt again. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters before turning away, leaving you on the cold, hard floor as darkness overtakes you.

You can only hope they—that Logan—will reach you in time.

—

The signal comes through during a meeting. A sudden, loud beep cuts through the room, and everyone freezes, their attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound. To Kitty’s pocket. It’s the X-Men communicator, the one linked to your device.

Logan’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the tone. He’s on his feet before anyone else can react, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice tense with urgency.

Kitty quickly pulls it out of her pocket, her eyes widening as she reads the message that’s flashed across the screen. Her face pales, and she looks up at the others, her voice trembling as she speaks. “It’s from her… Florence… Help.”

There’s a brief pause, maybe a second long in length, and then the room erupts into a flurry of movement.

Chairs scrape against the floor as the team rises to their feet, already preparing for action. But Logan is the first to react, his face a mask of fury and determination. “I’m going,” he growls, already heading for the door.

“Logan, wait!” Scott steps forward, blocking Logan’s path with a firm hand on his chest.

“Get out of my way, Summers,” He snarls, his voice filled with barely controlled rage. “I’m not waiting around while she’s in danger.”

“We can’t just rush in without a plan,” Scott insists, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Logan shoves the other mutant’s hand away, his eyes blazing with anger. “She sent an SOS, Scott! She needs help, and we’re wasting time standing here talking about it!”

The rest of the team watches the confrontation with anxious eyes, knowing that things could easily escalate. Logan’s been on edge for weeks, and the urgency of the situation—of you— has pushed him to the brink.

“Logan,” Ororo interjects, “We understand how you feel, but we need to think this through. If this is a trap—”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s a trap!” He snaps, his voice rising. “She’s part of our team! We can’t just leave her there!”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Scott tries to reason, but Logan isn’t having it.

“Then what the hell are you sayin’?” He demands, his frustration boiling over. “Why are we wasting time when we should be getting her out of there?”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then it’s Rogue who steps forward, conflicted. “Logan… what if… what if she doesn’t want to see you?”

He freezes, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. He stares at Rogue, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls.

Rogue swallows, her eyes filled with worry. “She left because she needed time, Logan. Because things between you two… they weren’t good. Maybe she—maybe she doesn’t want you to be the one to save her.”

Clenching his hands into fists, his body is taut with tension. “Fuck that!” he roars with a fierce, protective rage. “She’s part of our team! She sent that message to us, to the X-Men, because she needs our help. I don’t care what’s happened between us, I’m not leavin’ her there!”

The room falls silent, the weight of Logan’s words settling over everyone. They know Logan is right—she’s part of the team, and they can’t leave her behind. But they also know that the situation is more complicated than that.

Scott takes a deep breath, his gaze steady as he looks at Logan. “We’re not saying we shouldn’t go after her, Logan. We’re saying that you need to be prepared for whatever we might find when we get there. She might be in a bad place, and she might not be ready to face you.”

“I don’t care,” he says after a brief pause, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I’m going to get her out of there. Whether she wants to see me or not, I’m not lettin’ her go through this alone.”

Scott studies Logan for a long moment, then finally nods. “Alright. But we do this together, as a team.”

Logan nods, his jaw set in a grim line. “Fine. Let’s go.”

—

Your eyes snap open, the dim light of the room piercing your vision. You’re in a large, abandoned warehouse. Your head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton, and there’s a dull, throbbing pain at the base of your skull. As you try to move, you realize with a jolt of fear that you’re restrained, your arms and legs strapped tightly to a chair. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the bonds, but they don’t budge.

And then you see him—Marco, standing a few feet away, watching you with a smirk that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, and you realize with horror that you’ve been caught, trapped in whatever twisted game he’s been playing.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “I was starting to wonder if I’d given you too much of the sedative. But it seems you’re tougher than I thought.”

You try to respond, but a gag in your mouth muffles your words, turning them into incoherent sounds. You glare at him your eyes burning with fury.

He only chuckles, clearly amused by your resistance. “Oh, don’t bother trying to speak. We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now would we? Though, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to send that little SOS before I caught on. Clever, but ultimately futile.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, his expression turning cold. “You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of mutants in my time, but there’s something special about you. Something… unique.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Too bad your powers won’t do you any good here. The drug I gave you should keep you nice and powerless for the foreseeable future.”

Straining against the bonds, you continue to try to break free, but he drug in your system dulls your abilities, leaving you feeling weak and vulnerable. All you can do is stare at him with hatred as he continues to taunt you.

“Such fire in your eyes,” Marco murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the light of day again. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your abilities are put to good use.”

He lets go of your chin, his hand trailing down to your shoulder in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you a little more… compliant.”

Just as he reaches into his coat pocket, presumably for another syringe, a sudden, loud crash echoes through the warehouse. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of energy blasts and the heavy thud of boots on the concrete floor.

The X-Men have arrived.

Marco’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in anger. He spins around, barking orders at the security guards scattered throughout the warehouse. “Stop them! Don’t let them get near her!”

The guards rush forward, weapons drawn, but they’re no match for your friends. The familiar sounds of battle flood your ears—Rogue’s powerful punches, Scott’s optic blasts, and Storm’s lightning crackling through the air. You struggle against your restraints again, desperate to free yourself, but it’s no use.

Then, you catch a glimpse of Logan. He’s fighting his way toward you, his claws out, slicing through anyone who gets in his way. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your eyes meet his, and you can see the raw determination in his gaze. He’s coming for you.

But just as he takes a step forward, something changes. He hesitates. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but you can see the conflict on his face—the way he seems to second-guess himself, the way his steps falter. Your heart sinks as you realize he’s unsure, almost as if he's torn between wanting to save you and fearing that you don’t want him to.

In that split second of hesitation, Rogue swoops in, landing beside you with a determined look on her face. She doesn’t waste any time, using her strength to tear through the restraints that bind you. “We’ve got you, sugah,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring as she pulls the gag from your mouth. “You’re safe now.”

You nod, your throat too dry and your body too weak to speak. Your muscles scream in protest as you try to stand, but she quickly wraps an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You’re shaky, your body still reeling from the effects of the drug, but you’re free. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan still standing there, his eyes locked on you, his expression unreadable. He wanted to save you. He wanted to be the one to pull you out of that nightmare, but something held him back.

Rogue helps you toward the exit as the rest of the team continues to subdue the guards and Marco. You lean heavily on her, your legs barely able to support your weight, but you force yourself to keep moving.

And when everyone else has back in the jet, hugging you and comforting you, you look over to Logan, who sits far away, on the opposite side, refusing to meet your gaze.

—

Returning to the mansion feels like stepping back into a familiar, comforting embrace. You missed the soft, warm bed in your room, the quiet serenity of the gardens, and the comforting presence of your friends. It's been a few days since the whole ordeal in Florence, and the drug has finally worked its way out of your system. Your strength has returned, and physically, you feel like yourself again. The mansion, too, seems unchanged—still the safe haven you’ve always known.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice that while many things have returned to normal, some things have not. You’ve seen most of your friends, their faces lighting up when they see you, their hugs tight and full of relief. There have been quiet conversations and laughter, shared meals in the kitchen, and moments that remind you why this place is home.

Except, there’s one person you haven’t seen. Logan.

His absence is like a shadow that follows you wherever you go. You’ve felt his presence in the mansion—heard his voice in the halls, the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards—but he’s kept his distance. He hasn’t sought you out, hasn’t tried to talk to you, and that stings more than you want to admit.

You’ve tried to stay strong, to remind yourself of the resilience you found during your time away. You’ve reminded yourself over and over that you don’t need anyone else to validate your worth, that you can stand on your own. Yet the longer Logan avoids you, the harder it is to hold on to that strength. The old wounds, the ones you thought had begun to heal, start to ache again, and you can’t help but wonder if anything has really changed at all.

More often than not, you find yourself retreating to the front lawn. The sun is warm on your skin as you lie down in the grass, a book in hand. The soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of life inside the mansion create a peaceful background, and for a moment, you manage to lose yourself in the pages of your book.

Still, even here, in the sanctuary of the garden, the thoughts you’ve been trying to push aside keep creeping back in. The memory of Florence, of Logan’s hesitation, lingers like a bitter aftertaste. You replay the moment over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why he stopped, why he didn’t come for you.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until a deep, familiar voice breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

The voice startles you, and you jerk slightly, looking up to see Logan standing above you. His expression is guarded, as if he’s not sure how you’ll react to his presence. There’s a tautness to his posture, a stiffness that you recognize all too well.

For a moment, you just stare at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of his appearance. He’s as rugged and intimidating as ever, but there’s something different in his eyes—something a tad bit softer. You close your book, sitting up slowly as you meet his gaze. The question that’s been gnawing at you since Florence rises to the surface, and you know you can’t keep it inside any longer.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “In Florence?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, his gaze shifting to the trees in the distance. He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, thick with unspoken words.

You just watch him, waiting for an explanation, but there’s a part of you that’s already bracing for disappointment. You’ve been here before, waiting for Logan to decide what happens next, to take the lead. And you’re tired of it. You’re tired of being the one left in the dark, of being the one who has to wait for him to be ready.

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “I… I hesitated,” he admits huskily, almost in a growl. “I wanted to save you. Hell, I was going to. But then… I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

His confession hangs in the air, and you feel a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and sadness. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realized that his hesitation was rooted in something so painfully human.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” you ask softly, searching his face for answers.

Logan finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. “Because of everything that’s happened between us. Because I pushed you away. I hurt you, and I thought… maybe you’d be better off if it wasn’t me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of his reasoning. “Logan, this can’t keep being about what you think is best,” you begin. “And it’s not about who saves who. It’s about being there when it counts. You were there. You came for me.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, at least not right away. He looks down at the ground, his fists unclenching, his shoulders slumping even further. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of everything he’s done, everything he’s failed to do, and it’s crushing him.

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to get out. “For everything.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know I’ve messed up,” he continues. “I know I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try to make things right.”

You know you should be happy—this is everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for so long. But it’s also too much, too late. The doubt, the pain, it can’t just disappear with a snap of your fingers.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” you admit.

There’s pain on his face. “I get it,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, if it means I can earn your trust back.”

“I need time. I need time to figure out where I stand, and where you stand with me.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground again. “Take all the time you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I appreciate that,” With a small nod, you stand up, brushing the grass off your clothes. “I need time,” you repeat, more for your own benefit than his.

“And you’ve got it,” Logan replies. “As much as you need.”

—

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. You focus on yourself, on healing the wounds that were reopened during your conversation with Logan. It feels strange, being the one who needs space, but you know it’s necessary. You find things to take your mind off him: you train more, read more, spend more time with Rogue, Kitty, or Remy. It’s nice.

But Logan… Logan doesn’t give up. He knows you need time, and he respects that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure you to make a decision, but he makes it clear through his actions that he hasn’t forgotten about you, and more importantly, that he isn’t going anywhere.

It starts with the small things—things so subtle that you almost don’t notice at first. You probably wouldn’t have suspected anything if you hadn’t known the kind of person he is. He’s nothing if not persistent. He knows you better than you realize—the rift he created after Jean’s death muddling with your memory—and he uses that knowledge to quietly, almost imperceptibly, work his way back into your life.

In the mornings, you wake up to find your favorite snacks waiting for you in the kitchen, carefully placed where you’d be sure to see them. He never mentions it, never takes credit, but you know it’s him. It’s in the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you take a bite, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never makes a big deal out of it—just a quiet, unspoken gesture that says, I’m thinking of you.

Then there are the late-night training sessions. You go down to the Danger Room or the gym, hoping to clear your mind with a bit of solitary exercise, only to find Logan already there. At first, you’re tempted to leave, to find somewhere else to work out, but something in his demeanor stops you. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t speak unless you initiate it. Instead, he just… exists beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, like a rock in the storm.

It’s in these moments that you begin to see a different side of Logan—one that’s patient, understanding, and perhaps a little unsure of himself. He follows your lead, mirroring your exercises or silently spotting you during weightlifting, always attentive to your needs without ever making you feel pressured or overwhelmed. He’s just there, offering his support in the quietest, most understated way possible.

And then there are the little surprises in your room—small, thoughtful gestures that you can’t help but notice. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing suddenly appears on your nightstand, its pages pristine and waiting for you to dive into. The time-worn leather straps on your gear are suddenly replaced with new ones that fit perfectly, the stitching unmistakably done by Logan’s hand. Even your plants, the ones you’d worried would wither away while you were on a mission, seem to thrive in your absence, the soil freshly watered and the leaves turned toward the sun.

He never asks for thanks, never draws attention to what he’s doing. It’s all done quietly, behind the scenes, as if he’s afraid that if you notice too much, you might push him away. But you do notice. How could you not?

At first, you try to ignore it, telling yourself that these gestures don’t change anything, that they’re just a way for Logan to assuage his guilt. You tell yourself that he’s just doing this because he feels bad, because he wants to make up for the past, not because he actually cares. You’ve built walls around your heart for a reason, and you’re not ready to let them down just because he’s being nice.

But over time, those small gestures begin to chip away at those walls, brick by brick. You start to realize that Logan isn’t just going through the motions—he’s really paying attention, noticing the little things that make you who you are. It isn’t just about the snacks or the books or the plants—it’s about the way he remembers the details of your life, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel seen and understood.

After a particularly long and stressful day, you return to your room exhausted, and all you want is to collapse into bed and forget the world for a while. But when you walk in, you find a small bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your nightstand, the beautiful colors a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that have been swirling in your mind all day. There’s no note, no explanation—there never is—but you know who left them.

You just stand there, staring at the flowers, your heart squeezing in your chest. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it means so much. You’d forgotten that Logan knew how much you love wildflowers—you’d mentioned it once, years ago. The way they’re resilient, thriving even in the harshest conditions, blooming where others wouldn’t. It’s as if he’s telling you that he sees that strength in you, that he admires it.

And it’s then, in the quiet of your room, surrounded by the small, thoughtful gestures that Logan has left behind, that you realize something. This isn’t just about making up for the past. Logan is showing you, in the only way he knows how, that he wants this. Wants you.

He's finally picked up the pieces of him that fell apart after Jean’s death, and he is willing to pick up the pieces of you that fell apart after his rejection.

So, one evening, months after that fateful conversation on the lawn, you find yourself standing in the common room, staring at the fireplace, lost in thought. The mansion is quiet, the rest of the team either out on a mission or asleep. It’s just you and the flickering flames, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.

But when you hear footsteps behind you, heavy and deliberate, you know instantly who it is. Without turning, you can sense his presence, the way he moves with that quiet confidence, the way the air seems to shift when he is near. Logan has always had a way of grounding you, even when you don’t want him to.

He walks up beside you, stopping just short of touching you, his warmth radiating in the small space between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask why you’re here or try to force a conversation. He just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, waiting patiently, giving you the time you need. It’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him in recent months—his newfound ability to just be, without pushing or demanding more than you’re ready to give.

"I’ve been thinking," you say finally, your voice soft, as you continue to gaze into the flames.

"Yeah?" Logan asks, his tone careful, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.

You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’ve been… different. Doing all these little things… I see them, you know."

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, you see hope there. "I just wanted you to know that I care. That I’m sorry," he says, with so much emotion. “You were never a burden to me.”

You swallow hard. "It’s hard for me, Logan," you admit, "I’ve been hurt before, and I’m scared. Scared that if I let myself love you again, you’ll just… break me."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I’d never hurt you again," he says, "I’d rather cut off my own damn hand than hurt you. The past is the past, and you are my future."

That’s enough to make your walls crumble completely. You know, deep down, that Logan is telling the truth. That he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.

And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you let your actions speak for you. You close the distance between you, standing on your toes as you press your lips to his in a gentle, tentative kiss. Logan freezes for a split second, as if he can’t believe this is really happening, but then he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, holding you as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is slow, tender, full of everything that has been building between you for so long. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a promise, a commitment to try again, to rebuild what has been broken. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling with his, you rest your head on his shoulder. "I’m still scared," you whisper.

"I know," Logan replies, his arms tightening around you. "But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow, darlin’. Whatever you need."

You nod. "Okay."

Logan smiles then, a real, genuine smile that makes your heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s a smile full of relief, of gratitude, of love—a smile that tells you that he understands just how much this moment means, just how much you’re giving him by letting him back into your heart.

—

The time that follows is a slow, steady journey of rebuilding trust. Logan is true to his word—he is patient, understanding, and surprisingly tender in ways you hadn’t expected. The small gestures continue—coffee waiting for you in the morning, a gentle hand on your back during missions, quiet moments of companionship where no words are needed.

You can feel the doubts you’ve been holding onto slowly begin to fade. Each time Logan shows up for you, each time he puts your needs above his own, it chips away at the fear that has kept you guarded for so long. It’s in the way he listens when you talk, truly listens, as if every word you say matters. It’s in the way he looks at you—not with the same fury he once had, but with a steady, enduring affection that speaks of something deeper.

With Jean, he loved her because she was his soulmate, she was who the universe destined him to be with. He loved her because that’s what he thought he had to do.

With you, he has a choice. He doesn’t need to acknowledge the bond, but he chooses to. He chooses to everyday and he’ll never stop. He loves you because he wants to, not because he has to.

One evening, you find yourself sitting on the mansion’s porch watching the sunset. Logan joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I’ve just been thinking,” you reply, leaning your head on his shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about how far you’ve come in trusting him again.

“’Bout what?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“About us,” you say, your voice steady. “About how things have changed. How… how good they’ve been.”

Logan’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels so natural, so right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I’m not scared anymore, Logan. Not like I was.”

He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. “You sure?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m sure. You’ve shown me that this bond means something to you, that you’re not going to hurt me. And… I want this. I want us.”

Logan’s face lights up with so much love, that it takes your breath away. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, darlin’. Because I want us too. More than anything.”

—

It isn’t long before the rest of the X-Men begin to notice the change in Logan as well. At first, it’s subtle—small things like the way he looks at you during briefings, or the way he seems to be more patient, more relaxed when you’re around. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.

During a training session in the Danger Room, you’re paired with Logan for a simulated mission. The others watch as Logan moves with you in perfect sync, his focus not just on the mission but on you—making sure you’re safe, supporting you when needed, and trusting you completely. It’s a far cry from the Logan they had seen when he was in mourning, where his moves were rash and careless.

After the session, as you and Logan leave the Danger Room, you catch sight of Ororo and Scott exchanging a look, the kind of look that speaks volumes, full of surprise and a touch of amusement.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you approach them.

Ororo smiles warmly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nothing, just… noticing how good you two are together.”

Scott nods in agreement, his expression softening as he glances at Logan. “Yeah, it’s… different, finally seeing him like this. In a good way.”

Logan shrugs, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Just that it’s nice to see you happy, Logan,” Ororo says gently. “Really happy.”

Logan looks at you then, his smile growing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah. It is.”

More members of the team begin to notice the change in Logan as time goes on. Rogue, who has always had a soft spot for him, comments on how he seems more at ease, less burdened by the weight of his past. Hank, ever the observer, points out how Logan’s demeanor has shifted—less brooding, more open. Even Charles, who has seen Logan through his darkest times, pulls you aside one day to express his approval.

“I must say,” Charles says, his tone warm and approving, “I haven’t seen Logan like this in a very long time. Whatever you two have managed to sort out, it’s working.”

And it is. Slowly but surely, the wounds that had once held you back have healed. The doubts that had kept you from fully embracing your relationship with Logan have faded, replaced by a deep, abiding love. It isn’t just the little gestures anymore—it’s the way Logan makes you feel seen, heard, and cherished in a way that no one else ever has.

—

“I never thought we’d get here,” you admit one night whilst looking up at the stars.

Logan looks at you, his expression tender. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “But I’m damn glad we did.”

You smile, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I love you, Logan. And I trust you. Completely.”

His grip tightens slightly, as if to hold onto the moment, to hold onto you. “I love you too, darlin’. I never thought I’d feel this way about someone.”

You know what he’s trying to say. So without thinking, you reach up and cup his face, drawing him closer until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Show me,” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He closes the small gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft at first, almost tentative, as if he’s savoring the feel of you.

You can feel the heat between you building, the kiss growing more fervent as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, then into his hair. Brown.

His hands slide up your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head, deepening the kiss further until you’re both breathless.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads resting against each other’s, you’re both panting, your hearts racing in sync. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you close.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I never thought I’d get my happy ending, but here you are… and I’m never lettin’ you go.”

You smile, feeling the last remnants of pain melt away, replaced by a certainty that this is where you’re meant to be. “And I’m never leaving,” you whisper back, sealing your words with another kiss that quickly reignites the fire between you.

This kiss is hungrier, more urgent, as if you both need to make up for lost time. Logan’s hands roam your body with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, his touch igniting a fire in your core.

That night, you lose yourself in him, in the way he tastes, in the way he makes love to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because this time, you’re not just in love—you’re in love with a man who loves you back, fully and completely.

And that makes all the difference.

----

a/n: i love you if you made it this far. please check out my new series The Feeling's Mutual

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bakuhve · 1 month ago

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i just. i just think katsuki would be the absolute best boyfriend in the world.

but at the same time… like.. it’s gonna take a fat minute to get to that point. my katsuki and reader are always gonna have the dynamic of she fell first and hard but he fell absolutely harder. like face smashed into the ground, concrete cracked beneath his body, harder.

your story was never mutual love at first sight, no. you fell first. the kind of fall that leaves you breathless and stumbling, but still willing to get up and run straight toward him again.

you admired katsuki in every way imaginable. his strength, his drive, the way he never wavered even when the whole world seemed to be against him. your admiration turned into something deeper, something that made your heart squeeze and stomach flip. and you didn’t bother hiding your crush.

why should you? why would you ever keep your adoration for the man you loved a secret?

so you let it show. you gravitated towards him during class breaks, in the little favors you did for him without him asking, in the shameless way you told him over and over again that you liked him.

but back then, katsuki was an idiot.

a dumbass so hyper-focused on hero training and his own ambitions that he barely spared a thought for anything else. he knew you had a crush on him- how could he not? but at the time, he equated it to nothing more than annoying persistence. some stalkerish, over eager need to be by his side.

and oh, how he wants to throttle his past self for thinking this way.

because somewhere along the line, after countless battles, after seeing you at your highest highs and lowest lows, after realizing that no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t shake you off- he started to not mind your presence.

then he started looking for it.

started craving it.

and like that, he fell.

only by the time he realized it, you weren’t the one constantly chasing anymore.

now it was him hovering near you at all times, subtly making excuses to be closer. he stole glances, catching himself staring at your hands and wondering what it would be like to just hold them.

and when you finally got together, when it turned into something real, katsuki was left fumbling into unfamiliar territory.

because he had no experience being this stupidly and sickeningly in love.

was he doing this right? was he too much? was he not enough? what the hell did a girl like you see in him?

and most of all, were his hands too damn clammy to be holding yours right now?

but then you squeeze his hand. and he squeezes yours back.

and just like that, all his doubts settle. because you’re his person. and he’s yours.

but yeah anyways lovesick reader and even more lovesick katsuki on top

#bakugou x reader #bakugou #mha x reader #mha #bakugo x reader #my hero academia #bakugou drabble #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki #katsuki x reader #katsuki drabble #katsuki imagine #gruvia vibes #they’re so in love #he’s whipped #gruvia

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mywritersmind · 2 months ago

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LIKE A DREAM - KA12

summary : A day full of fun and avoidance ends with kimi walking you home. Full of teasing and wanting to cross the one line your dad and his boss has set for you two.

listen up : swearing! use of y/n! kissing!

kimiantonelli x totowolff!daughter

words : 2022

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“Holy fuck!” She laughs out loud, out of breath and running her hands through her hair as we walk down the sidewalk, “I actually thought he was going to kill you!”

I shake my head, “That was not funny, Wolff! I thought he was going to kill me too!” I hold back a laugh, genuinely thanking god that some little shop owner was too slow to chase me down with a broom.

She bites her bottom lip, slowing her step so she’s next to me, “Death by broom, would have been sad.”

I’m walking her home after a day of fucking about and skipping training. When I told her I had to train but other than that, I had a chill day, she said, and I quote, “Chill and Training should not be in the same sentence.”

So she dragged me around my own city, showing me places I would have never guessed could be so fun. Everything is fun with her.

I sigh, “What would you tell everyone? That you left me to die because while screaming your head off!?”

She giggles, “No! I would have told everyone that I tried to fight the man but I'm just a girl.” I roll my eyes at my ultra feminist friend.

I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they believed her. She’s a scary good actress.

“Like you would have been any different!” She pushes my side a bit, “Screaming like a girl while you ran…”

I scoff and start walking backwards so her eyes are on me, “I would have fought for you like a man!”

“Like a man with a girly scream.” She mumbles, pushing past me as my jaw drops. I can hear her laugh as she walks farther ahead, I run to catch up.

“You’re evil.”

She gasps dramatically before her face morphs into a smile, shrugging and calm now, she says, “Yeah I know. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

The truth is, I do like it. I like how she fucks with me, except when she somehow drags me into her shit which is dealt with by her father, who happens to be my boss.

“Your dad home?” I ask, nearing her house now.

“Why, you scared?”

Fuck yes. “No. Maybe I want to inform him that his underage daughter flirts with just about every man we come across.”

“Don’t act so high and mighty! You’re only a couple months older than me.” She sticks her chin up, “And you liked the free drinks enough.” She eyes my hand, which is wrapped around an open champagne bottle.

No matter how much I like the drinks, I will never like some guy sending them to her. Especially when the guys are definitely over 25.

“I like the drinks, not the guys.” She eyes me when I say this, grabbing the bottle and bringing it to her lips.

“Protective, much?”

I shrug, grabbing the bottle from her, “Maybe a bit.” I take a swig, never moving my eyes away from her. She’s fucking stunning. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

She laughs, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t know.” She definitely does, “I dump all of them before it can get too far.”

“And you’ve never- ever, been broken up with?”

She shakes her head, “You know the guys i’ve dated, they all suck but i’m pretty sure all hated me.”

“So why’d they stay with you? I mean, it’s definitely not because you give everything to them. You barely talked to half!”

She’s grinning, something familiar and mischievous in her eye. She takes the bottle from me, spinning around, “Yeah but I kiss like a dream.”

Her answer is not what I expected and suddenly I'm thankful for the darkness so she can’t see my reddened cheeks. “Right.”

“So why don’t you have a girlfriend, Antonelli?” She takes another drink, turning a street corner.

“Maybe I don’t want one.”

She shakes her head, “No… that’s not it.” God i’m so fucked. “Tell me the real reason.”

“I’m serious.” I’m not. “Racing is a lot, I need to focus.”

“Cause a girlfriend would be too demanding.” She stands in front of me, walking slowly backwards. Her eyes are dark and completely focused on me.

“Cause a girlfriend would be too distracting.” Like right now, I'm pretty sure we missed a turn but neither of us noticed.

But she’s not my girlfriend. Just a girl who took me away from all my responsibilities for a whole day, a whole day of me staring at her and being totally and utterly distracted.

Her eyes narrow, probably seeing right through me like she always does. She gives the subject up, turning back onto the right street and ending up next to me again, this time in silence.

I don’t know if she notices, but every step she takes, her arm brushes mine.

The second I see her house, my heart drops. I don’t want to leave her, especially if I don’t know when I'm going to see her again.

“Are you coming to Australia?” Sometimes she travels with her dad, maybe I'll get lucky.

“Nope.” Of course, this is good for me, I just said how distracting she is! But fuck I want her there. “My dad won’t let me go to any races until I finish school.”

Toto Wolff I curse you.

“Ah shit…” I say, “Shame.” I watch her push open the gate, looking back at me like an angel.

“Yeah? You want me there?” Her tone is teasing, but I know she’s hoping I say yes.

“Did pretty well in the last race you came to.” She watched my F2 race a while back, I won. “Maybe you’re lucky.”

“Kimi Antonelli’s good luck charm… Got a nice ring to it.” She walks up the steps, I follow as slowly as possible. “You’d probably be able to convince my dad, he loves you.”

I smile, “If I told him I thought you were my ‘Good Luck Charm’ he’d probably kick me off the team.” Toto has always explicitly said to stay away from his precious daughter. I hate following rules.

She giggles, now on the front porch leaning against the railing and making me sigh in relief that she doesn’t want to go yet.

I stand across from her, my hands in my pockets as my eyes roam across her face that’s half shaded from the porch light. “I expect you to stir some shit up this year.”

“You’re praying on my downfall.” I step closer.

She looks up at me, “Never, Drea…”

I groan at the nickname, “Do not call me that.”

“What would you like me to call you?” She raises a brow, teasing me.

“My name?”

“I prefer wonder boy.” She says it with such a straight face that I can’t help but laugh. She smiles, pleased that she made me crack.

“I had a really good time today.” I say softly, not missing her lip catch on her tooth.

“Not too annoyed with my flirting?”

I shake my head, “I never said that… Maybe just tone it down a bit.”

“Like how?”

“Flirt with someone else.” It just comes out, I regret it immediately.

Her face softens, “Like who?”

I shrug, “Like me.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up, “I do flirt with you.”

This is a bad idea, I can feel it.

But I don’t stop.

“Not like you do with them…”

“Because I flirt with everyone else as a joke. It’s performative, love.” That nickname, however, I could get used to.

“Why?” I ask, “Why do you feel the need to?”

“Maybe because someone is too much of a pussy to flirt back.” Fuck my actual life.

“Or I just don’t want to lose my job.”

She rolls her eyes, genuinely annoyed, “Don’t pull that shit. Carry on lying to yourself with the ‘distracting’ thing.”

“You are fucking distracting, Wolff. Like out of this world distracting.” I wish she knew that the stares she gets, the drinks she receives, isn’t because she’s Toto Wolff's daughter.

She looks away, her nose in the air, “Not my fault you’re so attracted to me you can’t focus on simple tasks.”

This girl is going to kill me. And she loves it.

I let out a breathy laugh, resting my hands on either side of her, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh so you can do your job when you’re around me!” She jokes so easily with her ‘drive’ bit.

I shake my head, “I can’t stand you.”

Her eyes meet mine again, our faces centimeters apart, “Try again.” Her voice is soft, strong.

“I can’t stand not having you.” It’s practically a whisper.

She doesn’t blink, just leans back into the railing with her head held high, “Then have me.”

She’s waiting for me, I realize. She flirts with me, she touches me, she teases me, she does just about everything first, before me. Now, she’s making me start it.

She’s supposed to be a bad idea. But right now, I’m pretty sure she is the best idea ever.

I lean down slowly, her breath soft against me. When she doesn’t pull back and I fully understand that i’m not dreaming, I kiss her.

It’s soft at first, testing almost. But then her hand finds the back of my neck and all I can feel is her.

I grip her waist like there’s nothing else in the world, finding her belt loop to pull her in closer as her tongue slips into my mouth.

Both of our breaths quicken, her skin hot as I slip my hand under the hem of her shirt, “Drea…” She whispers, never breaking the kiss.

“Try again.” I mumble.

“Kimi.” I groan at the way she says my name. I never want her to stop.

I nod into the kiss, pushing her into the railing harder as her fingers tighten in my hair. Her lips feel so familiar, I don’t know how I ever lived without them.

“You kiss like a dream.” I say against her which makes her laugh, tilting her head back slightly as I take a breath.

My lips off hers doesn’t last long, only getting rougher when we start again. She tastes like strawberry lipgloss and chocolate gelato, I want it tattooed on me.

The second her hand makes its way down my chest and around my side, moments away from her touch on my bare skin, goosebumps ready to go, something interrupts us.

“What the fuck.” I don’t think I've ever moved so fast in my life. The familiar voice makes me physically jump, the same as Y/n.

I understand now that the ‘interruption’ was the front door opening and my team principal coming to see who was lurking on his porch.

I run my hand over my mouth, looking out at their front garden and wondering if I'm about to die.

Y/n is facing her dad, her eyes wide and lips slightly swollen. I can’t help but smile because I did that. I’m immediately sobered by his voice again. “Antonelli.”

Wow I like how she says it so much more.

I clear my throat and throw my hair up slightly, nor daring to turn around just yet. “Yep.”

“Y/n.” He says gruffly, his accent even thicker when angry, “Inside.”

I turn around now, watching her cringe and walk inside slowly. I see Susie in the hallway, clearly not understanding what’s going on, and smiling at me. “Kimi! Thanks for walking her home.”

Toto is staring me down as if I’d just- well… as if I'd just kissed his daughter. I’m about to respond to her but Toto shakes his head sharply, “Out.”

I give Y/n one more glance, not missing the slight smirk on her face. Fuck neither of us can be serious for two second. I hurry down the steps, only looking back when I hear the door shut and not stopping my quick feet until I get to my car.

I have one text. It’s from Y/n.

You kiss like a dream too.

#fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fic #kimi antonelli fan fic #kimi antonelli fic #kimi antonelli fluff #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli x wolff reader

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pitlanepeach · 4 days ago

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Clara | Chapter One

Toto Wolff x Original Female Character

Summary — She wasn’t looking for anything extraordinary, just a quiet life; peace. She should’ve known her past would catch up with her eventually — one way or another.

Warnings — Age-Gap (24 & 50), one night stands, unplanned pregnancy, complex family dynamics, sugar daddy Toto vibes, strong language, sexually explicit content.

Notes — It's here! I've concluded that this fic will end up being around 7 chapters, for those who like to know what to expect! As always, send me your thoughts! - Peach x

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

She was nineteen the first time she left home.

Ran, really, was a better way to put it.

There hadn’t been a dramatic moment. No suitcase flung open in the hallway, no door slammed behind her. Just a pink sky, a silent bus ride, and that cold, certain kind of knowing—the kind that settles into your ribs and whispers, if you stay, you’ll drown.

Mick had stayed. Of course he had. That world had always fit him—tight like a glove, stitched together in perfection and expectation. He was good. The golden boy. And everyone told him so.

And Clara? Clara had been handed the quiet burden of being his twin.

The same face, the same blood, the same surname—but none of the brilliance people were looking for. Just enough resemblance to be a reminder, never enough to be a revelation. The pressure hadn’t been loud. It had come in glances, in polite suggestions, in the way people looked at her like they were waiting for something to switch on. Some fire. Some legacy.

After the accident, it became unbearable.

The house was suddenly full of silence. Everyone grieving in their own way. Everyone pushing forward because they didn’t know what else to do. And Clara—Clara had felt like she was being swallowed whole by the weight of it.

The pressure to stay strong. The pressure to stay visible. The pressure to become something great. A symbol. A Schumacher.

But she didn’t want to carry anyone’s legacy. She didn’t want to represent a name. She just wanted… a soft life. Quiet mornings. Gentle hands. To be held more than she was looked at.

So she left before she could unravel entirely. No big exit. No scandal. Just a quiet bag packed and a train ticket south.

She dyed her hair darker. Started using her mother’s maiden name. Learned how to disappear gently, with grace.

Started smiling less. That helped.

Jobs came easily when you were tall and lovely and didn’t ask for much. The world had a place for girls like her—on the edges of luxury, pretty and quiet and always moving. She passed through Ibiza, Berlin, Nice, Dubai. Never stayed long enough to be known. She learned how to flirt without promising, how to disappear while standing still, how to be wanted without being remembered.

By the time she took the winter-season contract at a private estate in the Swiss Alps, she was twenty-four and bone-tired.

The job had come through a friend of a friend. Exclusive. Discreet. Hospitality for elite guests—businessmen, old money, the occasional celebrity trying to avoid cameras and commitments. Clara said yes before she even saw the full details. High pay. Quiet location. No press. No fuss.

She hadn’t realised what kind of people she’d be serving until she saw the guest list.

And there it was.

Toto Wolff.

She’d read the name twice. Then folded the paper and put it out of sight like it might burn her fingers.

He hadn’t known her then, not really. She was just a kid when he used to come by the Schumacher home—tall and intimidating, always deep in conversation with her father, the kind of man who seemed too big for their kitchen table. She’d curl up on the stairs sometimes, half-listening, pretending not to care. But she remembered the sound of his voice. Deep. Calm. Quietly dangerous.

Now he was here. In the exact place she’d chosen to disappear.

And she would serve him drinks like she didn’t know him.

Like she wasn’t someone he’d once seen running barefoot in a paddock. Like she hadn’t watched him from the shadows for years, intrigued and crushing on a man who was thirty years older than her.

The moment she saw him, she knew it wouldn’t work.

He was older now—sharper, maybe lonelier around the edges—but his presence filled the room the way it always had. Clara ducked her head, took a breath, and told herself he wouldn’t recognise her.

Not here.

Not like this.

She’d buried Clara Schumacher a long time ago.

She just hoped Toto Wolff didn’t know how to dig.

—

The kitchen was warm, too warm—radiators on full blast and the oven open for the pastry chef’s temperamental soufflés. Clara stood near the sink, rolling her sleeves up and letting the heat flush her cheeks. Her blouse clung to her back, but she welcomed the discomfort. It was grounding.

“Did you see the guest list?” Someone whispered. It was Elise, one of the other servers—French, painfully pretty, and always two steps ahead on gossip.

Clara didn’t look up from the tray of polished glasses she was inspecting. “Briefly.”

“Well, I saw it,” Elise continued, loading her voice with importance. “There’s going to be, like, five billionaires here. That Wolff guy? He’s huge. Like, terrifying. But also... kind of hot in a cryptic-CEO kind of way.”

“I’d let him ruin me,” muttered Anaïs, the pastry assistant, half into the fridge.

Clara forced a smile and kept polishing.

God, they had no idea.

“Apparently he’s super private about his private life,” Elise said, lowering her voice. “Obviously. I mean, when was the last time anyone heard about him having a girlfriend?”

Clara’s throat tightened. Her hand slipped slightly on a wineglass stem, and it wobbled before she caught it. She turned, steadying her tone. “Which wing is he staying in?”

“East,” Elise answered. “Why?”

“No reason.” Clara dried her hands and reached for her tray. “I’ve got the cocktail round for the main salon.”

“Good luck,” Anaïs said with a wink. “Try not to melt.”

—

The estate’s main salon was dimly lit and elegant, all old wood and older money. A fire crackled in the hearth. Conversation buzzed low and intentional—men with pocket squares, women in sleek black dresses, the clink of cutlery and crystal.

Clara stepped into the room like a shadow, trained and fluid, balancing her tray with easy grace.

She saw him before he saw her.

Toto was stood near the fireplace, glass in hand, deep in conversation with a man she vaguely recognised from handful of financial tabloids. He looked broader than she remembered, darker around the eyes. But his presence hadn’t dulled. It pressed into the room like gravity.

Clara’s stomach twisted. She approached slowly, circling the room, offering drinks, nodding politely. All muscle memory.

And then—

He turned.

Eyes met hers.

Only for a second. Maybe two.

But it was enough.

His expression didn’t change. No widening eyes, no sharp intake of breath. Just a quiet recalibration, like a man noting a discrepancy in a report—unspoken, but deeply, dangerously noted.

She looked away first. Felt the heat rise to her collarbones. Stepped past him like he hadn’t just undone five years of erasure with a single glance.

She made it to the far side of the room before she let herself breathe again.

But even as she served the rest of the guests, hands steady and smile serene, she felt it.

His gaze.

On her.

All night long.

Not leering. Not obvious.

Just there. Like a hook in the water, waiting.

Not absolutely sure what it had caught—but curious. Focused.

Remembering.

—

The night had finally exhaled.

Guests were retired to their wings or slowly drifting that way. The last fire in the main salon had been banked. The soft shuffle of slippers and closing doors was the only sound left in the house.

Clara moved like a ghost through the back corridor, tray empty, apron half-tied at her waist, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. She just needed ten more steps. Her suite. Her bed. One locked door between her and—

"Clara Schumacher.”

Her name stopped her like a crack of thunder.

She turned slowly. He was there—Toto. Leaning casually in the mouth of the hallway, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other resting on the trim of the doorframe.

His eyes were unreadable in the low light.

She hesitated. “That’s not my name.”

He raised one brow, just slightly. “No?”

She didn’t answer.

A beat passed. Then two. “I almost did not recognise you,” he said finally, voice low. “But you have your father’s eyes. And your brother’s mouth. That tilt, when you’re irritated.”

“I’m not irritated,” she lied.

“You always were, around me.”

That made her blink. “You remember that?”

He gave the smallest of smiles. “You were a teenager who hated being ignored.”

“And yet you still did it.” She folded her arms, tray pressed between her ribs and elbow. “Ignored me.”

He nodded, thoughtfully. Then his voice lowered even further. “What are you doing here, Clara?”

“I work here.”

“You shouldn’t.”

She stiffened, eyes narrowing. “Why not?”

“You’re a Schumacher,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You were never meant to serve.”

Her mouth pulled tight. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“I am allowed to want to separate myself from my family name.” She told him sharply.

“I knew your father,” he said simply. “He would be horrified, mäuschen, that you are spending your time cleaning lipstick off champagne glasses like you are somebody else.”

“I am someone else.” She said, on a sharp inhale that cut through the pain of hearing anybody talk about her father. “Clara Schumacher doesn’t exist anymore.”

Toto stepped closer. Not menacing—just steady. Measured. Quiet concern, coiled beneath layers of restraint. “I remember her,” he said. “And I think that she is still in there.”

Clara turned away, blinking hard. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “I had to leave. I couldn’t— I couldn’t stay there any longer. I couldn’t stand to watch him fade away. And then to have to sit back and watch Mick rise to the top…”

“I think that I do understand,” he argued, his eyebrows drawn together, his voice low and careful. “You were afraid, so you ran and hid.”

She flinched.

The silence stretched, thick and raw.

Sensing the tremor in her, Toto softened, his voice dropping even lower, the words curling around her like a warmth she didn’t want. "Mäuschen," he murmured, his voice gentler now, “Kleine Maus... it’s okay. You don’t have to hide. Not from me.”

Clara’s breath hitched in her throat at the softness of it—the softness of Mäuschen, a pet name so tender it made her stomach tighten, just a little.

He reached out, barely, almost as if he were going to touch her arm. But he stopped himself, his hand hanging at his side. “I won’t tell anyone that I have seen you,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, an attempt to ease the tension. “If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Clara didn’t answer immediately. Her chest felt tight, the words clinging to the back of her throat, but she couldn’t quite say them. “I’m not afraid,” she finally whispered, though the words felt hollow.

Toto’s gaze softened even more, and for a moment, she knew that he could see the fractured pieces of herself that she was trying so hard to hide. He took a step back, giving her space, but his eyes held her still. His voice was low again, barely audible in the quiet corridor. “Du bist nicht allein, Kleine Maus,” he said, his words barely a breath, more an affirmation than a promise. “But I will be here for a full week. So… when you’re tired of pretending this life is what you want, when you’re done with this ridiculous act of rebellion… find me.” He gave her one last lingering look—and then he turned, slowly, walking away, the soft echo of his dress shoes fading into the distance.

Clara stood there long after he was gone, her pulse hammering in her chest. She could still feel him; like he’d etched himself into the space between her ribs somehow.

“Clara?” Elise called. “Can you come and give us a hand in the kitchen?”

She took a deep breath, pushed every thought of Toto Wolff to the back of her mind, and headed back toward the kitchen.

—

Clara’s fingers moved quickly, setting the table with an almost mechanical precision. The guests were seated, the room filled with quiet chatter and the clink of glasses. She drifted through the room, her body automatic, her face a practiced mask. The pressure of it all had become second nature: being used, going unnoticed, never really there but always present.

Toto wasn’t like the other guests, though. He had a way of watching her, of speaking to her, that tugged at her in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge. He had arrived early, sitting at the far end of the room, casually sipping his coffee, his eyes following her movements with a quiet interest.

“Isn’t it curious?” He asked softly, his voice carrying just to her as the room emptied for a brief moment. “A woman like you… working like this. All your beauty, all your grace... and yet here you are, doing this.” He gestured toward the task she was occupied with, not loud enough to draw attention but still heavy with implication.

His tone was gentle, almost conversational, as though he were commenting on the weather, not on the way she’d chosen to live. “You should be the one enjoying this, not serving it, don’t you think? Being treated the way someone of your pedigree deserves.”

Clara flinched, her heart skipping a beat, but she quickly masked it with a neutral smile. She forced her focus on the tray she carried, avoiding his gaze, but she felt his eyes on her the entire time.

She continued moving through the estate, offering drinks, greeting guests, and pretending that she didn’t feel the tug of his words, that they weren’t echoing in the back of her mind. His comment had been soft, almost kind. But it felt like a crack in the walls she’d painfully constructed.

Later, as she watched guests indulge in the luxury, their every need met with ease, she couldn't shake the longing that stirred inside her. For the first time in years, she remembered what it had felt like to be taken care of, to be spoiled, to be wanted without having to give something in return. Her chest tightened with the realisation of how much she missed it—and how terrifying that was to admit.

—

The day dragged on. Clara was exhausted. She had been on her feet for hours, serving, attending to every need. And every time she passed by his table, there he was—Toto, watching her. There was something different in his gaze though. Softer, almost knowing, like he could see right through her mask.

He was standing by the door now, his eyes meeting hers as she passed by with a tray. “Kleine Maus,” he said gently, his voice carrying just enough to reach her. “I do not enjoy you like this. Working. Tired to the bone. Shadows under your eyes.” His tone was quiet, almost like a confession.

She stopped in her tracks, his words settling into her like stones in her stomach. She tightened her grip on the tray, trying to push the feeling of vulnerability away, but it was impossible.

“You deserve more than this life. You should be treated better than this.”

His words weren’t forceful. They weren’t demanding. But they lingered. And he said them so softly.

Clara took a deep breath, but she couldn’t help the sudden tightness in her throat. She turned away quickly, feeling the overwhelming pressure rise in her chest.

She kept moving, trying to keep herself together, but it felt harder with each step. The words continued to swirl in her mind. You deserve more than this life. You should be treated better than this. It was all she could hear.

And then, suddenly, she was aware of him again. Toto’s presence behind her, quiet but insistent. She didn’t need to look to know he was there. The weight of his attention was all-encompassing.

When she felt a hand on her arm, steady and warm, her breath caught in her throat. “Komm, lass uns hinaus gehen,” he said, low and soft, but firm—inviting her out of the chaos, out of the pretence. “Come, let’s go outside.”

Her chest tightened, and without thinking, she let him lead her down the hall. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care. Her tears started to fall before she could stop them, soft at first, then uncontrollable.

Toto didn’t say anything, didn’t ask why or try to stop her. He simply led her down the hall, away from prying eyes, into a quiet space where no one could see her fall apart. When they reached an empty corner, Clara collapsed, her sobs racking her body. The years of pretending, the exhaustion, the years of loneliness—it all came flooding out. She couldn’t hold herself up anymore. She was done.

But Toto was there, catching her instantly. His arms enveloped her, pulling her close in a way that was both protective and comforting. He didn’t ask her to stop crying. He didn’t tell her to be strong. He just held her, letting her collapse into his chest as if she had no weight at all.

“Du bist nicht allein, Kleine Maus,” he whispered into her hair. His voice was a promise, quiet and steady. “I will never let you go without proper care again. Not for so long. You deserve much better than this.”

Clara clung to him, her sobs quieter now, but her body still shaking with the release of everything she’d been holding back for so long. Toto’s arms, his warmth, were like a safe place she had long forgotten could exist.

—

The corridor was silent. Every polished stone echoed under Clara’s bare feet as she approached the end of the guest wing, her night coat pulled tight around her. She stood in front of the door for too long, knuckles raised, not knocking.

Then, like he always could, he opened it before she could make a sound.

Toto looked at her without surprise, like he’d known she would come. Like he’d been waiting. "Clara," he said softly. Just her name, but it sounded different in his mouth. Measured. Weighty. Almost reverent. She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, eyes wide, still a little red. Her hands trembled at her sides. “You should not be walking the halls like this alone so late,” he murmured, stepping aside. “Come inside.”

She did.

The room was warm, lit only by the fire. It smelled like cedar and expensive cologne, understated and masculine. She stood by the hearth, trying not to unravel.

“I don’t know why I came,” she whispered.

“I do,” he said. Simply. Kindly.

She turned toward him then. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

His eyes flickered, something ancient and gentle behind them. He stepped closer, slowly—giving her time, always giving her time.

“Then you won’t be.”

She searched his face, then nodded once.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “You will let me take care of you tonight, Kleine Maus?” He asked, the pet name soft like silk. “Only if you want it.”

“I do,” she breathed, and God, she’d known this was a possibility, but the reality sunk in with a sharp, exciting spark. “Please.”

And Toto, gentleman always, but not soft, kissed her like he meant it. With control, with patience, with deep, deliberate reverence. Every move was a question. Every answer she gave was enthusiastic, quiet, whole-body yes. He undressed her like she was made of something precious, and the way he touched her, slow and steady and unbearably tender, felt more like worship than want.

He didn’t rush. He led.

And for the first time in years, Clara didn’t have to give. She was allowed to fall back and simply be received—all her walls pulled down, all her edges seen and kissed and kept tenderly safe. It was slow, it was intense, and it was unbearably good.

Later, wrapped in his arms, her face pressed to the warmth of his chest, she felt something terrifying creeping in.

Hope.

—

Clara woke just as the morning light spilled through the windows. Toto was already sitting on the edge of the bed, buttoning his shirt, his back to her.

Something about it—about the way he didn’t immediately turn—made her stomach twist.

He finally spoke, quiet, almost too gentle. “You should go home, Clara.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

He turned then, eyes kind but distant in a way they hadn’t been last night. “To your mother. To Mick. They will be missing you dearly.”

She sat up slowly. “You… you want me to leave?”

He stood and walked toward her, kneeling briefly to take her hand. “You have spent too long pretending you’re not loved. You need to be reminded.”

“But I thought…” She blinked, throat closing up. “I thought maybe—”

He hesitated, his thumb brushing softly over her knuckles, lingering like he didn’t want to let go. His voice, when it came, was quiet—so gentle it almost hurt. “This life, liebling… it isn’t something I can offer without cost. And I—” he looked away, jaw tight, “I am not a man who gives only pieces. When I take, it is not done in halves. You understand?”

Clara’s chest ached. Her nod came too fast, too eager to protect her own pride. “Of course,” she said, the words brittle.

His hand tightened once, as if he might pull her back into his chest—but he didn’t.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Instead he leaned forward, kissed her forehead. A parting gesture. “Go home, Kleine Maus.”

She dressed in silence. Went back to her room and packed with numb fingers.

And by the time the sun had fully risen over the snow-covered estate, Clara Schumacher was on the first flight home.

—

The gate creaked just like she remembered. The porch light still flickered faintly in the right corner. Clara’s suitcase rolled quietly behind her, wheels bumping over the uneven stone path leading up to the door. She hadn’t called ahead. Couldn’t bring herself to. She didn’t know what she would’ve said.

But the moment the door opened, everything stopped.

Her mother stood there barefoot, flour dusted on her sweater, eyes going wide with disbelief before softening with something fierce and maternal. “Clara?” She breathed, voice cracking.

Clara nodded—barely—and then she was in her mother’s arms, held so tightly she could barely breathe. The scent of rosemary and warm bread clung to her sweater, and Clara let her eyes close, let herself sink into that long-forgotten feeling of being held.

“You came home,” her mother whispered, voice trembling. “My darling girl.”

Before Clara could even find the words, she heard familiar footsteps behind them—hurried, heavier. Mick’s voice followed a beat later. “Mum? Who was at the—”

Then he saw her. His eyes went wide with disbelief before they flooded with something harder, deeper—relief.

“Jesus, Clara.” He crossed the foyer in three long strides, hugging her like he was afraid she might vanish again. “What the hell?”

She tried to speak but her throat closed up. So she just wrapped her arms around her twin and nodded into his shoulder.

“You disappeared,” Mick said into her hair, voice low. “And I didn’t know if you were okay. I kept thinking—” He pulled back just slightly, searching her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

—

The house had quieted, but the air was still heavy. Clara sat curled on the bench beneath the kitchen window, nursing a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. The lights were dim. Her mother had gone upstairs.

Mick stood by the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. He hadn’t said anything for a long time. Finally, his voice cut through the quiet. “You missed everything.”

Clara flinched. She set the mug down, fingers trembling. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Mick turned to face her fully, eyes sharp with something deeper than anger—hurt. “You missed my first season in Formula One.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry, Mick.”

“No, you’re not,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Do you know what it was like for me? Watching Mum try to smile through it and pretend she wasn’t crying every time she passed your room? I had no idea if you were dead or just—what? Pretending none of us existed?”

“Mick—”

“No,” he said, softer now, but still furious. “You left when we needed you. When I needed you. And I know things were hard—God, they were hard—but I was your brother. I am your brother. Your twin, Clara. You could’ve told me.”

Clara opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes shimmered. And then, all at once, she cracked. “I couldn’t,” she said, voice breaking. “I wasn’t strong like you. I couldn’t keep smiling, couldn’t keep pretending that it didn’t hurt, that I wasn’t disappearing inside. I couldn’t sit at the table every day and not know if Papa would ever say my name again. I couldn’t stand in your shadow and carry his too.” Tears streamed down her cheeks now, hot and relentless. “I’m sorry I missed your season. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wanted to be—I did—but I watched every race on the TV no matter where I was, and I cheered for you, Mick. I promise I did.” Her voice cracked on that last word.

She turned, expecting silence, or more reprimand—but instead, she found herself wrapped in her mother’s arms. Sabine had come down at some point, drawn by the weight of voices and grief, and now she was gathering Clara up like she had when she was small—like she always did when the world got too loud.

“Oh, mein Herz,” her mother whispered, fingers combing gently through Clara’s hair. “You never needed to be strong. We never asked that of you. We only ever wanted you safe.”

Clara sobbed harder. Mick looked down, blinking furiously, and then stepped forward too. Slowly, carefully, he sank beside them, leaning in. “I was so angry,” he said quietly. “But I was scared, too. Scared you were gone for good.”

Clara shook her head against their mother’s shoulder. “I was just... lost.”

“Well, not anymore,” their mother said softly. “You’re here. Home. And you will never be alone again.”

—

Six Weeks Later

Clara stood in the bathroom, staring at the small plastic stick in her hand. Her heartbeat was a frantic drum in her chest, each thump louder than the next. The room was quiet—too quiet—and her mind was racing, thoughts blurring together.

She couldn’t seem to breathe. The faint second pink line on the test was undeniable. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a dream.

She was pregnant.

She sank down onto the edge of the bathtub, feeling the cold tile against her legs. Her hands were shaking. The steady rhythm of her breathing faltered, and the world outside the bathroom felt like it was slipping away from her.

Pregnant.

How had this happened? No, she knew how it had happened—of course, she did.

She hadn’t planned for this. She had barely begun to piece together the fragments of herself she’d left behind, to understand what her future looked like now. How was she supposed to raise a child? How was she supposed to face her family after this?

The thought of telling them made her stomach twist. But that wasn’t even the most immediate problem. The thought of telling him—Toto—made her throat close with dread.

What would he think? What would he do?

They hadn’t spoken once since she returned home. Since the morning after. Since he’d dismissed her from his life entirely.

A quiet knock on the bathroom door broke her train of thought.

"Clara?" Mick’s voice, muffled through the wood, was cautious, uncertain. “You okay in there?”

She quickly wiped her face, blinking hard to clear the tears that had gathered in her eyes. “Yeah,” she said, her voice thinner than she’d intended. “Just... give me a second.”

Her brother’s voice softened. “You sound like you’re crying.”

She closed her eyes, the lump in her throat tightening again. The weight of it all pressed on her, unbearable. “I’ll be right out,” she called back, her voice a little steadier now. “Just a minute.”

Clara took a deep breath, gathering what little composure she had left. The test sat on the edge of the sink, staring back at her, and for a moment, she just looked at it.

How did you happen?

She took one last glance in the mirror, slid the test into her waistband, smoothed her hand over her hair, and then stepped out of the bathroom.

NEXT CHAPTER

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chaoticrockmusic · 30 days ago

Text

ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ

❝🇮 🇰🇳🇴🇼 🇹🇭🇦🇹 🇮🇹 🇲🇮🇬🇭🇹 🇸🇴🇺🇳🇩 🇲🇴🇷🇪 🇹🇭🇦🇳 🇦 🇱🇮🇹🇹🇱🇪 🇨🇷🇦🇿🇾, 🇧🇺🇹 🇮 🇧🇪🇱🇮🇪🇻🇪 🇮 🇰🇳🇪🇼 🇮 🇱🇴🇻🇪🇩 🇾🇴🇺 🇧🇪🇫🇴🇷🇪 🇮 🇲🇪🇹 🇾🇴🇺 🇮 🇹🇭🇮🇳🇰 🇮 🇩🇷🇪🇦🇲🇪🇩 🇾🇴🇺 🇮🇳🇹🇴 🇱🇮🇫🇪 🇮 🇰🇳🇪🇼 🇮 🇱🇴🇻🇪🇩 🇾🇴🇺 🇧🇪🇫🇴🇷🇪 🇮 🇲🇪🇹 🇾🇴🇺 🇮 🇭🇦🇻🇪 🇧🇪🇪🇳 🇼🇦🇮🇹🇮🇳🇬 🇦🇱🇱 🇲🇾 🇱🇮🇫🇪.❝ ͠🇸🇦🇻🇦🇬🇪 🇬🇦🇷🇩🇪🇳

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Slow burn, fluff, pre-love tension Word Count: ~1,200

______________________________________________________________

You only noticed it once Nami brought it up.

“You realize Zoro always puts himself in front of you during fights, right?” she said casually, barely looking up from her notebook.

You frowned. “Isn’t that just…what swordsmen do?”

Nami snorted. “No. He doesn’t do that for everyone. Just you.”

You had opened your mouth to argue, but your mind was already replaying moments from the past few weeks: Zoro stepping in front of you before an enemy lunged, catching a blade mid-swing. Blocking a flying piece of debris with the flat of his sword without even looking your way.

You had brushed it off. Coincidence. He was always intense about combat.

But then the island happened.

It was meant to be a simple supply run. A sunny, sleepy little port town. You were strolling back from the market, arms full of tropical fruit, when a voice behind you hissed: “Hand it over.”

You barely turned before someone rushed at you—blade raised high.

You did not even have time to flinch.

But Zoro was already moving—faster than the swing, faster than thought. His sword cut through the attacker’s strike before it could fall. One clean, practiced motion. Your would-be attacker dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Then Zoro turned to you.

“You okay?” His voice was tight, eyes scanning you head to toe.

You blinked. “I—I think so.”

There was no blood. No scratch. But Zoro’s jaw was clenched like he had failed at something anyway.

“Could’ve hit you,” he muttered.

You shook your head. “But he didn’t—”

“I let him get close.”

He said it low, more to himself than to you. That same dark expression—like the idea of someone even trying to hurt you was personal.

Later, you were hauling a crate of watermelons back to the Sunny. Your arms ached, but you were stubborn. You had it.

Until it was just… gone.

You blinked, turning to find Zoro walking ahead of you, the crate now slung easily over one shoulder.

He did not say a word. He did not look at you.

Just kept walking like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…Thanks,” you said, jogging to catch up.

He shrugged. “Looked heavy.”

That was all.

But the pattern only got worse.

You were in the library one morning, curled up in a chair with a book. Outside, the rhythmic shhhk-shhhk of a sword slicing air drifted in. You got up, peeked out the window.

There he was.

Training, shirtless, sweat glistening on his skin as he moved with deadly grace—right outside the window. You tilted your head. That was not even his usual training spot.

Coincidence.

Maybe.

The next day, you were sunbathing on the upper deck. The sunlight was warm, lulling you half to sleep, until a shadow crossed over you. You squinted.

Zoro.

Doing pushups five feet away. Barely glancing at you. Not saying anything.

He kept going for an hour.

Just…there.

Breathing heavy. Silent. Focused. But never quite leaving your orbit.

That evening, Sanji leaned across the dinner table with a grin and said, “You’re basically her guard dog, mosshead.”

Zoro scoffed. “Don’t start with me.��

But he did not argue further. He did not roll his eyes or bark something defensive like he usually would.

Instead, he fell quiet.

And that night, as the ship creaked under the weight of the sea and everyone else slept, Zoro stared up at the dark ceiling of his hammock, arms folded behind his head.

He told himself he was just being cautious. He was strong. That was what strong people did—they protected the weaker crew members.

But your face kept flickering through his mind. That damn blade. The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The quiet way you had said thank you, like it meant something.

He shifted onto his side with a grumble.

“Guard dog,” he muttered under his breath.

But the next morning, he was already outside the library window before you got there.

Training.

Just in case...

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Monkey D. Luffy x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Fluff, slow burn, oblivious-to-suddenly-slammed-with-feelings Word Count: ~1,300 ______________________________________________________________

“Come see this!”

You barely had time to set your drink down before Luffy grabbed your hand and took off running across the deck, dragging you behind him like an excited kid with a secret.

“I just saw the biggest crab on the shore!” he beamed over his shoulder. “Its eyes were like—this big!”

You laughed, stumbling to keep up. “Luffy, I’m still chewing—!”

“Chew faster!” he called.

That was Luffy. Every moment, every laugh, every weird discovery—he wanted to share it with you. He never said why. Just acted like you were supposed to be there. Like it made sense. Like he could not imagine it any other way.

When the crew stopped at the next island for supplies, he grabbed your hand again.

“Let’s get snacks!”

“I thought Nami told you to get rope.”

“Yeah, but snacks first.”

He bought ten different fruits, devoured six on the spot, handed two to Chopper, gave one to Usopp, then stared at the last fruit in his hand.

And without even a beat, he handed it to you.

You blinked. “What about you?”

“You like those,” he said simply, licking juice from his fingers.

That was all.

Like it was just a given. Like it made sense in his brain. Like you were—his somehow.

It took you longer to notice that Luffy always sat next to you. Not across. Not near. Next to.

At dinner. On the deck. At the bar in town. If there was an open seat beside you, it was his. Even if he came in last, even if it meant awkwardly squeezing in or dragging a chair across the floor, that was where he landed.

You had once joked about it to Nami.

“I guess I’m Luffy’s emotional support human.”

But Nami had just raised an eyebrow and said, “You think he’s like this with everyone?”

You laughed, but something inside your chest fluttered. Uneasy. Warm.

Then came that night on the island.

It was a casual little tavern—nothing wild. The crew was spread out, music in the air, drinks flowing. You were leaning against the bar, laughing with a guy from the local fishing crew who had a lopsided smile and a good sense of humor.

And when you glanced toward the table where the others sat, Luffy was watching you.

Not smiling. Not laughing. Just…quiet.

You made your way back eventually, dropping into the seat beside him with your usual ease. “What, no food left for me?”

He blinked, like you’d knocked him out of a thought. “Huh? Oh—yeah. Here.”

He pushed a plate toward you, then fell quiet again.

You nudged his shoulder. “What’s with you?”

He stared at the wood grain of the table. “Do you like that guy?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“The guy you were talking to.”

You chuckled. “Oh, no. He was just funny. Told a story about getting bit by his own fishing hook.”

Luffy nodded slowly, but he was clearly still in some headspace.

You did not push it. But he did not say much for the rest of the night.

Back on the Sunny, Luffy lay on the figurehead, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on the stars.

Something was off. Weird. Uneasy.

He liked being around you. That made sense. You were fun. You made him laugh. You always split food with him. You let him nap on your shoulder sometimes, and you smelled nice, and your voice was soft when you woke him up—

He sat up suddenly.

He always sat next to you.

Always reached for your hand first. Always wanted you to see the cool things. Always gave you the last bite. Always saved the good seat for you.

He rubbed a hand down his face.

“…Why do I care who you laugh with?”

It came out in a whisper. A real question.

The realization didn’t slam into him like a battle or a punch. It just… settled. Quiet and obvious and real.

He was in love with you.

Oh.

The next morning, you stepped out onto the deck to find Luffy already there, legs swinging off the railing.

He grinned when he saw you, as bright and boyish as ever.

“Hey! Wanna have breakfast with me?”

You blinked. “You already ate.”

“I’ll eat again.”

You snorted. “You always do.”

You walked over, and without even needing to ask, he patted the spot beside him.

Right next to him.

Where you always sat.

Where you... belonged...

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Fluff, tension, oblivious realization Word Count: ~1,400

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The rain came out of nowhere.

One minute, you were lounging on the deck, enjoying the warm breeze, and the next, a downpour sent the crew scattering indoors like startled cats. You made a break for the galley—sliding in just as thunder cracked overhead.

Sanji glanced up from the stove, already smiling.

“Looks like you brought the storm with you,” he said, flipping something in the pan without looking. “Good thing I kept a seat warm.”

You laughed as you pulled up a stool. A mug was already waiting there.

Chamomile.

Your favorite on rainy days.

You had mentioned it once—months ago—after a cold, wet mission left you sniffling and grumpy. He had not forgotten.

You cupped the mug in both hands and said, “Didn’t know you had psychic powers.”

“Only when it comes to you, mon étoile.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, and he turned back to the stove. Heart-shaped steam rose from the pan.

Literally.

Sanji cooked for everyone, of course. Every meal, every day. It was love, it was pride, it was art.

But yours were different.

Little things.

A garnish shaped like a starfish because you said it reminded you of your childhood. A citrus glaze because you once joked about missing a specific island fruit. A perfectly diced corner of onions because you hated the texture whole.

He never made a show of it.

He just knew.

You sipped your tea, watching the rain race down the windows.

“Do you ever stop moving?” you asked softly.

Sanji looked up.

You gestured around. “You’re always doing something. Cooking. Cleaning. Serving. Flirting.”

He grinned at the last one. “You forgot being devastatingly handsome.”

You laughed. “Right. That too.”

But he paused for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly.

“…I like staying busy.”

“Even when no one’s asking you to?”

“I guess I like having a reason to look after people,” he said, plating something with practiced grace. “It’s easier than talking about it.”

He set the plate in front of you—a warm, colorful dish that smelled like nostalgia and citrus and something unnameable that made your chest flutter.

You raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“Just something I thought you’d like.”

You looked down and—of course—there it was.

A tiny little orange peel shaped like a heart, resting on the side like a secret only meant for you.

Later, Nami strolled into the galley mid-rainstorm, dripping wet and grumbling.

“Sanji, please tell me you made something hot—”

She froze.

She looked at your plate.

Then at you.

Then at Sanji.

And then she smirked.

“You don’t act like that with us,” she said, towel in hand.

Sanji blinked. “Act like what?”

Nami pointed her towel at your dish. “That. The garnish. The candle. The literal ambience. What is this, a date?”

You nearly choked on your tea. “Nami!”

But she was already laughing, waving you off. “I’m just saying. He’s usually all googly-eyed and dramatic, but this? This is different.”

Sanji opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned slightly.

“…I just like making things they’ll enjoy,” he said, quietly.

Nami arched a brow. “You sure that’s all it is?”

She left him with that.

Left both of you with that.

That night, the rain continued.

Sanji stood alone in the galley, hands in his pockets, staring out the window as the clouds rolled across the moon. He thought about Nami’s words. He thought about your laugh. The way you looked when you drank tea. The way you had smiled down at that plate like it made you feel safe.

He replayed the dozens—hundreds—of small things he had done without thinking.

He knew your favorite fruits. Your favorite colors. He could tell when your shoulders were tense from stress. He noticed when you were quiet too long and always managed to pass you your favorite mug before you even asked for it.

He did not do that for the others.

Not like this.

He leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly.

“…Different,” he murmured.

He did not deny it.

The next morning, the sun was back. The deck was dry. The ship smelled like the sea and fresh citrus.

You stepped out, stretching your arms over your head—and froze.

There was a small tray waiting by your seat. A breakfast just for you.

A folded napkin. A steaming cup of tea. And another little garnish, this time in the shape of a flower.

You blinked, warmth curling in your chest.

From the galley window, Sanji watched you notice it.

And for the first time, he smiled not because he was trying to charm you.

But because he just loved the way you smiled back...

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Usopp x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Fluff, mutual pining, light comedy Word Count: ~1,400

______________________________________________________________

You looked up from the bits of broken wood on the deck, brow raised. “Half a mango?”

Usopp nodded sagely, one knee propped up like a heroic statue. “The juice distracted it long enough for me to strike. Right in the eye. Boom! It cried out across the heavens!”

You laughed, brushing sawdust from your hands. “Wow. Sounds like you saved the entire sky.”

He tried to act nonchalant, but the way his ears turned red betrayed him.

“Y-yeah, well… it was nothing.”

But your laugh echoed in his head for the rest of the day.

You started helping him fix a busted section of railing after an especially rowdy sea king scuffle. He handed you nails. You passed him planks. Somewhere in the middle, your hands brushed.

Not even a full second of contact.

But Usopp’s soul left his body.

He froze mid-movement, eyes flicking to your hand and then quickly back to the wood. His heartbeat tripped over itself like it had never learned rhythm.

“Y-You’re good at hammering,” he said.

You looked up with a smile. “You think so?”

Why did your smile do that? Why is my chest warm? Am I dying?!

That night, he told Chopper in the infirmary with the gravity of someone announcing a terminal condition.

“It was nothing. Just her hand. Brushed mine. Totally normal. My heart didn’t do a fluttery thing. Nope. Perfectly fine. Totally unaffected.”

Chopper blinked. “Usopp, your nose is bleeding.”

“SHH.”

A few days later, you found a tiny handmade crab figurine on your pillow. Wobbly legs. Big googly eyes. Clearly sculpted out of something like melted candle wax and hope.

There was a note attached:

“For luck!! – Captain Usopp”

You grinned.

The next time you saw him, you had it tucked into your pocket.

He pretended not to stare at it. But his eyes kept flicking down to where the crab peeked out.

“You, uh… kept it?” he asked, scratching the back of his head.

“Of course I did. He’s good luck, right?”

Usopp nodded too fast. “Right! Super rare crab spirit. Repels bad dreams and seagulls. I read that somewhere. Definitely real.”

Your hand brushed his again when you tucked it back into your pocket.

Usopp made a noise like a squeaky kettle and practically moonwalked off the deck.

It was worse when you sat with him while he worked on a new slingshot prototype. Just the two of you, sunlight dappled through the sails, his tools scattered between you.

You picked up a rubber band, tilting your head. “What’s this one for?”

“Oh—that’s for the sky-splitting sonic burst function,” he said, then faltered. “Wait. I mean—it might be. It’s top secret. Probably. Still testing.”

You laughed again, that easy kind of laugh that always made him feel lighter somehow.

“You’re fun to build with,” you said.

He did not hear the ocean for a full five seconds after that.

The final straw was the map.

He had been doodling late at night—a fake island, covered in winding trails and strange beasts. In the corner, he scribbled a little stick figure version of himself. And beside him, another.

You.

Labeled “Sidekick!” with a star next to it.

He laughed to himself, soft and sheepish. Just a joke.

But the longer he looked at it, the more real it started to feel. The more right it felt.

The idea of you—beside him. On adventures. In stories. In dreams.

In everything.

Usopp blinked at the paper.

“…Oh.”

The next morning, you were helping Nami chart something in the observation room when Usopp peeked in, fidgeting with a new trinket in hand—some kind of polished shell creature on a string.

“For you!” he blurted, tossing it your way like a bomb and nearly missing.

You caught it mid-air. “Another lucky charm?”

“Uh, yeah! That one keeps your feet from falling asleep. And your heart. Maybe. I think.”

You gave him a bright, curious smile. “Thanks, Usopp. You’re always giving me the coolest stuff.”

He turned red to his ears. “Yeah, well… I give a lot of stuff to everyone.”

Nami glanced up from her maps and raised an eyebrow. “No, you do not.”

Usopp flinched. “I—I don’t?”

“You don’t give me weird shell creatures,” she said, smirking.

Usopp gave you a helpless shrug. Can’t a guy panic in peace??

You just laughed again.

He melted.

Again.

That night, he tucked the sidekick map under his pillow.

And for the first time in a long time, his dreams were not filled with made-up monsters or epic battles.

They were filled with you...

Sitting beside him...

Right where you belonged...

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Shanks x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Fluff, subtle tension, slice-of-life aboard the Red Hair Pirates Word Count: ~1,500

The deck of the Red Hair Pirates was alive with laughter.

A successful haul, good weather, and plenty of rum meant the crew was in high spirits. You sat near the edge of the gathering, warm drink in hand, watching the orange sky bleed into twilight.

Shanks was in the center of it all, as always—radiating charm, laughing loud, one arm thrown over Benn’s shoulder as he spun another story, likely exaggerated.

But his eyes kept flicking sideways.

To you.

Not obvious. Not intrusive. Just enough to check—Did you hear that part? Did it make you laugh?

When you smiled, he smiled wider.

You only noticed the seat-saving habit after the third or fourth time.

Someone else would head toward the empty spot next to him, and—without fail—Shanks would casually drop something there. A coat. His scabbard. A mug. A hand.

“Taken,” he would say, without looking up.

Eventually, you stopped hesitating. You would just settle beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

The crew was weaving through a tight port town a few days later, all noise and bustle and market chaos. You were trying to keep up, head turning to take in stalls of glittering goods, when you felt it—

A hand, warm and steady, against the small of your back.

Guiding.

No words. No big deal.

Shanks kept walking like he had not just casually laid claim to your existence in public. Like he had not sent your brain short-circuiting.

You glanced at him.

He was pointing out some ridiculous hat one of his crewmates had just bought, completely unaware that your heart had decided to do somersaults.

That night, you sipped wine under the stars, legs dangling over the edge of the deck. Shanks joined you, letting his boots thud softly beside yours.

He handed you a new drink without being asked.

“Trade,” he said.

“Mine’s not even empty.”

“Still,” he shrugged, “felt right.”

You raised your glass. “To pirates with good instincts.”

He smiled, clinked his glass gently to yours, and said, “To us.”

You blinked. “Us?”

“Yeah,” he said, then paused. “I mean—the crew. Obviously. Us as in… everyone.”

But his words had already left his mouth.

To us.

It kept happening.

“When we get to the next island—” “We should fix that railing before the storm—” “If we go north next time, we’ll hit better trade routes.”

We. Always we.

Like his plans just assumed you would be there. Like his future did not make sense without you in it.

He never seemed to notice.

But you did.

And so did Makino.

You were sharing a quiet moment in the galley, watching the rain hit the windows while Makino stirred tea. She gave you a look—gentle, but amused.

“You know he acts different when you’re around,” she said casually.

You raised an eyebrow. “Does he?”

She smiled knowingly, sliding a cup across to you. “He pours your drink first. Always. He does not do that for anyone.”

You tried to play it off. “Maybe I just sit closest.”

“Mm,” she said. “Sure.”

When she told him later—cornered him in that way only old friends could—he chuckled.

“Do I?” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Cool. Effortless. Unbothered.

Makino just raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even notice, huh?”

“…Guess not.”

She left him with that.

But Shanks sat there long after the lanterns dimmed, swirling untouched rum in his glass, staring out at the sea.

Thinking about the way he always looked for you in a room. The way he stepped closer in a crowd without realizing. The way “we” had slipped from his mouth like it had always belonged there.

“…Huh,” he said aloud, almost to himself.

And then, quietly—

“…Damn.”

The next morning, you climbed up to the crow’s nest for some air.

And found a fresh mug of tea already waiting there.

Still warm.

With a little note tucked beneath it, in a familiar, uneven scrawl:

“Thought you might come up. —Shanks”

You chuckled, holding the cup in both hands.

Down below, on the main deck, he looked up once.

Right at you.

And for once, he did not look away...

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Buggy x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Comedy, fluff, mutual pining, dramatic clown behavior Word Count: ~1,500

______________________________________________________________

“You’re my favorite. Obviously.”

Buggy slung an arm around your shoulders with all the grace of someone trying very hard to look casual. It would have worked—if he had not announced it loud enough for the entire crew to hear.

Again.

From across the deck, Cabaji raised a brow. Mohji sighed.

“You always say that,” someone muttered.

Buggy waved them off with his free hand, gripping you tighter with the other. “Yeah, but this time I mean it. Don’t tell the others, though,” he said in a loud stage whisper, “you’re my right hand.”

You blinked up at him. “Buggy, your actual right hand is floating three feet behind you.”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID.”

It happened all the time. If someone tried to pull you away—say, for actual work—Buggy immediately staged a crisis.

“What do you mean you’re going with them?” he snapped one afternoon, arms flailing as you stepped toward a crew meeting. “You’re gonna ditch me for those losers? I’m WAY more fun! I’ve got charisma! Flair! A fabulous hat!”

“You also have a cannon aimed at the kitchen again.”

“Do not change the subject!”

The worst was during performances. Buggy loved an audience. Worshipped attention. But whenever you were nearby?

He shared the spotlight.

“Get up here, (Y/N)!” he shouted mid-act, dragging you center stage by the wrist. “Do the bit with the juggling fish guts!”

You stumbled into the limelight, grinning in spite of yourself. “Buggy, I’ve never done this in my life.”

“Yeah, but the crew loves you,” he said, a little too fast. “Not me. The crew. I’m just doing what they want. Obviously.”

You blinked.

“Obviously,” you echoed, half-smiling.

He looked away, face flushed, and waved his hand dramatically. “Focus, people! Back to me!”

Then there was the night you fell asleep on him.

It was accidental, obviously. You had just finished a long supply run, flopped onto the nearest bench in the captain’s quarters, and leaned your head against his shoulder with a quiet sigh.

Buggy froze.

Like, completely.

Did not move a single muscle for the next two hours.

He did not even detach anything. He just sat there, stiff as a mannequin, eyes wide, face bright red.

The crew peeked in and saw the scene.

No one said a word. They just closed the door and slowly backed away.

He did not bring it up. Not the next day. Not the next week.

But he thought about it constantly.

Like a glitch in his brain he could not fix.

That warmth. Your breath on his shoulder. The trust. The way your hair had tickled his coat—

“AGH!” he shouted, tossing a barrel across the deck in frustration. “Why is this haunting me?!”

Mohji, sweeping nearby, did not even flinch. “Still thinking about that nap thing?”

“NO!!”

You, of course, noticed none of this.

Or rather—you noticed the Buggy-ness of it all: the tantrums, the declarations, the dramatic stunts. But you figured that was just how he was with everyone.

Until one night, you casually asked, “Do you throw everyone into the spotlight, or am I just special?”

Buggy choked on his drink.

You tilted your head, teasing. “Come on, Captain. You drag me into your antics all the time.”

“That’s—That’s—That’s—!” he sputtered, pointing dramatically. “Crew morale! I am a caring leader! It is for the people!!”

You smiled, leaning in slightly. “So I’m not special?”

He froze.

Silence.

His face slowly turned crimson.

“Well- …I didn’t say all that.”

Later, you fell asleep in the crow’s nest, curled up in a blanket.

Buggy climbed up to check on you—totally not because he was worried—and paused when he saw you tucked in and breathing soft.

He sighed. Quiet this time.

Sat down beside you.

Did not touch. Did not talk.

Just… stayed.

And that night, he thought:

Maybe you really are my right hand.

But if anyone asked, he would say:

“Shut up!! It’s not like that or anything!!”

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Slow-Burn, Realization Moment Word Count: ~2,000

______________________________________________________________

You barely saw it coming—the moment Ace became a constant.

It was not dramatic. No fireworks. No grand gesture. Just… a shadow that always lingered a little longer near your shoulder. A voice that always found yours in the noise.

“You good?” he asked after every mission, every skirmish, even if you had not been on the front lines.

Casual tone. Easy grin.

But his eyes scanned your face for any sign of damage. Always.

The first time he handed you his hat, you were half-asleep on the deck, one arm draped over your eyes to block the sun. Without a word, something warm and worn settled across your face—the faded brim of his beloved hat.

You peeked out from under it. “You’ll get sunburned.”

He just shrugged. “You need it more.”

Then sat down nearby, arms folded behind his head like it was no big deal. But every few minutes, you felt his gaze flick over—just checking. Making sure it had not slipped. That you were still comfortable.

Like warmth, without the fire.

In group conversations, you were quiet.

Not shy—just the type who waited for your moment. But one afternoon, someone interrupted you before you could finish your thought.

Ace’s arm casually slung around a barrel, but his voice cut sharp and clear.

“Let them finish.”

Everyone blinked. The guy apologized. You picked up where you left off.

Ace just gave you a little nod, like it was automatic.

Because it was.

He brought you things. Dumb things. Random things.

A flower he said “looked kind of like your hair, if you squint.” A shell shaped like a spiral. A rock that sparkled faintly in the sun.

“Reminded me of you,” he said with a lazy grin and a shrug, like he did not think about it twice.

But he did think about it.

Later. Alone. Lying in his bunk, one arm behind his head, the other draped over his eyes as the ship creaked gently beneath him.

Why does everything remind me of them? Why do I look for something to give them every time we dock? Why is their smile the first thing I picture when I find something beautiful?

He never had answers. Just heat curling low in his chest.

And then came the day you got hurt.

It was not life-threatening. Just a deep gash across your arm from a surprise ambush while scavenging supplies.

But Ace saw red.

He was fire and fury and reckless rage—blasting forward, taking down three of the attackers in seconds, fists lit with flame and jaw tight with fury.

Marco had to hold him back. “They’re down, Ace. Let it go.”

He shook him off, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like a storm just barely held back.

When he finally made it back to you, his hands were shaking as he checked the wound. “Why were you out there alone? You should’ve waited. You should’ve called me—”

You blinked up at him. “Ace. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, look at this!” His voice cracked. He grabbed a cloth, hands too rough, trying to stop the bleeding like he could rewind time.

The others stood a little ways off, unsure whether to help or stay back.

Someone whispered under their breath, “…He’s acting like he’s in love with them or something.”

Ace froze.

Everything inside him stopped.

The cloth slipped from his hand.

His eyes flicked up to yours—wide, stunned, almost confused.

He’s acting like he’s in love with them.

Wait.

Wait...

Waitwaitwait-

Shit..!!!

You watched him go still. Watched his expression shift like tectonic plates—something slow, deep, irreversible.

“Ace?” you asked softly.

He blinked, like he was waking up.

And then he stood abruptly, muttering something about needing air. You watched the orange of his back fade down the corridor, swallowed by sunset.

Later that night, he came back.

Not with words. Not with an apology or confession.

But with a small box.

He handed it to you without a word, ears pink.

You opened it.

A piece of sea glass—perfectly smooth, the color of moonlight. Nestled beside a tiny sketch of you, drawn on a scrap of parchment. Rough, shaky lines. Obviously his.

“You drew this?” you asked, touched.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I dunno. You were asleep on the deck and I got bored.”

You looked at the sea glass. Then at him.

And smiled.

“Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever realize something… let me know, okay?”

His eyes met yours.

Slowly, a grin tugged at his mouth. “I think I already did.”

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Subtle romance, emotional tension, hurt/comfort, slow realization Word Count: ~2,000

No one was allowed in Law’s space.

Not physically. Not emotionally. Not even Bepo got close without permission, and Bepo had known him the longest.

Except… you.

You did not even notice it at first. The way you stood beside him during briefings, how your arms brushed when you handed him charts. The quiet nights on the deck where you ended up sharing a coat when the cold got sharp.

And Law—silent, controlled, aloof Law—never said a word.

Never moved away.

He had a way of explaining things to you that felt like he had actually taken the time to translate his brain.

One evening, after a minor scuffle, he was treating Penguin’s bruised ribs. You came to check in, and Law started explaining the healing process—not in his usual clipped medical terms, but slower, gentler, clearer.

“I’ve asked you that same question,” Shachi grumbled from nearby. “You never explain stuff like that to me.”

Law did not even glance up. “They actually listen.”

But it was more than that. You made him want to talk. Made it easy to unravel the tightly wound pieces of himself, like pulling threads from a knot without it even hurting.

He did not know how you did it.

He just… let you.

He noticed things.

The way your hands fidgeted at your sides when you were nervous. The kind of food you gravitated toward after a rough day. The specific tone your voice took when you were genuinely excited—light and airy, eyes bright like sunrise.

He did not forget any of it.

You once mentioned liking a specific island pastry in passing. When the crew docked there weeks later, Law returned from an errand with a box of them in hand.

“Coincidence,” he said, handing it off without looking you in the eye.

“Law…”

“Coincidence.”

You got hurt once. A bit of a gash. Something another crew medic could’ve easily handled.

But Law was the one who showed up with the medical bag, silent and focused, gloves snapping on.

“I could’ve waited for Jean Bart,” you said, raising a brow.

Law avoided your gaze, inspecting the cut. “I do not trust their technique.”

“But it’s a shallow cut.”

He cleaned it anyway. Wrapped it slowly. Pressed a final strip of gauze on with careful fingers.

You looked at him. “You always take care of me.”

“I am the doctor.”

“That’s not why.”

He did not answer.

Then there was the laughter.

You had been talking to another pirate—a temporary alliance, nothing serious. Something the crew barely cared about.

But Law… noticed the way you laughed. How relaxed you were.

How someone else was the reason for that smile.

His chest tightened. It felt stupid. Irrational.

“That is not jealousy,” he muttered under his breath.

Bepo, beside him, gave a look so loud it may as well have spoken.

Law scowled. “It’s not.”

But he clenched his jaw the rest of the night.

The breaking point came with a question.

Simple. Offhanded. A crew member joking at dinner.

“What would you do if (Y/N) left the crew?”

Law froze.

Fork halfway to his mouth. Eyes suddenly unreadable.

The table went quiet.

You looked over at him, sensing something shift in the air.

He said nothing.

Because the real answer—the only answer—was this:

I would go after you.

I would leave everything.

I would not be okay.

And that terrified him.

Later, alone in the infirmary, he sat with a half-finished chart in his lap, hand motionless over the paper.

His mind replayed the question over and over.

Not what would happen to the crew. Not how it would affect his plans.

Just you.

Your absence. The silence of it. The hole it would leave.

I’m in love with them.

He exhaled, slow and quiet.

Shit...

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Sabo x Reader (Pre-Relationship) Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Love Realization, Slow Burn Word Count: ~2,000 ______________________________________________________________

With Sabo, it always felt like you belonged at his side—even before he realized how much that meant.

You were part of the Revolutionary Army—smart, capable, steady. A good comrade. A better friend.

At least, that was how he described you.

To himself.

To others.

And yet…

He started saving seats beside him.

It was not on purpose at first—just a spot left open next to him during meals, briefings, downtime. His coat draped across a second chair, or his hat tossed there like a marker.

If someone tried to sit, he’d glance up, confused. “Oh—sorry, that’s for (Y/N).”

He never thought much of it.

You did.

He asked your opinion on everything.

Not just mission plans or logistics. But things like, “Do you think this tie’s too formal for a peace talk?” or “Would this soup be better with ginger or mint?”

You laughed once and said, “Are you always this picky?”

He smiled, tilted his head. “Only when you’re around to help me choose.”

He shared the things that mattered.

Books that made him think. Photos of towns he wanted to rebuild. Quiet pieces of his past—the good ones, the ones untouched by fire and grief.

You saw a different side of him. One that sparkled quietly beneath the weight he carried.

And he saw you as the safe place to set it down.

But he also grew… protective.

One time, you volunteered for a high-risk scouting job. Nothing outrageous. But before you even finished explaining your plan, Sabo cut in.

“I’ll go instead.”

You blinked. “Sabo, I can handle it—”

“I know you can,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “But I’m more familiar with the terrain. It makes sense.”

You exchanged a look with Koala, who raised a brow behind him.

Later that night, she cornered him.

“You know you’re in love with them, right?”

Sabo laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Koala: “Mm. Sure. You nearly yelled at Hack because they almost got a splinter.”

Sabo: “That was different.”

Koala: “Okay.”

It was not different.

He brought you things.

Not in a flashy way—just little gifts. A worn book with your favorite theme. A pouch of dried fruit you liked. A scarf when the mountain air got too cold.

“Found it on the way back,” he’d say, casual, like he had not thought about you the whole trip.

But he had.

One night, after a celebration—small victory, small village—you danced with someone else.

Sabo smiled. Genuinely, at first.

Then you laughed—soft and free, head thrown back—and his chest tightened.

A twist of heat. A flicker of something sharp and unfamiliar.

He turned away before he could watch any longer.

Koala caught him staring at the wall with a far-off look. “You okay?”

He blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He was lying.

The realization came quietly.

You were late coming back from a solo mission. Just by an hour. But that hour stretched out into something tight and heavy in his ribs.

He stood by the gate, arms folded, trying not to pace.

Koala came to stand beside him. “They’ll be fine. You trained them yourself.”

“I know.”

But his voice was thin. Worried. Too worried.

When you finally returned—mud on your boots, smile crooked, only a scratch on your cheek—he let out a breath like someone had released a pressure valve inside him.

“You’re late,” he said.

You grinned. “Miss me?”

He did not answer.

Not out loud.

But later, alone, he sat on the edge of his bunk and whispered to the dark:

“…Yes.”

A few days later, someone asked him a simple question:

“If (Y/N) left the army tomorrow… would you follow?”

He did not even answer.

Just went silent.

Because the answer was yes. And that scared the hell out of him.

______________________________________________________________

CHAT. DID I EAT? AHAHAHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! I DID SO GOOD, I'M SO PROUD!

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eurydiceauxenferswrites · 18 days ago

Text

How They Fall Asleep With You- Avengers Domestic/Retirement AUs

Just sleep, you perverts, lol. I’ll happily update with any character y’all want upon request (while I use MCU gifs, I’m happy to also include non MCU Marvel characters). This is pure wish fulfillment for me; not sharing a bed with my favorite characters, having a normal and functional sleep schedule.

Steve Rogers: Regardless of when you typically sleep, Steve will be ready and in bed by 9 o’clock sharp. If you’re a later sleeper he’ll stay up reading the news until you’re ready to head to bed, no matter how late. He prefers to stay on his back, with his hands folded on his stomach.

It takes you a bit to realize this, but his adaptability isn’t just because he loves you; Steve doesn’t actually sleep more than a few hours a night. He stays awake, staring at the ceiling for hours, just thinking. He tells you not to worry about it, because his enhanced body doesn’t actually doesn’t need all that much sleep, but you know it’s a half truth. So you do what you can to help rest a little easier, cuddling, back rubs, warm milk, whatever helps. He really does appreciate the effort you put in to make him feel loved and, frankly, to feel human again.

Also sorry for those hoping to see our dear Captain in his boxers but he wears long underwear to bed, force of habit, you don’t want to catch your death of cold whilst sleeping after all!

Bucky Barnes: You know that feeling you get when you oversleep and then you absolutely cannot fall asleep again the next night, like your sleep bar is overfull? Yeah that’s Bucky all the time. So he just doesn’t sleep with you, he helps you get ready for bed, kisses you good night, and then leaves the bedroom to do… whatever it is he does at night (he never leaves the house, though, he’s quite a homebody). If you’re a light sleeper you’re often woken up by sounds of video games, or talking, or the smell of cooking. One time you even woke up to a fire alarm because he was making grilled cheese at 3 in the morning.

When Bucky does finally sleep, he’ll crash out wherever he’s sitting, so you’ve found him snoozing on the couch, on the stairs, face first in a bowl of cereal, you name it. You usually give him a kiss, gently slip a pillow under his head, and let him get the his well deserved rest. He doesn’t have any pajamas, just some comfy boxers and ratty old t-shirts.

Natasha Romanov: You thought it was kismet how well your sleep schedules matched. You went to bed at the same time every night and woke up at the same time every morning. Just another reason why you two were such a great couple.

Until the first time you woke up in the middle of the night and realized Natasha was gone, entirely gone, not only from the bed but from the house. That’s when you found out that, actually, Natasha doesn’t have a normal sleep cycle. No don’t get me wrong, unlike our super soldier boys she does get her 8 hours, but she has a polyphasic sleep cycle, its part of her red room training. She only sleeps for 15 minutes at a time at most split intermittently throughout the day. So no, she wasn’t lying when she said she goes to sleep and wakes up with you, she just left out the parts in between. When she’s not in bed with you, she goes jogging, runs errands or hangs out with her other nocturnal friend Bucky Barnes.

Nat is the second most likely Avenger to wear lingerie to bed, silky lacy clingy slips are her go to. She knows how much you love to see her in it, she gets a kick out of watching you flush as she slips under the covers with you. But it absolutely melts her heart that you find her just as beautiful with messy hair and an oversized tee, that you love every aspect of her, not just the polished mask she’s so used to wearing.

Tony Stark: He is very particular about his bedroom specifications (projecting my Sensory Processing Disorder let’s goooooo). The temperature has to be precisely room temp, the AC humming just so, the sheets a the sheets a 45% cotton 55% rayon blend, and the night light at 3260K (within a 10K range), or else he cannot sleep a wink. And even then his sleep schedule is a complete disaster because he when he’s diving into a project he lacks the self control to go to stop his work and go to bed (mood). He never wakes up at the same time either, sometimes he’s bright eyed and bushy tailed at 5:30 AM, sometimes he’s snoozing until noon.

He talks in his sleep, lol can’t shut up even when unconscious, his muttering range from sweet (“…hey…love you so much, you know? love you…”) to sad (“…no no please just a little more time… I can’t save them…”) to just random (“the pickle is covered in sparkles! inedible, you go to space jail”).

He’s not entirely selfish though, he shares his toys. Has kitted out your bedroom to be state of the art, you both have an adjustable mattress, an automated light system, even a dumbwaiter for breakfast in bed. Anything you need, gorgeous, just say the word.

Absolutely wears lingerie to bed, the hottest and most impractical he can find. If the paparazzi plan on invading his privacy again, he’s promised to give them a show they’ll never forget.

Clint Barton: Clint’s sleep has also been majorly affected by his career, but unlike his partner Nat he still sleeps a normal 8 hours at a time. Clint has cultivated the ability to fall asleep anywhere he needs to. He often dozes on the couch next to you while watching tv. As long as he can feel you next to him, as long as he knows you’re safe, he feels safe too.

When Clint takes off his hearing aid, he’s a very heavy sleeper, almost impossible to wake up. He’s also a very still sleeper, hardly ever moves around, he does snore however. If that bothers you, feel free to flip him to his side, I promise it won’t disturb his beauty sleep at all. He does have pyjama set, unlike some of his teammates he’s a civilized man.

Thor Odinson: Has the classic rich kid sleep schedule; stays up late, sleeps in until brunch. If you’re the sort who prefers an early bedtime, he’ll do his best to not disturb you when he crawls into bed; although, if you’re a light sleeper, you’ll probably notice his clumsy attempts at stealth.

Sleeping in the same bed as Thor is definitely a mix of pros and cons. The cons: he snores like thunder and he’s a major space hog. The pros: he sleeps entirely nude. He’s also a cuddler and surprisingly soft for such a muscular man. He likes to slip his arm under your head to support it and pull you close while you sleep (although if you’re the sort that prefers their space while sleeping, YMMV on whether this is a perk or not). Also, if you have insomnia of any kind, he’ll stay up as late as you need helping you fall asleep, whispering Asgardian folktales, or even making it rain just so for the perfect white noise.

Bruce Banner: Bruce has transformed during nightmares before, so he’s honestly somewhat scared of sleeping in the same bed as you, the last thing he wants is to hurt you. If you insist, he’ll try though (“alright, it’s your funeral”). So far, things have been going well; the worst that’s happened is you’ve been accidentally pushed out of bed once or twice, or woken up by oversized grumbling, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying that one day Hulk will hit you in his sleep (accidentally, of course, Hulk is as soft for you as Banner is). Always puts up a pillow wall when he sleeps. Sometimes suffers from insomnia, takes a lot of melatonin gummies. If you have insomnia, he’ll give you the driest densest scientific literature he can find (well, dry to you, to him its fascinating, but he accepts your lack of interest in advances in the modeling of molecular orbital theory for actinides using machine learning programs or whatever dishwater dull nuclear physics he’s reading about this week). Sleeps with nothing on but a pair of super stretchy pants in case of Hulk emergency. Almost always sleeps in the fetal position.

Sam Wilson: Once again winning the Most Adult award, Sam works hard to make sure he has a consistent sleep schedule because he understands how important it is. He’s usually in bed by 8:30-9 and spends an hour or so reading with a nightlight and maybe a cup of tea until he feels sleepy. He’s not especially picky about his sleeping spaces, with one exception; he expects you to respect the sanctity of quiet time. That means no talking, no running around, no tv, maybe some music if he’s feeing crazy. Cuddling is always welcome, of course, as long as he can still read with you curled up in his arms. If you don’t behave he’s happy to banish you to the foldout couch. It’s nothing personal but it’s important to him that he has a chance to decompress at the end of the day and he knows how to set good boundaries.

Sam wakes up pretty early, around 6, so he can get a morning jog in and get ready for his day. He’ll always cook for you in the morning and he’ll even make you breakfast in bed if he has the time. Sam wears pajama pants but typically goes shirtless at night. Likes to sleep on his side, facing you, so you’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning.

Loki: Not the easiest person to sleep with. He’s very picky, not in specific details like Tony, more that he expects a certain standard of luxury, a bedroom fancy enough for a prince. He’s also a very selfish bedmate, since he’s not used to sharing his space. He’s a pillow hog and blanket thief and also like, ice cold so if you run hot then that’s great for you but if not, good luck lol). Still, he does like sleeping with you, he’s a clingy sort, so maybe take the L and indulge him once in a while. Goes to bed as late as he pleases and considers waking up before 10 to be “early” in classic royal fashion.

Has a giant sized plushie he squeezes while sleeping (Ah yes. You, your boyfriend, and his 4 foot tall Jeff the Landshark). Wears the most dramatic slinky old timey night robe ever, it has the tendency to start slipping off ;).

Frank Castle: Frank had been nocturnal for a long time. He’d get restless sleep in the day, in the back of his van or in a safe house, usually in a sleeping bag and a pile of laundry, and of course without changing or brushing his teeth.

Since moving in with you, he’s tried to clean up his act. He gets in bed and wakes up around the same time as you (assuming you have a somewhat regular sleep schedule, if not he’s in at 10ish and up at 6:30ish), he has pajamas you bought together and always takes a shower right before bed, he’s slowly being re-domesticated. Frank always makes the bed after you’ve both woken up, force of habit from his military training. His alarm clock is set at the lowest level but he still jumps out of bed like somebody’s crashed a cymbal next to his ear, his vigilante past has left him pretty high strung. He’s also plagued by nightmares, of the death of his family, of the horrors he’s seen, of you suffering the same fate. He twists around and whimpers in his sleep, the best way to stop them is to cuddle, nothing helps him sleep like being the big spoon, feeling you safely tucked inside his arms.

#Imagines #x reader #marvel x reader #marvel imagines #marvel x reader headcanons #marvel domestic au #MCU x reader #avengers x reader #Steve rogers x reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #Natasha Romanov x Reader #Tony stark x reader #Thor odinson x reader #Bruce banner x reader #Sam Wilson x reader #Loki x reader #Frank Castle x reader

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sturnioz · 2 months ago

Note

ok you def don’t have to answer or go along with this idea but… imagine like bun and kitty and whoever are all having a convo about faking orgasms and chris is there not really contributing just barely listening and kitty asks bun if she’s ever faked one and she just kinda timidly shrugs and tries to change the topic. well that catches his attention and later when they’re alone chris asks if she’s ever faked with him and she just sorta shrugs again. then he makes it his mission to make her cum as many times as possible.

"i faked it, like, once or twice," you hear bee admit to kitty one morning, her voice cutting through the quietness of the kitchen. you glance up from your cereal bowl, spoon halfway to your mouth, blinking at them both with little curiosity as bee continues. "sometimes i can't be bothered, y'know? like, just wrap it up already."

kitty lets out a soft laugh, her fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee. she takes a sip before she nods in agreement. "it takes me longer to finish, and sometimes matt knows what he's doing but other times? i just need it to be over 'cos i'm not getting anything out of it."

you remain quiet as you watch them, slowly chewing on your cereal, unsure if you should talk or not. the thought of talking about your own sexual experiences makes your cheeks feel hot, and you don't really want to embarrass yourself so early in the morning.

kitty notices your silence, and she raises an eyebrow at you. "what about you, bun? ever faked it?"

the question aimed at you catches you completely off guard, and you almost choke on your cereal. you quickly swallow as your eyes dart toward chris, who's lounging on the couch in the living room.

"uh..." you stammer, struggling to find your words. instead, you opt for the safest response possible—a slow and noncommittal shrug.

kitty grins over the rim of her mug, "is that a yes, or a no?"

your cheeks burn hotter, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your cereal bowl, stirring the milk absently. desperate to change the subject, you quickly ask, "a-are you, um... are you both doing anything later? are you still going to the store?"

"OH!" bee gasps dramatically, smacking her palm against the counter as if you've just reminded her of something. she digs into the pocket of nate's oversized hoodie, pulling out her phone and unlocking it with rapid taps as she rambles about the list of things she needs to get that's in her notes app.

the weight on your chest lifts as the conversations shifts, grateful the attention is no longer on you. kitty joins bee in a discussion about running errands, and you take the opportunity to sneak a quick, cautious glance toward chris.

he's sitting sitting on the couch, manspreading, his face buried in his phone as he scrolls mindlessly. relief washes over you in waves, thankful that he wasn't listening in.

or so you think.

it's when you're in his room, rummaging through clothes in search for something to wear to join kitty and bee on their day, you hear the door click shut behind you.

you glance over your shoulder to see chris leaning against the doorframe, his eyes trained on you. he doesn't say anything at first, he just tosses his lighter onto the desk with a dull thud.

searching for something to wear to join kitty and bee on their day out, that you hear chris walk in, his eyes trained on you as he closes the door behind himself.

"have you?" he finally asks.

your brows knit together as you turn to face him fully, blinking in innocent confusion. "have i what?"

"faked it, kid."

the question hits you like a slap, and your face heats up instantly as the realisation sets in. when you thought he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings... he did hear.

your lips part as you try to come up with something—anything to say—but all that comes out is a jumble of stuttered words that make absolutely no sense. completely incoherent.

finally, you resort to the same answer you gave before—a slow shrug of your shoulders.

chris huffs out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head as he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. his jaw tightens as he keeps his eyes on you, his sharp gaze making pulse quicken.

"right," he mutters, his voice low and unreadable.

it all happens so fast—one moment you’re being stared at, and the next you're pressed against the bed with a sticky mess between your thighs.

you're gripping the bedsheets tightly between trembling fingers, a choked squeal leaving your drooling lips as his hips smack harshly against your ass he he fucks into you brutally, giving you what seems to be your third or fourth or fifth orgasm.

honestly, you have no idea. you've lost count.

"c-chris! mmph—i ca—ah!!" you're unable to form a coherent sentence, your body bouncing against the bed with each thrust, your thighs flailing as his grip on your hips tighten, pulling you back repeatedly against him, driving his cock further into your snug warmth.

"shruggin' your shoulders," he scoffs to himself with a shake of his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth as one of his hand dips around the front of your body, pressing his thumb against your sore, swollen clit. "y'funny if you think you can fake shit with me, bun."

divider credits. @issysh3ll

#ᯓ꒰asks꒱#ᯓ꒰anon꒱#☆ fratboy!chris #☆ shy!reader #꒰ fratboy!chris x shy!reader prompt ꒱

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yelenasbraid · 3 months ago

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JOE BURROW — save a horse, ride a quarterback

summary — It’s show season, which means every other weekend she’s competing. It means everyday she’s at the barn. It also means less time with her boyfriend.

warnings — fem!equestrian!reader, angst, fluff, equestrian lingo, third person (she/her), language, SMUT (sub!joe, p in v, MDNI)

requested by — pookie bear arch 🫶🏼 @starsinthesky5

tags — @burrowdarling @joeburrowshaircurl @joeyfranchise @ebsmind @kazsbrckkers @blairsworld22 @iosivb9 @softburrow @joeyburrrow @wickedfun9 (comment/send an ask if you wanna be added!)

note — it’s a long one oops also WEC is the World Equestrian Center in Ocala Florida :)

SEVEN DAYS A WEEK. 5 hours a day. The stables saw more of Y/N than Joe did. During football season, it wasn’t bad. Y/N showed when Joe played. Now that football was over, Joe was starting to notice just how much she was gone.

And how exhausted she was when she got back.

She walked through the door, the soft click of the door echoing through the still walls of her home. Her muscles ached, her brain was fuzzy; she just wanted to shower and sleep. Training for this show, the biggest show of her career, took every ounce of energy out of her. Consistency was key, but it left Y/N exhausted.

She shuffled through the house, running a hand down her face. She needed a shower, desperately. She smelled of sweat and horse, which to her was a comforting scent. It reminded her of home. She didn’t think Joe would appreciate it.

Joe padded down the stairs as he heard the door shut. His eyes sparkled; this is the first time he’s seen his girlfriend since that morning. Her breeches clung to her legs, riding socks stained with the black of her riding boots, and her long-sleeve quarter-zip compression shirt hugged her curves and her muscles. Joe thought it was the sexiest thing he could see her in, but the expression on her face made his desire deflate.

“Hey,” he hummed softly, catching her attention. She slid her tired eyes up to him as he walked further into the kitchen. He looked comfortable, his sweats clung loosely to his hips, his oversized t-shirt hung loose around his shoulders. His skin was golden and flushed, and if she had the energy, she’d grab a taste of him.

“Hey,” Y/N pursed her lips into a thin smile, filling up her water bottle at the fridge. Joe stepped closer, gently wrapping his arms around her middle from behind her. Y/N sucked in a breath, his lips peppering kisses to her neck. She smelled of hay, horses and sweat. He could also point out traces of her perfume she put on that morning.

“How was the barn?”

“Fine,” Y/N sighed, “coach made me do the same course 5 times because Izzy kept getting too excited,” she finished filling up her water bottle with an exasperated sigh, gently tugging herself from Joe’s grasp. He sighed, feeling the cool air of the kitchen return to his skin.

“What was she doing?” Joe asked, leaning against the island as she screwed the top of her water bottle back on. Isabella, or Izzy, was her horse. Joe’s met Izzy loads of times, and the mare was as sweet as can be. Cuddly, stubborn as hell, but cute.

She reminded him of Y/N.

“She kept running at the fences,” Y/N sighed, rolling her eyes. Izzy had that habit, rushing the fences, making each jump sloppy and uncoordinated.

“Then, she wouldn’t calm down enough to trot, so I had to use all the power in my shoulders and my abs to force her,” Y/N continued. Joe could see she was frustrated, he could also tell she was sore. She leaned over the counter, placing her forehead on the island.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Joe hummed. He genuinely was. He knew what it was like to have frustrating practices, to not be able to do his job effectively before a game.

“It’s fine,” she sighed, running a hand over the messy, sweaty bun she’d thrown her hair into after her lesson. She grabbed her water bottle, taking a hefty sip before she started for the stairs. Every muscle in her body ached, every bone protested every movement.

“Babe-”

“I’m gonna get a shower,” she hummed, not turning to face him as she walked up the stairs. Joe’s eyes rounded, his steps light as he followed her, like a lost puppy.

“Can I join you?” he asked, a spark of hope in his voice. He wasn’t just looking for sex, he just wanted to be close to her. He wanted to help her relax, to embrace her. It’s been a while since the two of them had been intimate, and while sex wasn’t everything in their relationship, he missed her. He missed having her in those sinful, lustful ways. He missed the days just lounging on the couch. He missed laughing with her, playing Mario Kart on the TV.

“Joe,” she sighed, reaching the top of the stairs, “no, not tonight,” she shook her head as she headed towards their shared master bedroom. Joe’s heart sunk, and not just because he wasn’t getting sex, but because he wasn’t spending time with her. He knew that after her shower, she’d go straight to bed. That’s how it’s been for the past few weeks.

“Ok,” Joe nodded. He sounded like a kicked puppy, his bottom lip sticking out as he watched her retreat into the bedroom. He ran a hand through his damp curls, frustration and a twang of sadness tightening his chest.

He missed his girlfriend and she lived under the same roof.

a few days later

Joe’s eyes darted around the street, his eyes covered by the Cartiers that adorned his face. The warm sun of Cincinnati heated his skin, but he barely felt the warmth as he waited for his girlfriend to join him for lunch.

He’d texted her that morning, before she got too busy at the barn, asking if they could do lunch at a cafe downtown. It made his heart clench he even had to ask that, but he was just grateful he got a chance to see her.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, Jen had me working horses this morning,” Y/N sat down, out of breath, snapping Joe out of his stupor. Jen was her coach, and she usually always had Y/N working horses.

“Don’t apologize, I just wanted to spend some time with you,” Joe shrugged. His heart swelled at her smile, the flushed cheeks. She was beautiful, sweaty and all.

“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s been crazy trying to get ready for this show in Florida,” Y/N hummed, taking a sip of her water, which Joe had ordered for her already.

“I know it has been,” Joe smiled, grabbing her hand and running his thumb along the back of her knuckles, “but let’s not think about that,”

Y/N smiled, giving his hand a squeeze. She knew that she’d been at the barn every day for hours. She knew that she was neglecting time with Joe, and she felt it too. The small gesture of his hand in hers, the way it sent shivers down her spine, it proved that. Guilt ate at her nerves, her stomach knotting as she thought about all of the times she’s avoided his touches, avoided being with him because of a show or a lesson.

Like she was doing now. Checking her watch for the time.

“Y/N,” Joe called, snapping her from her stupor.

“Hm?”

“You’re not listening,” Joe sighed. He was trying to talk to you about some new video game he saw that he wanted to play with you one evening, but you didn’t seem interested.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was talking about how there’s a new Mario Kart releasing tomorrow,” he hummed, shaking his head, feeling his chest tighten, “just saying that I’d like for you to play it with me,”

“There’s a new one?” Her face lit up, and Joe’s heart soared. She was paying attention. She wasn’t thinking about the show at WEC.

“Yeah, they added some new characters too,”

“No way,”

“Yes way,” he smiled, feeling like this was normal. She checked her watch, again, and she had about 5 minutes until she had to leave. Her leg bounced, and Joe sighed with disappointment. He just wanted to spend time with her, and while he understood the need to practice, it didn’t mean he was ok with it.

“You have to leave,” Joe stated, his voice monotone with threads of disappointment. Y/N looked up at him, her guilt swimming behind her eyes.

“I’m sorry, baby, really,” she hummed as she stood, walking over to him. She pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, the touch sending shivers down his spine. He wanted more of that, more of her touch, more of her.

“I get it,” he sighed, adjusting his seat, “I do, just come home safely,”

“I will,” you promised, grabbing your things.

“I love you,” he called, like it was his last line of defense.

“Love you too, bubs,”

later that evening

Y/N walked in the door that evening, her muscles sore, hay and grime sticking to her skin. She shut the door with her back, an exhale leaving her lips. The house was quiet, for the most part. She heard shifting above her, the soft thuds of her boyfriend’s feet as he made his way down the stairs.

She kicked off her beat up, old sneakers she used only for the barn, and shuffled into the kitchen. Her feet left sweaty imprints on the hardwood floors, but Joe didn’t seem to care.

“Y/N,” his voice was stern, and she flicked her eyes up to meet his. There was a different expression on his face, his eyes were hard, but there was something else that sat behind his cold facade: need.

“Baby, I know it’s late, I’m sorry I-”

“It’s not the time, Y/N,” he stopped her, his voice gentle. Joe thought about it all day, about how to talk to her. Being an equestrian was important to her, and he respected that. He didn’t have a single issue with her commitment to the sport.

“Then what is it?”

“I barely see you,” he started slowly, his hands softly slapping against his thighs, “I know you’re committed, determined, and damn good at what you do, but I wanna see you too,” he sounded desperate, his words dripping with the need he had for her. He stepped closer, observing the way her cheeks were flushed, how her lips were pink. Her muscles strained against the compression shirt she wore, her breeches hugging her thighs.

“I know I know,” she huffed, taking a deep breath. She wasn’t completely unaware of how little she’s seen Joe. She was reminded of that every time she came home, or every time he’d tell her something that happened she didn’t know about.

Joe stepped closer, bringing up his hands to cup her face. Her skin was warm, slick with a thin sheen of sweat. He stared into her eyes, catching the mirrored expression of need. It was fleeting, but it felt like it was the first time he’s seen such an expression from her in days.

“Y/N-”

“I need a shower,” she cut him off, pulling away from his grasp. He sighed, letting her trudge up the stairs. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his chest tightening with further disappointment. He just wanted to spend time with her, to touch her, to feel her, but he felt like she was avoiding him. Why? Why was she avoiding him?

He trudged up the stairs, running a hand through his damp curls. He shuffled into their bedroom, hearing the shower running. He sat down on the bed, scooting his back against the headboard. He picked up the book on his nightstand, attempting to read, but his thoughts kept going back to her. She was his girlfriend and he’s barely seen her. He saw her for maybe a total of an hour that day. Maybe. His nostrils flared, his hands clenched as he put the book down. He would do anything to have her. Anything.

The water stopped, and his eyes were glued to the bathroom door. He waited, his chest rising and falling. He didn’t know what it was about that night, but his need for her flared uncomfortably in his body. He felt an ache down in his cock, and he adjusted his sweats accordingly.

The door opened, and she stepped out. Steam billowed out from the bathroom, enveloping her in warmth. She towel dried the ends of her hair as she stepped into the bedroom, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. Joe’s eyes raked over her body, taking her in. Her thighs glistened with the remaining droplets of water, her muscles contracting with every step she took. His eyes stayed glued to her thighs and the curve of her muscles, feeling his mouth moisten.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Y/N. She watched him as she hung the towel back up, observing the hints of desire that swam in his eyes. She knew it had been a while since either of them indulged in each other, but the soreness of her muscles reminded her that she couldn’t take it tonight.

“Don’t give me that look,” she hummed softly as she walked over to her side of the bed. Joe’s eyes followed her, his heart skipping a beat as he watched her shorts ride up as she got into bed. Her damn thighs.

“What look?” He asked innocently, feeling his cheeks warm.

“The one you’re giving me right now,” she hummed, “like you wanna fuck me in my pajamas,”

“You want me to be honest?” His heart slammed in his chest, his body shaking with his next words. He was nervous, and he didn’t know why. Well, he did. Technically.

“Of course,” Y/N sat on top of the covers, crossing her legs under her, watching him. There was something about his body language that was different. His eyes were round, his face flushed, and his pink lips were parted with the small pants leaving his lungs. She tilted her head to the side, slowly putting the puzzle together.

“Practice,” he started, swallowing thickly; he shouldn’t be nervous, “practice on me,” Joe finished. He had a hopeful look in his eyes, and he hoped that Y/N would get it. She did, but she wanted him to spell it out. She adjusted her body, facing him, scooting closer to him.

“Practice?” she hummed, one of her hands slowly grazing across his stomach under his shirt. His breath hitched, the tickle her nails gave him made his cock strain against the fabric of his sweats.

“Yeah,” he swallowed, his skin twitching with her touches. Y/N hummed, feeling rejuvenated. She didn’t know that this is what Joe wanted, that he wanted her to practice on him. To ride him. All of a sudden, the days she’s gone without being touched, without sex, it caught up to her. Her pussy throbbed, her muscles ached for a different reason. Y/N moved to straddle his waist, and Joe’s breath hitched. His mind was racing, his heart slamming against his chest. His hands rested on her thighs, running his hands up and down the taut muscle. She leaned down, hovering her lips above his.

“You want me to ride you, huh,” she hummed, peppering kisses to his jawline. His hands gripped her thighs, pushing the legs of her shorts up, his hands cupping her ass.

“Please,” he whispered. Joe was rarely ever like this, submissive. He was desperate for her, and his desperation built and built until it snapped into utter submission. He’d do anything just to have her.

Y/N hummed against his skin, rolling her hips against his. She could feel his erection against her, and she gasped. Joe’s breaths were strangled as his hands slid down to grasp your hips, his body arching up into hers. As she ground against him, his cock brushing against her pussy through the fabric of her clothes, he couldn’t help but release a strangled moan. White hot electricity cascaded down his body, shocking his every nerve. His hands kept her hips moving, desperately needing to bury himself inside her, to feel her warm walls clench around his cock.

“Y/N,” he moaned. His desperation, his pleas, they were fuel to her ever-building fire. She smirked as she sucked at his neck, scooping her hips against his. One of his hands ventured up her shirt, cupping her breast. Even though she wanted to take this slow, draw this out, the need that's built up for days wouldn’t allow for that. She parted from his neck, stripping off her shirt. His lips immediately latched onto her breast, his tongue rolling over the beads of her nipple. She moaned, the feeling of his lips against her skin electric. She didn’t realize how much she missed this until she had it again.

Joe moved his lips to her other nipple, giving it the same attention, swirling his tongue around her. His hands tugged down the hem of her shorts, and as he pulled away her nipple, his blue eyes round and begging, she lifted her hips. She slid off her shorts, and while she did that, Joe slid off his shirt.

“I’ve missed you,” he groaned as his hands wrapped around her middle, bringing her closer. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, kissing her softly on her skin. His hands roamed her back, moving up and down her skin. His kisses sent aches down her body, increasing her need for him, making her pussy throb with the arousal that oozed out of her.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she panted as she ground against him. Her hands drifted down to the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down. Her fingers against his skin sent bolts of electricity through his body. He shuddered against her neck, his teeth grazing her skin.

“I need to feel you,” he moaned, parting from her neck. He slid his sweats off, and as he did, your eyes met his hard cock. It was red, sensitive with the arousal that ached in his gut. Precum pooled at his tip, slipping down the base of his cock. It made her mouth water. She leaned up, kissing him against his lips, rolling her bare pussy against his cock. Both of them moaned, their lips stuttering as they kissed. Joe’s hands held onto her hips while his tongue dipped into her mouth, inhaling deeply through his mouth. Her slicked pussy ran along his shaft, the friction against her clit making her gasp and moan.

She reached between them, grabbing ahold of his cock and lining him up with her entrance. With her lips still on his, she slowly sank back onto his cock. She shuddered, her whole body tensing as she took more of him, as he stretched her walls. She sat up, her hands bracing against his shoulders. It felt like coming home, warm and filling. She closed her eyes as she slowly swiveled her hips, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Joe forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see her, he wanted to watch her ride him. He watched as she swiveled her hips, the feeling of her walls around him making his fingers dig into her hips.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he exhaled, “baby, you feel so good,” he moaned, his hips bucking into hers. It kick-started something, a primal need for her to go faster, to feel him thrust in and out of her. She adjusted her stance, and she started riding him. She scooped her hips, the friction of his cock embedded in her pussy making her moan. Her hands gripped her shoulders as Joe’s hips bucked to meet hers, not being able to hold himself back. His hands slid to her thighs as she quickened her pace, feeling her quads contract with every movement she made. He panted, throwing his head back, his fingers squeezing her muscles.

Groans spilled from his lips, the friction that electrified his muscles from her movements making him see stars. It fulfilled his needs, his ultimate desire for her. He kept his hands on her thighs, his head thrown back in pleasure.

“You look so good baby,” she hummed as she leaned forwards, still scooping her hips and bouncing on his cock, “so good for me,” she whispered as she kissed his neck, barely able to make contact with the pleasure that raked down her muscles.

The room heated, tense with the need that coursed between them. The days without touching each other, without being with each other in the most intimate ways, it caught up to them. Her movements became desperate, chasing the building release deep within her gut. Joe’s hands slid up to her hips, guiding her movements, thrusting his hips up to meet hers.

“Baby,” she moaned, and Joe knew. He knew her like the back of his own hand. The way she tensed, the way her body’s movements stuttered with the heat that pinched her clit.

“I know baby, I know,” he panted, his hands gripping her hips. He groaned, thrusting into her, his movements desperate and needy. His cock twitched inside of her, the ache building and stretching down to his tip. Both of them were impeccably close.

Her moans grew incessant, thick with lust and her building orgasm. She tensed, the frayed coil in her gut snapping. She gasped, her orgasm spilling over her. Joe watched as her orgasm spilled from her, littering his skin, warm and sticky. He moaned, throwing his head back as he thrusted one, two, three times before hit spurts of cum filled and coated her walls. She arched her back, her body on beautiful display. Joe’s eyes caught her body, the way her muscles were defined in the warm lighting of the room. His thumbs massaged her abs, feeling the taut muscles under his skin.

“Holy fucking shit,” she cursed, her muscles trembling, pulling herself off of him with a hiss. Joe’s eyes never left hers as he pulled her down to him, capturing her lips in a hungry, feverish kiss.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he growled against her mouth, his arm snaking around her waist, flipping them. He hovered over her, slotting his body between hers. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with nothing but love for him.

“I’m sorry,” she hummed, “for being away-” he interrupted her with a kiss, pressing his body into hers. Her hands cupped his face, her legs wrapping around his waist.

“Don’t do that,” he hummed against her lips, “just focus on me, alright? Focus on me,” he whispered, moving his lips down her neck. She did, and for the rest of that evening, they spent their time catching up on all the nights they missed out on.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow imagines #joe burrow smut

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stove-top96 · 3 months ago

Text

Wicked Game

Ch. 02

Y Batfam x Gn Reader

Featuring Platonic: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Damian Al-Ghul Wayne

3.9k words

Ch. 01 <- Ch. 02 -> Ch. 03

Class schedule

1st period - Art

2nd Period - Maths

12:00 - 1:00: Lunch

3rd Period - Biology

4th Period - English

(5:00 -> Basketball game)

The thought of Biology class and working with Tim is already giving you a headache and there’s still 10 minutes till class starts.

You showed up a little early like you always do, and sat in the same seat as yesterday. Tim will probably sit beside you. Today is the only class you’ll get to work on the poster, and Mrs. Young's expectations for it are kinda insane.

She’s not even offering supplies. No poster paper, hardly any markers. Is this not the ‘best’ school in Gotham? you're not spending any of your hard earned money on a bio project.

Tim can get it.

He has like a gazillion dollars so there’s no reason for him to complain.

You scroll through your socials, but there’s still no sign of Tim. Shouldn’t he be here by now? There’s only a few more minutes to tell class.

<Tim>

So sorry y/n. There was an emergency last night, I can’t make it to class today.

You roll your eyes— great. You want to ask him how he got your number, but what were you supposed to say?

‘I know you didn’t get my number from Brandi. How’d you get it?’

It’s not normal, it’s so creepy. You feel the pit in your stomach grow— Jesus, you can’t be dealing with this on game day.

No one's gonna reprimand Tim Drake. Not the principal, not the teachers, In fact you might be the one to get in trouble. Defamation of character or something.

You sigh. You’ll just block him after Monday, get through this project and never talk to him again.

<y/n>

Ok I’ll do what I can. We can meet up on the weekend or smth.

Can u get the supplies?

<Tim>

Yeah we’ll make something work. It’ll be done for Monday

I should have some stuff laying around somewhere.

You scoff. Quickly shutting your phone off as the bell rings.

Mrs. Young starts talking, reminding everyone how this will be the only class period to work on the project that’s due Monday.

You stare at the empty desk. Your leg starts bouncing and your palms get shaky.

Focus. Just focus on something. Anything.

You can’t. Your mind just drifts to the game, how everything could go wrong.

You shift in your seat. Trying to focus on Mrs. Young’s voice.

Just get through class.

Before you know it you’re in the locker room. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you quickly splash cold water on your face. God— you look like a mess.

“Come on y/n, we gotta warm up in like 10 minutes” your teammate Cameron yells.

“Yeah I’ll be ready in a sec” you yell. Drying your face, you give yourself one last look in the mirror. The pit in your stomach grows bigger.

You’ve worked harder than most people to get here, just trust in your training. You’re the best shooting guard there on the team, there’s a reason this school wants you here.

You pep talk does little to ease your nerves, but there’s not much else you can do now.

You catch up with Cameron in the gym, and watch the other team warmup. “They’re not bad… But we’re better”. Their confidence is nice, but Cameron isn’t playing with the stakes you are.

“Yeah, We’ll be fine” you whisper, you don't know if you’re talking to Cameron or yourself.

You and your warm up. Running laps around doing shooting drills. Your muscle memory takes over.

Your breathing steadies, your mind is clear.

You shoot.

The swish of the net is like music to your ears.

slowly start gaining your confidence back. Warming up your 3 pointers and haven’t missed one yet.

Normally you’re a starter but Coach decided to bench you at the start. He wants you to get a feel for the opposing team.

“These games aren’t like the ones you’re used to playing” he says. His eyes never leave the court.

“They take training camps over the summer, their parents invest good money into them” he continues. It’s not hard to believe, their technique is unreal.

“But you have something they don’t” he pauses and you look up at him “you're strong, and you have raw talent… I can probably guess what was going through your head today. I just want you to know no matter what you're going to stay on my team.”

Everything disappeared at that moment. All your stress, nerves, regret, it was flooded out with a wave of relief and adrenaline.

Nothing mattered now all you had to do was play your favourite game.

The whistle blew and you switched places with E.J. “Show ‘em what you got Y/n” they patted you on the back.

you’ve never played harder. scoring shot after shot. You were in the zone.

You were having fun.

Gotham prep wins, 68 to 25.

The Subway home is short, nothing like the one you took this morning. You ride the high of winning, a small smile never leaving your face as you recall your best plays of the game. Your mind is filled with excitement and anticipation for your next game.

By the time you reach your apartment you’re exhausted, but as you go to unlock the door the key stops short. It’s already unlocked. That’s weird, mom was always triple checking the locks?

a shiver runs down your spine as you slowly push open the door.

The living room light is dim, The curtains are stapled closed. The T.V plays some static filled re-run, and you see her.

Your mom sits on the couch, hands clenched in her lap muttering something to herself.

You swallow “Hey mom I’m back from my game.” She doesn’t move.

You shut the door, making sure to lock it. “We won, I even got MVP”

Still nothing.

A pit forms in your stomach. You sigh as you drop your bag and slide off your sneakers. You slowly make your way to sit beside her. Your shoulders are touching. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t even acknowledge you.

you hate it.

“I was pretty nervous about playing” you continue, softer now. You know talking to her is futile, but maybe just maybe you could bring her back even for a second. “But coach said no matter what I’ll always be on his team” you say, your head drops onto her shoulder leaning closer into her.

She goes quiet and stares into the wall. Your eyes follow her gaze, nothing’s there. You look at the outdated wallpaper, peeling at the edges.

A lump forms in your throat, and the pit in your stomach grows bigger.

She loves Basketball. She taught you everything you know.

She’d always tell you stories about her games, how she was the best Center at Gotham public. You remember seeing her at every middle school game you had, and would always cheer the loudest. She’d ruffle your hair after every game and say “good job baby I’m so proud of you” You used to get so embarrassed about it.

Now she’s barely here.

The doctors said she would get better with the proper help and time, how she was ‘Luckier than most’.

But she’s not.

and there’s nothing you can do about it.

You know she needs more help than what the government is offering. Group meetings for fear toxin victims aren’t enough. She needs professional help, but insurance won't cover it and you can’t afford it with only a minimum wage job and her disability checks.

you clench your fists nails digging into your palms. It’s not fair. But nothing is ever fair in Gotham.

“I’m gonna make dinner mom” you get up slowly. Looking back at her, still nothing.

You’ll help her. You go to Gotham prep, almost any college will accept you just for that. You’ll build a good life for you and her.

But for now, all you can do is make sure she eats.

+++++

<Tim>

How’d the game go?

Tim exhaled sharply, glaring at Dick “You just gonna stare at my phone until they respond?”

”why else would I be here?” Dick lounged on the couch, a cocky grin plastered on his face. He tried to play it off but he was excited.

The living room was quiet with everyone doing their ‘own thing’— Bruce reading the paper, Cass pretending to read a book, Steph scrolling on her phone, Jason and Damian cleaning weapons— But no one was focused.

They were waiting.

The family knew how you did. All of them watched the live stream. They saw every shot you scored, every pass you made, everything.

They were proud.

“I still believe it’s insulting that the coach decided to bench them for the 1st period” Damian scoffed. “Their talent is wasted due to incompetence”.

”they won.” Jason said without locking up

”That’s not the point Todd”. Damian rolled his eyes, “they would’ve won either way.” Damian muttered. Truthfully he was disappointed he didn’t get to see you more.

Tims phone buzzed.

The sound made everyone’s attention snap to him.

<Y/N>

It was good we won and I got MVP

Dick read the text out loud. Tim snatched the phone back before anything else could happen.

“They're starting to share more, that’s good.” Bruce stated, Cass nodded her lips twitch into a small smile.

“Invite her over for tomorrow, I wanna be here when they come” Dick said smugly, a smirk still present on his face.

Tim stayed quiet typing a response.

”I doubt Grayson would go back to Blüdhaven if they chose to come over Sunday” Damian Huffed.

Tim ignored them and hit send.

<Tim>

That’s good!

When are you free on the weekend?

<Y/n>

I work during the day I’m free after 6 tho

the library doesn’t close tell 9

Dick leaned over reading the text aloud. “You're not going to the library,” Jason scoffed. “Yeah, no” Dick said playfully. Tim rolled his eyes “yeah I know” he scoffed, they were too quick to jealousy.

he quickly typed a response.

<Tim>

I’m not really able to go anywhere, that’s why I wasn’t at school today

<Y/n>

wdym

<Tim>

I got my family to keep it out of the news, but I was attacked last night.

They wanted to take me for ransom.

Dick read the messages aloud. There was a moment of silence before he started laughing at Tims lame excuse. Jason and Steph couldn’t help but snicker to themselves, even Damian had a small grin.

Bruce just nodded in approval. You couldn’t know some thug shot him.

<Y/n>

Are you okay?

Tim’s face had a ghost of a smirk. You were worried about him.

<Tim>

yeah I’m fine

I can’t really leave my house until they catch the guys so would you be able to come over tomorrow at 6:30?

Silence filled the room. No one moved.

Everyone was waiting for your response. Growing more and more impatient. But it didn’t come.

Everyone held their breath. It felt like they were staring at the messages for an eternity.

Dick inhaled sharply. “they’re typing”

<Y/N>

yeah sure

<Tim>

great I’ll send you the address

The atmosphere of the room shifted. Everyone had a dark and calculated look as thoughts of tomorrow's plan raced through their mind.

“Everything prepared for tomorrow?” Asked Bruce his expression unreadable.

Damian Nodded “of course”

”Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Dick said playfully, but his eyes gleamed darker.

+++++

Work was more draining than usual.

The Batburger joint you worked at left much to be desired. Two of your coworkers came in high, and some lady yelled at you for forgetting to ‘jokerize’ her fry’s. you want nothing more than to be bedrotting at home.

instead you're here.

You made your way to Wayne Manor. Tim gave you the address, but it was just a formality. Everyone knows where they live.

There was a pit in your stomach as you walked. Your mind couldn’t help but drift— how did he get your number?

you thought of casual ways you might be able to ask him. Maybe bringing up the fact that Brandi didn’t know you were partners might prompt an explanation? Maybe a joke? The thought made you shiver.

As you ponder different ways to approach the situation, and possible escape plans in case things go south. You stopped.

you're here.

the front gate of Wayne Manor loomed over you. The gothic mansion looked even more scary as the sun was setting.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you were.

You pulled out your phone to check Tim’s message.

<Tim>

when you get there just hit the buzzer and someone will open the gate.

You look to the left to see a pin pad, and the buzzer. You reach to press it, but your finger hesitates.

You pause.

A cold sweat envelops you. You feel heavy. The weight of your uniform clings to your skin. The smell of oil and grease fills your nose.

Should you really do this?

You pull your hand back, it’s shaking.

Spinning on your heels to head home. You’ll text Tim, saying you had to go over time or something.

As you're walking back you think.

Bruce Wayne is a ‘billionaire playboy’, he’s kinda a ditzy guy, a philanthropist with too much money. He builds hospitals, funds schools and other good things.

There’s no way anything bad would happen with him there.

you huff turning around.

Back at the gate, your finger hovers over the buzzer again.

”you can do this” you mumble.

Just do it.

You press the button.

“Hello, How may I help you”

a posh voice asks through the speakers.

“Hi, uh. I’m here to see Tim we’re supposed to work on a project together. I don't know if he told you?” You answer meekly. You want to curl into a ball and hide.

“Ah, yes please come in y/n”

the intercom cut off.

your stomach tightened.

The metal clinked and rattled as the gates opened. He knows your name, guess Tim did tell everyone you were coming.

Once the gate is fully open it hits you. You’re at Wayne Manor. There’s a weight in your chest, your legs feel like lead.

Even so you carry on. One foot in front of the other, at least until you reach the front door.

You debate if you should knock again. The posh man did invite you in, but would it be rude if you just walked in?

Raising your fist about to knock. you hear something inside, as if someone is rushing to the door.

The door swings open, startling you just a little. You stare at the man in front of you. It’s Dick Grayson. He’s handsome Mid to late 20’s, messy hair, bright blue eyes and a boyish grin. you’ve seen him everywhere, T.V, magazines, and newspapers.

“You’re Y/n right?” He smiles— practiced, You’ve seen that smile hundreds of times.

“Uh, yeah” you answer. Once again, your voice is quieter than you’d like.

He didn’t seem to mind, he opened the door wider, welcoming you in. The faintest smirk plastered on his face.

”I’m Dick Grayson by the way” his introduction is like Tim’s, only for formality. He knows you know who he is. You slide your shoes off and look up at him.

“Nice to meet you” you smile, your voice more confident this time.

He pauses, then smiles back. It’s a different smile— it reaches his eyes.

“You as well… follow me I’ll show you Tim’s room” he starts walking, you’re quick to follow.

“So Tim said you’re on the basketball team” he asks. He leads you through the manor. It’s warmer than you’d imagine, family portraits and pictures hanging on the wall.

It takes you a second to realize he’s asking you a question. Looks like he wants to make small talk “uh.. yeah it’s pretty nice”

”That's good” he glances over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure Tim told you but suppers at 7:15 tonight” Dick said casually.

You stumble.

Tim definitely did not mention that.

“I think he forgot to tell me…” you awkwardly laugh.

“He did!? I’ll yell at him later for it, don't worry” Dick laughs. That’s not what you were worried about.

A shiver ran up your spine. This changed everything, you were going to meet everyone.

You want to leave, to turn around and go home. Pretend everything is fine and this never happened.

He pauses in front of a door. “Anyways this is Tim’s room, I’ll see you for supper” and with that he continues walking down the hall.

It’s quiet. You could leave. Just walk away.

Your hand hovers over the door.

You got this, if anything goes wrong you’ll just run home. But nothings going to go wrong.

You knock. It’s silent for a moment.

“Come in”

The door creaked as you opened it, you cringe at the noise. You quickly scan the room before stepping in.

His room was neat almost too neat. Books stacked on a shelf with surgical precision. His desk was arranged like it was never used. There’s a few movie posters on the wall, generic ones, like they were placed to make the room look lived in.

Tim shutoff his laptop as soon as you stepped in.

the bandages wrapped around his waist are visible under his t-shirt. You try not to stare.

“Make yourself at home y/n, sorry I forgot to tell you about dinner” he chuckles sheepishly, but there’s a dark glint in his eyes.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it” you mumbled, you were quick to set up your stuff. You wanted to finish this before dinner.

Tim watched as you fumbled through your bag before handing him a rough draft of the poster. “I got a little bit done in class, we just have to write some of the stages and make the poster”

“Okay, this won't take long, maybe an hour or two” he said, reading through a rough draft of your plan.

“Cool.” you sit at his desk and start writing. “I’ll finish up the stages if you start drawing a diagram”.

Tim smirks, but his eyes don’t leave your notes “sounds good to me”

The next 45 minutes go by fast, it’s silent except the odd sound of papers shuffling. Neither of you make conversation,

you’d catch Tim staring at you every now and then, but you chose not to say anything, it’s easier.

“Dinner will be ready soon” Tim closed his notebook, you froze.

“We should start heading down now” His voice was light, his smile seemed playful— too playful, like he was a kid about to get some candy.

“Okay..” you mumble, getting up from your seat. You follow him downstairs.

you can't turn back now.

The dining room is beautiful. The warm lighting, pretty paintings, decorated table that could fit a dozen people. it looked perfect, but it only made you feel small.

You don't belong here.

You look down at your batburger uniform, suddenly feeling a little self conscious.

Tim guides you to the seat beside him.

It’s just you two at the table right now, you wonder if he can see how nervous you are right now? If he does he doesn’t say anything about it.

“You’re in for a treat, Alfred's cooking is the best” Tim exclaims as he sets his napkin on his lap.

You’re quick to copy him ”I’m sure”.

you’re lost in your thoughts—Did your mom eat? Did she leave the door unlocked again?

A presence snaps you back to reality. A younger boy is sitting across from you.

You didn’t even hear him coming. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you then glares at Tim.

“I’m Damian” his voice is almost professional. “it’s nice to meet you y/n”

“You as well Damian.” You stutter.

Dick walks in, he’s talking with a girl. You’re pretty sure it’s Cassandra Cain, she stays out of the media so you’re not sure.

They keep talking as they find their seats to the left of Damian, but they keep glancing at you.

You swallowed.

“Y/n this is Cass” Dick introduces you.

You look up and force a smile “Hi Cass it’s nice to meet you”

”you too” she responds, before resuming her conversation with Dick, but her eyes never seem to fully leave you.

Great.

Sitting in silence you stare down at the empty plate and polished silverware.

Then Bruce Wayne walks in,

You stiffen, and fix your posture.

He sits at the head of the table. Whispering something to Damian, before looking towards you.

“It’s nice to finally meet you Y/n” he says flashing his famous smile.

“It’s nice to meet you as well Mr. Wayne” faux confidence in your voice.

“Please Call me Bruce” he chuckles

”Alright” you answer, voice wavering slightly.

Before either of you can say anything else, an old man dressed in a butler's uniform walks in.

he begins to set plates in front of everyone. Once he sets yours down, it smells heavenly.

“Thank you Mr…”

”Alfred” he answers, the same posh accent you heard at the gate.

You feel eyes on you as you take your first few bites. Some tried hiding it. Others didn’t bother.

“So Y/n, I heard you had a Basketball game yesterday. How did that go?” Bruce asked, his voice was light.

“It went well, we won 68 to 25” you answered, taking another bite.

Dick Smirked. “What about you? Did you get any playtime?” He asked playfully.

“Yeah I got to play for most of it, I got MVP” you answered. Grabbing your glass of water.

there was a beat of silence.

“Impressive” Damian stated, watching closely as you took another bite.

“Your parents must be proud” Bruce stated, there was that same glint in his eyes. The one Dick and Tim had earlier.

“Yeah… My mom’s really happy, since she taught me to play and all that” you lied.

Dick scraped his fork on the plate. It was grating deliberate.

The noise made you cringe.

“Is that so?” Bruce mumbled, taking another bite of his meal.

Dinner went by without any other questions. Dick carried most of the conversation, with Tim and Damian chiming in when necessary and Bruce and Cass nodding along.

You should be thankful.

But you just felt watched.

It��s been about 30 minutes since you finished eating with everyone, you were back in Tim’s room working on writing the information for the poster.

At least you were trying to.

Tim seemed to be taking his sweet time with just a simple diagram.

You were almost finished with the notes. Glancing down at your writing the words seemed to blur together, Before snapping into focus again.

all you had left was to glue it onto the poster.

“How much longer for the diagram?” You asked, your voice sounded more tired than you expected.

He smirked “Not much, you tired?”

You yawn. Why were you tired? You’ve worked long days before, you should be used to this. You just want to go home.

“A little but I’ll be fine”

Tim stops writing, you can feel him look over at you. It’s like he’s analyzing everything you do, every minuscule expression you make.

Like he’s waiting for something.

“If you say so” he says as he gets back to work, smiling softly to himself.

A heaviness took over your body. Your movements slowed, it was getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open.

your vision swayed, eyes getting heavier.

You blinked slowly.

just a little longer than you can leave.

Maybe if you rest your eyes, just for a moment.

Tim wouldn’t mind?

++++++++++

Can you tell I wrote this in 1 sitting? I feel like it downgraded in quality the longer I wrote lol. I’ll edit any mistakes tomorrow but I really wanna post it so Imma just do that. Comment if you wanna be added to the tag-lists. I also said id explain why batfam is obsessed this chapter but I decided to slowly reveal it (I couldn’t figure out how to fit the flashback scene in the chapter) also I lowkey forgot reader was GN and made the basketball team all girls, than had to go back and change it. I googled gender neutral names and chose the ones I liked please dont come at me!! Also its super late so I hope I kept reader Gn if not Ill change it right away!!

Also if you have any request for some random YBatfam oneshot or somth send in an ask I wanna write more oneshots but I have no ideas lol.

Taglist: @jjsmeowthie @crazycaoticsimp @lilyalone @shycreatorreview @caged-birdies-blog @shirp-collector-of-fixations @wizzerreblogs @c4xcocoa @cxcilla

#platonic batfam #platonic yandere #yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere x reader #batfam x reader #gn reader #yandere dc x reader #yandere tim drake #yandere #yandere dick grayson #yandere batboys #yandere jason todd #yandere damian wayne #yandere cassandra cain #yandere stephanie brown

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p1n-p0int · 4 months ago

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Vows That Bind Part 1

_____________________________________________

In sickness and in health, for good and for worse. That's how most wedding vows go: sweet and simple yet still carrying the subtle message of ‘I will be there for you no matter what.’ Two individuals connected by the golden bands and promises to stand behind each other like a solid wall made out of steel, unwavering in the innocence of love and devotion. Entwined souls cocooned together for the years to come, withstanding and facing whatever life throws at them. There wasn't anything to fear as long as they had each other.

Then, eventually, the little bubble of the wife and husband is expanded by the addition of offspring—an exact copy and paste of the father, a perfect clone of the mother, but ideally a mix of both parents.

A tiny duplication of sky blue eyes, dirty blond strands of hair, and that oh-so-stubborn look on their petite facades, the same one John would be making whenever he half-heartedly insisted on getting his way in the silliest mock arguments they so often had that brought a peal of full belly laughter out of their beloved sons.

The sharp brow line, upturned delicate nose, and proud mannerism of their mother, in addition to the unbeatable sad puppy stare she mastered and often used against John when he questioned her purchase of yet another set of overpriced, scented candles she just had to obsess about every time they pulled over at the local market. And John always gave in to her way because the happiness that instantly bloomed over the features of his lady-wife was enough of a reward for the man to last him as a sweet, lingering memory for the days of absence spent thousands of miles away during his deployment.

The moment when he, at last, hit the home soil, though, and was discharged on leave for the time being—nothing would stop John from catching the first better cab and running it down in the direction of the home, the car parked at the base be damned, he can pick it up some other time. His house, a little two-level cottage on the city's outskirts with a sizable garden bordering on the forest, was often visited by the wildlife his sons adored to observe.

His usual arrival time was late at night, but on rare occasions, he would get home just for dinner and then spend the entire time chatting with his sons.

John would ask his older son about his grades and friends at school and, with the younger son, about whatever he had been doing to keep his mommy busy while daddy was away. Then, he would help them get ready for bed, and after a quick goodnight kiss on his cheek, he would send them running to their rooms.

And at last, he'd turn towards his better half, standing just a few steps away, who smiled at him with an open expression, full of love and adoration for the man she chose to marry. For he was her first and last thought on her mind when she woke up and went back to sleep each day, worrying about his safety whenever he was away, and when he was close and next to her, she cherished and enjoyed every waking moment by his side.

John doubted there was ever a word that could describe the content love that flew between them, the wordless understanding. They rarely needed words while they had each other.

“I'm back,” John would say, each and every time more tenderly than before. She would answer, “Welcome back,” in a voice softer than the softest of silks.

John adored his little family. He'd do anything to keep them safe and sound, even if it meant sacrificing his happiness. He missed them terribly while away but knew it was for the greater good; his work was necessary. He made sure that the danger of the world would never reach home again, not after the Piccadilly Circus incident.

×××

Like many times before, John was at his home base, passively partaking in a briefing of the upcoming training exchange the upper management wanted Task Force 141 to oversee.

Sighting, John scratched the base of his neck and finally announced the end of the meeting. The scraping of chairs against the floor panels and agreeable murmurs from the gathered soldiers followed.

He stood up from the not-so-comfortable meeting room chair and was about to head towards the rest of the Task Force lads when his work phone vibrated with a singular notification. He immediately took it out and unlocked the screen to look at the message from Laswell:

»THERE WAS A SECURITY BREACH. CLASSIFIED INFORMATION WAS COMPROMISED.«

He was about to ask her for further explanation when his personal phone began to ring. Frowning, as not many people had the privilege of being in possession of his private phone number, he pulled it out of his pocket. ‘My Love’ was plastered on the screen, an even odder scene unfolding, as his wife rarely called during his work hours, and only occasional texts were sent his way. He put his work phone aside, and without further fanfare, John picked up the call right where he stood:

“Love, is everything okay–?”

“Daddy, are you coming to get us? Mommy told us to stay hidden; bad people are coming,” his eldest son sniffled quietly. She said not to come out and to call you when one hour passes.”

John's blood turned ice cold, freezing him momentarily, almost letting the phone fall out of his hand.

His family was in danger.

It was an electrifying spasm that went down his spine and shook him out of his stupor and into action. “I'm coming, son. Papa is coming,” he said firmly, signing to Ghost standing nearby ‘Home, emergency, invasion, ready the unit.’.

»RECEIVED. HEADING OUT TO ANSWER A DISTRESS CALL FROM HOME. FIND OUT WHO MESSED UP. OR I WILL.«

×××

The ride to his home with his men armed from their feet to the tips of their heads felt like a fever dream and a nightmare combined. None of the men dared say a word to him, not while he kept the line his children were on alive.

Even Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, the never-ending stream of chatting during the way to the mission, kept quiet, observing Price with barely hidden worry. Price hated worry; he hated pity, primarily directed at him, but these men he was with were the only ones who could look at him in such a way. And this was precisely one of such occasions.

There was a security breach into the classified systems, and one of the items stolen was intel about their Captain's private life—a life not even they had access to. To think that somebody who didn't mean well got a hold of it and targeted Price's bundle of happiness is an unredeemable crime people will die for committing.

At last, they arrived in front of the little cottage Price deemed a scorched ground. A scorched ground his men did not let him step on, insisting that they will sweep through just in case, while Price gets a hold of his children's hidden place and gets them into the safety of the bulletproof, heavy army vehicle.

He had no other choice but to stomp towards the little bunker-like area he told his wife about as a just-in-case emergency situation he had hoped to God that never would come to pass. Oh, how wrong he was.

As soon as he opened the lid to the hideout, two pairs of hands tackled his legs, clinging to his pants for dear life. His stoic facade quivered, and dropping to his knees, John gathered the sobbing kids to his chest. He picked them up, stood up, turned around, and carried them toward the vehicle under the watchful gaze of his fellow men.

A subtle movement from the corner of his eye had Price turning his head towards the veranda, where Kyle “Gaz” Garrick waved at him to catch his attention. He raised a brew at the young man. ‘Traces of struggle, blood, no body.’ They took her. They took his wife.

John glanced down at his sons and snuggled them closer to his chest, his face unreadable. Price nodded at the sergeant and continued his solemn march, already beginning to formulate a plan of action in his head.

Whomever it was, wherever they were, Price would find them.

_____________________________________________

a/n: still getting used to writing a "you" POV, especially from third person perspective, so bear with me, k? Great, good night 💀💀

Tag list: @catinpinklace @gothghostiie

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secretlypeerless-cucumber · 14 days ago

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"Shidi" Yue Qingyuan says calmly, like talking with a tantrumy child. "Qingqiu-shidis were not being malicious. Take it like a mischievous shidi doing a prank. Harmless, right?"

The smile on the Sect Leader was cold and forced, looking down to one of his closest friends, Liu Qingge, like a bug that crawled too close to his liking. No one can reason with him lately, and its all fault of those two, for which they haven't had a name for since they separated:

Shen Qingqiu and the other Shen Qingqiu.

Qi Qingqi is refering to them as Qing and Qiu in her mind. Qing is the happier one, the one she is sure was taking charge of Qing Jing these last years; Qiu is the sour one, the one she banned from her peak so long ago. She is not 100% sure because they act the same and never do things alone anymore, but that's what she is going with.

Liu-shidi sure is not making things easier for himself either though. Coming here, kicking doors, and demanding punishments for Zhangmen-shixiong's precious dumplings? Easy recipe for disaster. And that's without taking into account how high strung Zhangmen-shixiong has been these days; The man has been even more pathetic than when Shen Qingqiu first joined the sect-...

And speaking of the devil and he may appear! The little shits are in the doorway, the picture of poor, abused children. Sadly holding hands and looking down while one tries to hide behind the other, shuffling shoes and sneaking peaks of the other peak lords.

If Qi Qingqi didn't know, for sure, that the poison didn't affect their minds at all and are thus still the same age mentally, she would've bought the pity act. As it stands she is most unimpressed.

Yue Qingyuan, however, is vibrating in his seat, barely holdin the urge to run to their side like a dog given the 'stay' command.

Liu-shidi has no such compulsions. He immediately jumps to scream at their faces about desecrating his peak and yada yada.

A quick peak at Zhangmen-shixiong confirms that, yep, the man currently wants to eviscerate their littlest shidi. Or wait, are Shen Qingqiu the littlest shidi now?

A barely audible sniffle gets their attention towards the Shen Qingqiu hiding behind his copy, who is leaving his hiding place slightly to looks towards Zhangmen-shixiong with the most tragic big fat tears holding into his long lashes, (when did Shen Qingqiu get so comely? So lovely? Like a shy maiden being harassed by a brute of a man) and whispers in a small voice. "Qi-ge... Are we in trouble?..."

Yue Qingyuan is up and across the room in an instant, covering the Shens with him impressive high and build, which he has never, not once, used against his shidis like this. And it's all to protect the brat that Qi Qingqi CAN SEE is currently smiling viciously behind him. Both of them are! Those little shits!

"I must ask for Qi-shimei and Liu-shidi to leave. Immediately" The man is not smiling indulgently anymore, his grin is cold, and made of pure steel. Figures Shen Qingqiu could still manipulate the man like his well trained puppy.

They leave quickly (How could they not? The man is scary when he gets like this), but Qi Qingqi cannot help herself to a last peak of the brats looking at them leave smugly. They didn't just catch the canary and stole the cream, those little shits can rule this whole sect now and they know it.

Well, that was easier than he thought. Shen Jiu trully has a talent with those tears, Shen Yuan is almost moved.

Looking at poor Liu-shidi stomp away, Shen Yuan can't help but remember the conversation that took them here, just half an hour ago; Where Shen Jiu's smug victory over Bai Zhan got dampen over the reminder of Zhangmen-shixiong, which they very specifically haven't talked about since the splitting.

Shen Yuan couldn't take it anymore, he had to open his big dumb mouth and say: "Yeah right, like Zhangmen-shixiong wasn't the most indulgent older brother ever."

After just a couple of murder attemps he could get (more like force) a reason for his hate out of A-Jiu. To say he was upset would be an understatement.

Yue Qingyuan? Are they talking about the same dude? The one that went into an obvious trap to try an rescue Shen Qingqiu? (They now talk about that name as a role, a character in a play they put on). After his confounded questions both of them were upset. A-Jiu knows about the system and what not so its not like Shen Yuan wins anything lying to him.

A quick stop for Shen Jiu to destroy some Bai Zhan trees to decompress and they arrive to Zhangmen-shixiong's office for some good 'ol confrontation, accidentally coming in at the perfect moment for some troublemaking. A-Jiu is a natural at the bullied younger brother role, seriously, he should just accept Shen Yuan as the older one and just be his Didi.

"We need to talk, Yue Qi."

After an hour and a half of relentlessly bullying the Sect Leader into saying something else than 'I'm sorry' (Seriously! He didn't know this man was SO. FUCKING. INFURIATING. He takes everything back A-Jiu, you are in your right to want to hit this man in the head with a shovel), their combined forces force a horrific confesion out of the man. And now everyone is fucking upset because Yue Qi didn't abandon Shen Jiu! It was a massive misunderstanding spanning oh nothing much just two fucking decades.

Shen Yuan doesn't feel like he should be here to be honest, this is a private conversation between the strained brothers and he is just some bastard that stole the younger brother's body for three years. Oh god, Yue Qingyuan will know he is the fake one. Fucking shit why did he spoke up?! They had such a good thing going on! Now he is going to be executed or something worse. What if they torture him for his knowledge of the future and-

His subtle attemp to escape is thwarted by a snake quick hand grabbing him from the collar of his robes like a misbehaving kitten. Which, rude.

"And where do you think you are going?"

"Oh ah... You know... Letting you two have a private... Meeting?"

"Oh no. You are staying right here and telling Qi-ge everything"

"EVERYTHING?! THAT WILL GET US KILLED!!"

Shen Jiu grabbed him by the chin to speak directly in front of him. "Every. Single. Thing."

Previous - Next

#svsss #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #shen jiu #jiuyuan #yue qingyuan #qi qingqi #very briefly #Sorry for the delay I got a job now huuuh its alright I guess #No more poll #if you want another setting coment it and ill see if the joy sparks #Dichotomy AU

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spaded-ace · 4 months ago

Text

thought of this idea for a while (JJK Drabble)

DrillSergentToji! who has had his eye on you since the moment he found out that you were going to be in his unit. As one of the few girls, he already had committed you to memory.

DrillSergentToji! pushed you past your limits during training. “Is that all ya’ got, princess? Get ya’ chest on the ground, this isn’t gym class!” He barked while pressing the tip of his boot into your back. It never stopped there; he’s command you run an extra lap, bark at you any chance he got, and he watched as you pulled yourself on the bars despite being worn out. Your drive and stamina was Toji’s biggest turn on peeve when it came to you.

DrillSergentToji! couldn’t help but let you catch his eyes all hours of the day — during roll call, drills, lunch, break time — whenever. He swore to himself it was nothing, yet he caught himself staring at you more times when he should’ve been doing anything else.

DrillSergentToji! nearly loses himself when he sees you in your official uniform during duties. You’re outside, sweating while working on a repair. Your moss green uniform shirt stuck to your skin, making the outline of your sports bra visible while the camouflage pants cling to you like a second skin in the heat. The way the material encased you was enough to nearly make Toji lose the small semblance of self-control he kept for this long.

DrillSergentToji! insists on escorting you to the medical ward upon hearing reports that you’ve injured yourself during one of your duties. After all, it’s the least he can do for such a driven rookie of his.

DrillSergentToji! makes sure to check in with you over the next few days upon learning you tore a small muscle in your shoulder during one of your duties. “I take it your almost well enough to get back to morning drill, yeah?” He still maintains the same stoic posture and “don’t-give-a-fuck-about-you” attitude in an attempt to seem like he doesn’t care, but he can’t it when he has a “small” interest in you.

DrillSergentToji! who insists on you coming to his room after drills the following morning to ensure that “your shoulder is still holding up” from the intensity. “Just a little precaution. Can’t have ya’ ending up in the medical ward again” Little do you realize, he has other plans.

DrillSergentToji! has you come to his room to “practice” the drills again from that morning only for you to end up with a mouthful of his cock while he corrects you in your push-up form. “Fuck…Loosen those shoulders, princess, just like ya’ —fuck— loosened ya’ mouth…” His hands weaved into your hair, signaling you when to move up and down. Your shoulder was burning like fire but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop when he tasted this good.

DrillSergentToji! made sure to make a mess all over your face when he finished. It wouldn’t be a training session without a little humiliation, wouldn’t it? “Look at you, rookie; all pretty when ya’ painted with my cum. This should be a fun story to tell the commanders.” His hands pulled your face closer to his cock, making sure you got every spurt on your skin before he pulled away.

DrillSergentToji! knows that you’re aching. His hand was already at your waist the moment you dropped the push up position and he made you sit in his lap. “She needs me, doesn’t she?” He smirked, undoing the belt to your pants before slipping his hand underneath the waistband to feel the growing wetness. He couldn’t help but smirk when he felt you on his fingers. “She’s standing at attention.”. He couldn’t wait any longer before sinking you onto his “private”. Boy, was he about to have some fun. By the end of the night, he was going to make sure you were screaming “Yes, Sergeant!” at the top of your lungs…

#jjk toji #jjk smut #poc! writer #jjk #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji smut #jjk drabbles #toji x reader smut

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madaqueue · 7 months ago

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A HEAD HELD HIGH IS SURE TO FALL

every night, the king of curses repeats the same routine - waltzing through the halls, often covered in blood (of course not his own - never his own; after all, he was the king for a reason), choosing from one of his many concubines, and storming into his chambers. every night, the screams echoed through the empty temple; every morning, the girl he bedded was gone. you figured you'd take your chances when you ventured onto his estate, following the promise of comfort and lavishness. but when he chooses you, you can't help but dread the unknown fate waiting on the other side.

pairing: trueform!sukuna x f!reader

themes/content: dark content (dubcon). smut. blood, mention of death and murder, biting/bruising, degradation (slut, whore, cocksleeve), he slaps your ass, fingering, dumbification, double penetration, sukuna is real freaky nasty mean. 18+, MDNI (wk: 4.1k)

a/n: licking the blood off his face or whatever

quintober masterlist | sign up form

At first, you think the girls must have been happy. They were chosen by the King of Curses, after all. They wore their heads high, pride settling on their shoulders as they waltzed after him to his chambers.

At first, the others ignored the screams. Perhaps it was pleasure twisted into pain, they tried to reason. When the girls never came back the next day, the others wanted to assume the best. Perhaps he so cherished their time together that he decided to free them from the temple, relinquishing the bindings of their agreement to stay.

But you have grown to learn otherwise.

Because you know Ryomen Sukuna is not a kind man. He would never spare a victim for the sake of sympathy; it wouldn’t be particularly fitting for a king, after all. It took work to claw his way to the top, and despite how easy it may seem to overlook the mountain of corpses he stands upon, you’ve never quite gotten over the feeling that he’s glaring down at you.

Now, when heavy footsteps echo down the hall, the air runs cold. You line up next to the others, eyes trained downward, only catching glimpses of the dried blood staining the edges of his robes.

When he points at one of the girls next to you, her body seems to collapse: it’s giving up - her fate has been sealed. Now, the obligation hangs heavy, a collar tightened around her throat, chains clattering as she walks to her doom.

There’s silence for a moment before the rest of you uncomfortably rise and return to whatever tasks filled the time. You were all so numb to death by now it didn’t even linger in your thoughts for more than a moment, a brief flash of decay. You honestly don’t think you even remember the name of the girl who had just been chosen, not that it mattered anyways. Nobody would be speaking it again.

Painting is what you find yourself returning to. It’s what originally drew you to Sukuna’s temple on that wretched summer’s day, after all. You had been searching for materials in the woods, new flowers to use as dyes to craft with, when something flashed across your vision: a girl, in the brightest white dress you’d ever seen. She giggled, her skin glowing under the sun as she hummed to herself.

You found yourself following her. Nobody lived in these woods, at least not that you had ever seen. Anyone you happened to encounter was usually clad in leather or metal, weapons strapped to their sides, hunting for survival.

But not her.

She looked perfectly defenseless, beautifully vulnerable. She didn’t even turn around as you slowly approached her, not a single survival instinct left. What comforts made her so willing to forego protection?

“Excuse me,” you called, reaching an arm out as though to prove she was, in fact, real. When your hand made contact with her warm skin, she didn’t even flinch.

“Oh!” she laughed. “I didn’t see you there. Are you lost?” She was even more stunning up close.

“N-no,” your voice cracked in awe. “I just…do you live out here?”

Her gaze softened as she smiled. “Oh, yes. I live in the temple, I was just out for a walk.”

“Your temple…?”

“Well, it’s not my temple, I suppose,” and that gorgeous laugh returned. “It belongs to Lord Sukuna.”

The title felt familiar in your head, a name covered in cobwebs and dust, one you only remembered hearing in the dark. “And he allows you to stay there?”

“Yes! He allows all of us to stay there, and he takes such lovely care of us, too. We have the most delicious meals, the most comfortable beds, any whim we could possibly think up is catered to in an instant.”

Something in her words made your muscles ache - you had surely been walking for miles by now, a layer of dirt coating your skin. Your stomach churned in hunger, not having eaten in possibly days, unable to consistently afford even the bare minimum. Sometimes the shop owners in town took pity on you, but sometimes they cast you away with a cruel glare. There was a flash of jealousy inside you - what had she done to deserve these luxuries? Just as the thought found its way to your tongue, she continued.

“Would you like to come see it?”

Glancing down at your calloused and stained hands, you wondered how soft hers felt. You wondered if she smelled like flowers. You wondered if you could, too.

“Yes,” you mumbled.

It took so few words to convince you - looking back on it, you wonder if she was even trying to convince you at all. She hadn’t oversold the reality, per se. You wonder if you could go back to that moment, if there’s anything you could have said to prevent yourself from joining her.

You brush the thought aside with a sigh. It doesn’t matter now, after all - you willingly walked yourself to a promised paradise, and now have come to resent it. In spite of its comforts, in spite of its safety, you’ve never felt more vulnerable.

At least you can paint here.

Resting your elbows against the wooden window frame, you paint scenes of places far from this cage, places you can now only imagine. Perhaps if you can create them on paper, your mind could one day venture there, too.

Sukuna’s servant, Uraume, the one you always see quietly bustling about, does have a talent for finding the most beautiful pigments. You wonder where they collect them from, how expensive they are. You almost laugh at the thought of Sukuna paying for something like this, and you wonder if he knows where his wealth gets spent. The laugh dies in your throat as you realize that he likely has never had to actually purchase anything in his life. His currency is fear.

And yet, you can’t find it in yourself to care. Today, a beautiful fall landscape uncovers itself from your brushes. Deep browns and oranges cascade across the canvas. But there’s a sour taste lingering in your mouth as you work - it’s all dead. Every fallen leaf, every cracked branch is dead. That’s all things seem to be anymore.

With a huff, you let your momentary frustration get the better of you, splattering the carefully collected red paint across your masterpiece, a bloodied smear across your work. At least now it looks alive.

The next day is the same.

Sukuna enters.

You all line up.

Your knees hurt from kneeling on the stone floor.

He walks down the line (you wonder how many there are here, now - you’d think the numbers would be dwindling after the near daily executions, but they seem to remain steady, always replenished with some new bright-eyed girl who thinks she’s found her salvation, only to learn it’s her damnation).

But today, you can’t bring yourself to lower your head.

You know you ought to - the other girls taught you during your first week here. Apparently, in the past, he had simply killed those who refused to bow for him outright, not even bothering to torture them first.

But today, you just can’t. Perhaps being killed would be more merciful than this hellish purgatory you’ve found yourself in. At the very least, you’ll die with your head held high.

Footsteps stop in front of you.

“Oh? What’s this?”

A shiver runs up your spine. You’ve barely heard him speak in all your time here, you realize. When he chooses to, it’s exclusively been to bark orders at Uraume or scream at those who come to worship him. But this is different. He seems almost…excited.

“You know, it’s impolite not to bow.” And he has to be fucking with you, because you swear you hear him practically giggle out the words.

“I am aware, my Lord.” The words taste bitter as you spit them out, but you don’t make any action to move. Instead, your gaze rises to meet his, and your heart stutters. Ruby eyes stare back at you, masked by matching blood splattered across his skin. He looks nothing short of godly - perhaps that’s why so many willingly worship him.

And then, the god before you laughs.

“Come with me,” he beckons before turning away.

The girls around you can’t hold back their quiet gasps as you slowly rise to your feet.

He’s going to kill you.

As you follow behind him, the words sink into your stomach.

He’s going to kill you.

Each step down the path makes your heart beat in turn.

He’s going to kill you.

Rounding an unfamiliar corner, you nearly careen into him as he suddenly stops before two large wooden doors. They’re intricately carved, a level of detail you wouldn’t have expected for a place dedicated to killing. And yet, they’re utterly beautiful.

“In,” he growls when you fail to move.

You nervously shuffle past him before heavy footsteps follow you inside. Your gaze wanders over his chambers, the maroon bedding mirroring blood, the dark wood posts caging it in. Everything about it feels oppressive, sucking the air from your lungs like smoke; and yet, it doesn’t seem fitting for a place of sacrifice.

“Derobe and get on the bed.”

He’s shuffling around behind you, not even looking your way as he maneuvers through the space.

Hesitantly, you do as you're told, draping your robes over the headboard before laying down. The comforter is soft beneath your skin, cool to the touch. Perhaps silk? Some luxury you’ve never been afforded, surely.

The entire room seems to shift under the magnitude of his presence as he walks towards you. His own robes are now banished to some corner of the room, skin sparkling under the flickering candlelight from the chandelier above. Two pairs of arms cross as he glances at you, and he hides his smirk with a scoff. “What’s this? I didn’t tell you to lay down - we aren’t here to make love, I’m here to fuck you.”

Your cheeks flush as you grit your teeth. He didn’t give you clear instructions, how the hell were you supposed to know what to do? The movement of your body as you adjust onto your hands and knees hopefully hides the way your eyes roll.

But Sukuna did not grow to be this powerful by being inattentive.

“Oh?” And there’s that same chuckle again. “For someone who’s about to be killed, you’re awfully presumptive.”

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Sukuna,” you manage to spit (the sincerity is lost from the words).

Everything becomes warm as he looms over you, hot skin pressing against yours. He smells like blood and smoke and violence, something in it making your legs tremble. He’s almost terrifying up close; he’s almost beautiful.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

His face is right next to yours now. You shake your head.

“You’re here to entertain me.”

When you don’t respond further, a large palm digs into your scalp, grabbing you by your hair to force your attention to his. Unenthusiastic eyes meet flaming ones.

“Okay?” You shouldn’t be speaking to him like this, you know you shouldn’t be speaking to him like this. He’s going to kill you. But maybe that’s the problem - when you know you’re going to die, there’s nothing left to lose. You were always taught to never corner a wounded animal. “Get it over with, then. Go on, entertain yourself.”

He smirks. You don’t stop.

“Fuck me, hurt me, do whatever the hell you want to me, but don’t expect me to get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness. And certainly don’t expect me to plead for your mercy.”

If he was any closer, you’d flinch from the sheer volume of his laugh. Tears nearly prick at the corners of his eyes as his entire body shakes with utter glee. “Oh, my, I outdid myself with you, didn’t I?” he muses.

Finally, it’s your turn to be silent.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

A snarky remark sits on the tip of your tongue, but it’s held back by the cold grip of shock. For once, you’re speechless.

“I chose you,” he leans forward, close enough to catch the lingering flecks of blood across his skin, “because the stubborn ones are the most fun to break.”

The silk bedding is much less soft when your face is shoved into it. The firm hand on the back of your head pushes you forward, threatening to shred the remaining semblance of your dignity as you fall. It’s rough, the way he throws you down like nothing more than a doll, one he’s grown tired of playing with.

Scrambling to find him in your vision again, you feel him before you see him - four of those same giant palms resting on your hips.

He’s going to kill you.

When you expect pain, anything else is a pleasant surprise. Especially, it would seem, two fingers trailing between your legs.

“Are you always this pathetic?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re fucking wet.” He’s not wrong, unfortunately, you know he’s not wrong, you can feel it in the way he circles his calloused digits over your clit. “Is me being cruel truly that appealing?”

Just as your lips part to retort, to spit back the poison he’s feeding you, the sound twists into a smokey moan as he slides into you.

“Hah. Thought so, fucking whore.”

He’s killed before. You’ve never seen it, but you’ve heard the screams, of course. He’s probably choked and stabbed more people than you have even known in your limited lifespan. Of course the hands of a killer would be powerful, but you never imagined they’d stretch you out quite like this. Perhaps the damage brought by them is transferred to your body with each curl towards your core, each rough motion pulling your muscles towards an uninviting goal.

But that means you can use that violence. You can contain it, redirect it, control it.

“I’m not a whore.”

“Oh? So sure?”

And then he’s pressing harder. Muscles start contracting, your legs start shaking.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

With white knuckles, you veer yourself away from the edge at the last moment.

Sukuna, of course, feels it.

“Don’t want to cum, little one?” His mock affection is almost sickeningly sweet on his tongue as he giggles. “So be it. Only making things harder for yourself.”

Those same calloused fingers are ripped from your cunt. Finally, you can take in a full breath.

Your lungs stop halfway through expanding when something else suddenly fills you.

A scream threatens to tear from your throat as the tip of his cock enters into you. Teeth bite into the flesh of your arm to stifle the sound, your eyes screwed shut. Everything goes red, the burning flames inside your chest igniting.

Behind you, Sukuna laughs.

“What’s the matter? Can’t handle it, hm?”

There are marks on your skin from where your canines dug into it. You shake your head. “I-I can handle it.”

“Good.”

His hips pull back before slamming into you. Then it’s hands, everywhere - groping your chest, your ass, your hips, your stomach. Every part of you feels his palms, his flesh fighting with the air to contain your body.

Rough, unapologetic thrusts shake your frame. The muscles in your back strain to keep you upright, willing yourself to not collapse into the mattress beneath you, knowing that falling into the silk sheets holds the same fate as a grave.

One of his lower hands smacks your ass, the plump flesh rippling before long fingernails dig into it. “Perfect fuckin’ body,” Sukuna grumbles from behind you - if you were in any other setting, you would almost blush at the praise.

But now, all you can do is choke back a moan in response.

His movements are fast, but steady, you realize. The fog of your thoughts begins to clear, your clarity returning.

You can do this.

The ruby comforter folds in your grasp as you pull your palms into fists. Legs steady, arms ready.

The next time his cock bullies into you, you meet his thrusts. When he reaches deeper, it almost feels good.

So, you keep moving your hips in pace, pushing them flush against his pelvis each time. God, it feels fucking devine.

That breathy chuckle echoes behind you, one that never bodes well.

“Aw, does that feel good?” he coos, saccharine words dripping red from his lips.

You’re almost too gone to miss the sarcasm. “Y-yes.”

“Desperate little thing, you want more?”

Nails almost pierce the skin of your hips. You nod.

“Now, now, that’s no way to speak to me. Use your words.”

“Please,” you whine - you shouldn’t be doing this, you know you shouldn’t - “more, Lord S’kuna.”

You dug your grave, and the air of his laugh is enough to blow you forward into it.

One hand trails from your waist down to your ass, massaging it softly - the thunder before lightning. In an instant, sharp teeth bite into your skin. Hard.

You cry out, but he just giggles, the mouth that had formed on his palm gone in an instant.

Distracted by the sudden pain, your senses are too preoccupied to notice the way he continues his path down, until you feel something cold. Sukuna’s spit lands on your puckered hole, his thumb rubbing around the rim.

He’s going to fucking kill you.

Just as your lips part to protest, one thick finger pushes past the first ring of muscles inside you. Then two.

The moment you finally feel yourself beginning to relax, he pulls his hand away. It’s just as quickly replaced with something much, much bigger. The tip of his second cock is sticky with precum as it rests against your skin.

You knew Sukuna was not a patient man, but you had hoped he’d be gracious with you now.

The blood speckling his skin reminds you how foolish those hopes had been.

With one hand gripping his base, he slowly presses into you. On instinct, you attempt to squirm away, but his remaining arms wrap firmly around your torso, holding you in place.

“Wai-aah,” the sound garbles as you bite into your forearm, this time hard enough to pierce flesh. Your blood blends into the bedding.

Eyes screwed shut, you can’t see the sinister smirk painting his features, all four eyes fixed on where the two of you are connected.

“C’mon now,” he huffs, “a good little whore like you can take it, can’t you?”

A whine escapes your throat in denial, but it sounds more like an affirmation as it hits the air. Especially with the way your knees begin to buckle.

You feel every vein and ridge of his cocks as he slides out of you.

You feel nothing but ecstasy when he thrusts back in.

Everything is hot, your skin on fire. Shaky breaths rattle in your chest, shallow puffs of air through parted lips.

It’s too much, every muscle in your body held taught. The slick sound of his cocks pumping in and out of you fills the room, fills your mind.

And you can’t even think, can barely breathe, anymore. Your eyes roll back, tongue lolling from your mouth as you desperately pant.

“See, doesn’t it feel good to be my little cocksleeve?” he purrs from behind you - he’s not even out of breath despite the way his abs clench with each thrust. “Fuckin’ cunt was made for this.”

And something switches off in your brain, because there’s no other reasonable explanation for the words tumbling from your bruised and bitten lips. “F-feels good.”

He’s nothing short of shocked by your admission - but then again, he did set out with the goal of breaking you. A giddy smile blooms on his lips.

“Aw, what’s this? Already fucked dumb?” A rough palm gropes at your tits.

And a part of you knows you’re above this.

But that part went up in flames the moment Sukuna’s thick cocks ripped you apart, tearing you open and putting you back together in a shape of his liking.

“Mmhm,” you can barely nod, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth, but you’re in utterly no position to wipe it away, your hands preoccupied with gripping the bed sheets below, the fabric twisting between your fingers.

“So it’s true then - you’re just a fucking slut, hm?”

You’re better than this.

You’re smart. Determined. Strong.

“I’m - nnng - m’your slut.”

Pride tingles his nerves, fingers digging into your skin, sharpened nails leaving marks on your waist. With one deep thrust, you feel him in your throat and your vision is blurry and your muscles give out.

But Sukuna is always stronger.

Four arms hold your limp body as he continues fucking into you. Truly nothing more than a cocksleeve the way he’s using you, so small in his grasp, so powerless. And yet, your thighs are sticky and slick from just how wet you are.

Teeth prick at your back, your shoulders, your neck. Marked in bites and bruises, you’ve become his canvas, stained with his claim on you. Reds and pinks and purples bloom beneath your skin, painted in sharp canines and pointed nails. A signature left along your hips, up your spine - his.

Broken whines of his name get forced from your lungs with each thrust, the only sound besides his heavy balls slapping against your skin.

That fire begins to burn brighter in your core. You want to call it resentment, but you aren’t that naive, not anymore.

“Heh, is my little whore gonna cum from being used like this?”

At least his smirk is outside the realm of your perception, the only thing you feel being the ravenous push and pull of his cocks inside you, the tightness and burning pleasure they bring each time his tip pokes deeper and deeper.

You want to shake your head, you want to deny him, deny the effect he has on you.

But all you get out is a weak cry of “please,” before your skin erupts in flames. Your cunt spasms around him, everything going red.

He pumps into you six more times before both of his cocks twitch in unison, unloading sticky ropes impossibly deep into your aching holes. He growls as he does, muscles rippling under the strain of his conquest.

When he releases you, your body collapses onto the damp sheets below. Cheek squished into the maroon, it all bleeds into itself, until you can’t tell where the bed ends and Sukuna begins. It’s only when you feel it shift from the lack of his weight that you know he’s gone.

Everything hurts. Everything is too hot. Everything feels so fucking good.

You should feel shame, you think - you should hate yourself for the way he used you, broke you. He tore your strength away with bloodied teeth until you were weak and limp. Maybe it’s the slow pulsing that lingers between your legs, but you can’t bring yourself to resent it - it was a battle well fought (and victory takes many forms, after all).

But the thing is, you are strong.

With a muffled groan, you shift your weight closer to the edge, the remnants of Sukuna’s claim lingering on your body in scratches and bruises, burning desire.

“You may collect your things, someone will be in-”

When his gaze falls upon you, he freezes where he stands in the corner of his chambers, robe half-draped over his broad shoulders.

You’re wobbly as you stand, cum leaking down your thighs, ruffled hair and unfocused eyes, but he recognizes something in them, a fire he would call strength.

And Sukuna smiles. Not the condescending smirk of a man pitying his captive, but one of respect. He crosses two pairs of arms over his chest.

“What’s this?” he mutters to himself. “Well then, Uraume will be in to help you bathe.”

“Bathe?” You use all the remaining air in your chest to keep your voice from sounding weak. “Before you kill me?”

There’s that giggle again, but the sharpness to it has dulled slightly, in a way you would hesitantly call fondness. “Oh, I won’t be killing you.” Turning, he brushes the thought away with a wave of his hand. “You’ve proven yourself to be quite entertaining, and I’d be a fool to discard such a fun little whore.” But there’s no bite to the words as he says it.

Your legs feel steadier as you stand.

“I expect to see you in my chambers tomorrow, understood?”

Crimson irises catch the flickering candlelight.

You refuse to bow.

Sharpened teeth poke between a smirk.

“Of course, Lord Sukuna.”

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