#i just care that its done and i no longer have to stare at the unfinished file every time i open up procreate

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

strange eyes

one-shot

Pairing: Soulless!Sam x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been with Sam for years. He's always been safe, always secure, always sanctuary. Until he lost his soul. Now you don't know the eyes staring back at you... and worse? You don't know if you prefer them.

Warnings: 18+!, soulless!Sam is his own warning, semi-established Sam x reader, language, smut (dub-con kinda, oral/blowjob, deepthroating, spit, fingering, clitoral stimulation, p in v, manhandling, dirty talk), condescension, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 6,117

A/N: Phew. This has been sitting in my drafts for longer than I care to admit, but it is finally done! And I looove it. Soulless!Sam just does things to me that aren't healthy, and I won't be seeking any medical help for. I hope y'all likey!!! Give me feedback if you want, it's always welcome. <3 Smin out, until the next one. All the love.

"You're just a body, just a shell Just a heart that stopped beating So when I spent the night in The gaze of strange eyes would you mind? Oh, tell me would you mind?"

Would You Mind - Friday Pilots Club

You used to count on Sam Winchester to blink twice before making a move.

There was a softness in him, once. A reverence in the way he’d hover his hands before touching you, as though seeking divine permission. Like he thought you might shatter if he reached for you too quickly. His voice had always come stitched with apology—threaded through with some ancient ache, a mourning for every bruise the world ever left on you.

And when he looked at you...

God, he used to look at you like he was memorising your soul.

But the man standing in front of you now? He didn’t blink at all. He just stared. And there was something in those eyes—something glacial, something ancient and unnatural—that makes your breath catch behind your ribs. You know you should run.

But you don't.

“You're quiet,” he said, and the words fell like glass—smooth, cold, a little too sharp. His voice hadn’t changed, not on the surface. Still low. Still calm. Still velvet around the edges. But the warmth was gone. No lilt. No longing. Just vacancy. A song with the soul ripped out.

Your throat tightened. “You’re different.”

He tilted his head at you like a predator might when studying prey it had already decided to consume.

“Am I?”

It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t confusion. It was a dare.

You nodded anyway. Swallowed hard. “You don’t look at me the same.”

He stepped forward. Then again. And you didn’t move. You should've. You should've. But something in you stayed very still.

The old Sam—your Sam—would’ve faltered here. He would’ve hesitated, afraid of hurting you just by standing too close. He’d made himself small when your shadows overlapped, like the sheer closeness might stain you.

But this version? He crowded.

You didn’t even notice yourself retreat until your back found the motel dresser, the wood biting against your spine.

He followed. A single hand planted beside your hip—palm flat, fingers long and deliberate. Not trapping you. Just there. Close enough to own.

His voice lowered, curled like smoke against your jaw. “Maybe I see you more clearly now,” he murmured. “Ever think of that?”

His breath ghosted across your cheek. You went still, not out of fear, but anticipation—like prey lulled quiet by the sound of its own heartbeat.

Your spine straightened on instinct. Your knees weakened in betrayal. You didn’t answer him. You couldn’t. Because he was right. You did feel seen.

Not adored. Not protected. Not held like something sacred.

Seen.

Like he was reading the festering behind your ribs. Like he knew all the things you pretended not to want. Like he already imagined giving them to you, and taking something in return.

He retreated, grabbed his gun from his duffel and planted himself down on the edge of the bed with a grace that surprised you.

You didn’t remember when the shift began.

Maybe it was gradual, like rot beneath floorboards—silent, invisible, until one day you stepped wrong and everything caved in.

Maybe it started with the way he stopped flinching in his sleep. No more quiet whimpers. No more restless twisting under threadbare motel sheets. Just stillness. Heavy. Unnerving. As if he no longer dreamed, or worse—he no longer feared what waited when his eyes closed. As if he didn't ever sleep deep anymore.

Maybe it was the way he stopped asking if you were okay after a hunt. Stopped checking your hands for tremors. Stopped offering water, or warmth, or words. He’d just wipe the blood from his blade with mechanical precision, eyes far away, and you’d sit there blinking against the aftermath—still shaking, still human—while he seemed like something else entirely.

Or maybe it was that night in Georgia.

The man had been screaming. You remember that part. You remember the sound of cartilage tearing, the awful, wet resistance of bone as Sam's hand pushed up beneath the ribs and pulled. You remember the way the heart came free—ugly and red and still twitching.

And you remember the way he held it.

Like it wasn’t a heart at all. Like it was something less. Something useful. He looked up and saw you standing there. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. Didn’t drop it. There was blood across his jaw, warm and fresh. It painted his throat like warpaint, soaked into the collar of his shirt.

He didn’t explain. Didn’t bother with words. Just walked past you, slow and deliberate, as though what he’d done meant nothing at all.

His shoulder brushed yours, and his fingers grazed your wrist—fleeting, quiet. A whisper of skin against skin.

Like a promise. Like a warning. Like a brand.

You should’ve screamed. Should’ve run. But all you did was watch. Your breath stilled in your lungs. And for one dark, breathless second… you wanted him to touch you again.

Now, he watched you like he was waiting for you to catch up. Not with his eyes, but with something deeper. Something colder. A predator’s patience. A god’s detachment.

He was never cruel. Not exactly. Just absent. Cold, yes. Detached, absolutely. But it was the stillness that undid you. Like he had already decided what was going to happen. And he was simply… waiting for you to figure it out.

You tried not to speak when he was like this. Tried not to fill the silence with something soft, something stupid. But the quiet stretched too long, and the truth slipped out of your mouth like a confession:

“I miss your soul.”

It was barely a whisper. Just breath and want.

He didn’t even look up at first—still seated at the edge of the bed, fingers slotting bullets into the clip with mindless precision.

Then, he did. One glance. A flick of his gaze. And it cut like a blade made of ice.

“No, you don’t.”

You froze. Your lungs forgot what they were for. And then he looked at you. Really looked. Not with softness. Not with warmth. Not even with recognition. But like he was considering you.

Same hazel eyes. Same long lashes. Same freckle beneath the left brow. But they were not his eyes. They were wrong. Strange eyes. Like someone rearranged the stars behind them.

“You don’t miss my soul,” he said slowly, carefully, as if drawing each word in blood. “You miss the part of me that made you feel safe.”

His voice was calm. Inarguable. Like a man explaining gravity.

You swallowed hard. “And you’re not?”

His head tilted, slow. Like he was tasting the question. And then—silence. A pause so long it coiled around your spine and squeezed. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just said:

“I think I’d rather ruin you.”

The words should've sounded cruel. Vicious. But they didn’t. They sounded like truth, like prayer. Like inevitability.

You flinched. Not from fear. But from the way your stomach dropped—hot, tight, electric, because you wanted him to. God help you. You wanted him to. You wanted the ruin. The unraveling. You wanted to see how far he’d go, how far you’d go, if no one stopped him.

And that terrified you more than anything he could ever do, because you knew—he wouldn’t stop. Not unless you begged. And maybe not even then.

The silence between you was thick enough to choke on.

He still hadn’t moved. Still seated on the edge of the bed, assembling his weapon like this was any other night. Like he hadn’t just said he wanted to ruin you.

You were leaning against the motel dresser, arms crossed tight, as if trying to hold yourself inside your own skin. The flickering lamplight painted long shadows behind him. Gold on his hands. Black in his eyes.

He slid another round into the magazine. Click. Click. Precise. Indifferent.

You shouldn’t have said anything. You should’ve kept the air quiet. But your voice crept out anyway, small and acidic.

“I know what you’ve been doing.”

No reaction. Not even a glance. His eyes stayed trained on the gun in his lap, fingers moving with calm efficiency.

You swallowed, your fingers fidgeting at the hem of your sleeve. “On the nights you need to get off.”

Still nothing. You hated how steady his hands were. How still he remained.

“I know you’ve been going to other women.”

That got him.

Slowly, deliberately, he looked up. His expression didn’t change. But his mouth curved, just a little. A smirk, carved lazily across his face—equal parts confirmation and dismissal.

A silent but obvious and unmistakable: So?

That’s what it meant. That’s all it meant. He looked back down at his gun.

Your throat was tight. “That kinda… stings.”

You didn’t know why you said it. Maybe to hurt him. Maybe to remind yourself he could still be hurt. But he didn’t flinch. He just finished loading the last bullet. Slid the clip into place with a clean, mechanical click. Then he looked up again. Eyes gleaming, dark with something unreadable.

He leaned back slightly on his elbows, legs spread, gun resting across his thigh like an afterthought.

And he said, almost conversationally—

“You want the truth?”

You nodded, even though your hands had gone cold.

He hummed, low and amused. “I don’t want the soft stuff anymore.”

You blinked.

He kept going. “That version of me—Sammy—he liked soft. Vanilla. Slow. He asked if it was okay. He waited for eye contact.”

He scoffed, quiet and cruel.

“Now? That doesn’t work.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were under glass. “I need more now. Rougher. Louder. Faster. Something real. Something… raw.”

The space between you cracked open.

“I don’t want to kiss like we’re in love. I want to devour. I want to leave marks. Bruises. Want to feel you break around me.”

You felt your breath stutter.

“I don’t want sweet little gasps,” he murmured. “I want to hear you cry. Scream. Beg.”

He smiled, slow and soulless.

“And the girls I’ve been with? They let me. No questions. No shame. No lines to cross.”

You felt your knees go weak. But you didn’t move.

“And you,” he said, eyes glittering. “You stood over there and told me you missed my soul. But now you’re standing there like that, biting your lip, thighs pressed together, chest heaving like I’ve got a hand on your throat.”

He rose from the bed with terrifying ease.

“Tell me again what stings, sweetheart.”

He stood. And you felt it in your spine. Like thunder rolling in the ribs of the earth. One step forward. Just one.

And your pulse shattered.

His body moved with unnatural calm—liquid and lethal, like something serpentine. Like a predator that had already picked you, already decided.

His voice dropped, smooth and low and terrifyingly even.

“You keep watching me like you don’t know what I am.” Another step. “You do.”

The distance between you began to vanish.

“You’re just hoping I won’t act on it.”

His eyes never left yours. You couldn’t look away even if you wanted to. Something about him rooted you—like your body knew. Like some ancient, ancestral terror was telling your legs not to move, because running wouldn’t matter anyway.

Another step.

“You think this is still love.”

His mouth twitched—something that might’ve once been a smile, but now looked more like the first tear in a curtain before the whole thing came down.

“You think the boy who used to kiss your throat is still in here.”

Another step.

You couldn’t breathe.

“But he’s not.”

He was close now. So close. Your back pressed harder to the dresser like your body was trying to claw backward into the wood.

“You miss how he touched you like you were holy.”

Another step. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“I want to touch you like you’re mine.”

Heat flooded your veins. Shame. Hunger. Horror. Want.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But he didn’t need to.

“Do you know how many women I’ve bent over motel sinks since I lost my soul?” He asked, like he was asking if you knew the weather.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He took one more step. Now the air between you was heat. Static. You were breathing his breath.

“I didn’t even learn their names.”

His eyes dragged over your face, your mouth, your throat, your trembling hands.

“I choked them. Left bruises. Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.” A pause. A beat of silence. “But you?”

His hand lifted—slow, like it was rising through water—and he brushed the backs of his fingers along your jaw.

Not soft. Not rough. Just inevitable.

“You’re the one I wanted to destroy from the beginning.”

You gasped. It was barely sound. But it broke the tension like glass.

He leaned in. His lips hovered near your ear, but didn’t touch.

“You ready for that, babygirl?” He whispered, the pet name mocking you. “Ready to stop pretending you want anything less?”

His hand curled around your throat—not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Measuring. Waiting for you to nod. His hand around your throat was loose. Barely there. More of a placeholder than a threat. But it told you everything you needed to know—this was where you’d break.

Not if. When.

His thumb dragged slowly across the column of your throat, resting just below your jaw. He could feel your pulse fluttering there—fast, frantic, guilty.

God, he loved that.

You were trembling, breath shallow, chest heaving like prey trapped beneath the paw. And still—still, he didn’t touch you with real intent. He didn’t have to. His eyes drifted down the length of you, unhurried, detached. He looked like a man browsing. Not hungry. Just curious. Deciding whether you were worth the effort.

You hated how your body reacted to it. How your thighs ached. How your nails dug into the wood of the dresser behind you. How your mouth parted like you might beg.

And that’s when he spoke. Low. Easy. Measured.

“Nah,” he said, almost like he was talking to himself. “I don’t think you could handle it.”

The words were silk dipped in venom. They hit harder than a slap.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled, slow and cutting. “You’d cry.”

You stared at him.

“I’d break you in five minutes. You say you want it, but you don’t know what that means anymore. Not with me.”

He leaned in slightly. Close enough to make you flinch.

“You think you’re ready to be used by someone who doesn’t care if you come or cry?” He murmured. “That’s not the kind of fuck your Sammy gave you. That’s not love. It’s consumption.” He tilted his head. “You want to be consumed?”

Your breath hitched.

He straightened again, casually, like the conversation bored him now. He stepped back a pace, wiping his hand down the front of his shirt as if to rid himself of your presence.

“Didn’t think so,” he muttered.

It wasn’t even cruel. That was what made it worse. It was dismissive. Like you weren’t worth the effort.

And something in you—something base, something starving—snapped. You surged forward before your mind could catch up. Fell to your knees on the filthy carpet so fast your palms stung from hitting the ground. Your fingers went to his belt like instinct, fumbling with the buckle, your breath a hot, shameful mess.

“Don’t tell me what I can handle,” you snapped up at him, voice trembling with defiance.

His brows raised. Amused. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even reach for you. Just watched, smug, as your shaking hands worked open the leather, your fingers brushing against the zipper of his jeans like a prayer you weren’t ready to say out loud.

He chuckled, dark and low. “Look at you,” he said. “Didn’t even have to touch you.”

Your hands stilled, but you didn’t pull back. You couldn’t.

His fingers tangled in your hair, slow and lazy, not guiding—claiming.

“Go on then,” he said, voice velvet and venom. “Show me what you think you’re ready for.”

You weren’t thinking anymore. You were running on something far more dangerous than instinct—pride. You had something to prove. To yourself. To him. You weren’t sure which one hurt more.

Your hands worked fast, clumsy with urgency, trembling with the weight of your need. His belt clattered open. The zipper followed. The heat of him hit your face like a furnace.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t breathe. Just leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to the flushed head of his cock, lips parted like a prayer. He twitched in your hand. You licked once—slow, reverent. Let your tongue trace the slit, tasting salt and something deeper.

Your hand pumped him at the base, steady but tender, the other anchoring you by the waistband of his jeans, your knuckles white where they clung to the denim like it might hold you together.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you suckled gently on the tip, tongue swirling, lips plush and eager. You worked him slowly, lovingly, trying to show him you could still bring softness. That he didn’t need to lose this part of you.

He made a sound above you. Not a groan. Not a gasp. A hum.

Appraising.

And when his fingers slid into your hair, your heart stuttered. The weight of his hand was grounding, familiar, almost tender.

There you are, you thought. There’s my Sammy—

But then he tightened his grip. And without a word, he pulled. You choked on the sudden force, mouth forced wide, cock driven past your tongue and lodged deep in your throat before your mind could catch up.

Your eyes flew open, wide and wet and panicked.

He stared down at you with no softness, no hesitation. Just the flicker of a smile. Then he laughed. Low. Cruel. Quiet. Like he’d won a bet with himself.

His other hand came to rest against the back of your head—not soothing. Pushing. He pressed you down farther. Another inch. Then another.

You gagged around him, throat tightening, breath obliterated. Tears stung your eyes, your hands scrambling against his thighs, fingernails digging into denim. You tried to breathe, tried to pull back, but his grip held fast.

“Mm,” he murmured, amused. “Too soft.”

Then he ripped you off him with a savage tug of your hair.

You fell back on your knees, gasping. Coughing, spluttering, wiping spit from your chin and the mess staining the front of your dress. Your jaw ached. Your throat burned.

And he just stood there, looking down at you like you were a toy that had almost broken.

His smile widened. Slow. Sinister. “There she is,” he said.

You looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, chest heaving, and he crouched slightly to meet your gaze. His hand came to your chin—not gently. He swiped his thumb across your cheek, gathering spit, then dragged it across your lips.

“You thought you could handle me?” He asked, soft and mocking. “That little mouth, trying to act like it could take what I’ve become?”

He leaned in, voice a whisper, cruel and precise.

“You look better like this. Ruined. On your knees. Eyes full of tears and your pretty lips dripping with cock.”

You whimpered.

He stood tall again, unbothered. Leisurely. Like he had all night. “Now,” he said, voice laced with sugar and venom. “We’re gonna try that again. Slower this time.”

A pause. Then:

“And if you ever try to tease me with that soft shit again—kisses and whimpers and love—I’ll fuck your throat raw until you can’t make a sound.”

He didn’t wait for your answer. This version of Sam didn’t need consent—he needed compliance. His hand tangled in your hair again, tighter this time. No warning. No rhythm. Just force. He dragged you back down to his cock like you were a thing to be used, like you were his.

And fuck—maybe you were.

Your mouth opened out of instinct, and he fed himself to you with no patience at all. Just a low, satisfied exhale through his nose as you struggled to take him again. You gagged. Loud. Wet. Spit coated your chin in seconds. Tears blurred your vision. Your throat clenched helplessly around him, but he didn’t let up—he held you there, one hand on the back of your head, the other fisted in your hair so tight your scalp screamed.

“That’s it,” he murmured. Not praise. Not really. Just data. Observation. Like a scientist taking notes while his experiment collapsed.

“Messy little thing.”

You moaned—tried to, anyway. It came out strangled and desperate, buried around the weight in your mouth.

He pulled back just an inch, letting you gasp in a single breath—then shoved himself deep again, until your nose met his abdomen and your throat convulsed.

You whined. Your hands trembled where they clung to his thighs.

“That soft little version of you?” He panted. “The one that blushed when I kissed her neck? She couldn’t take this.”

His hips rolled forward again, shallow and slow, using your mouth as if he’d been waiting to do it since the second he came back without a soul.

“You think I’d let her cry like this?” He hissed. “Think I’d shove it this deep?”

He barked a laugh.

“No. She was too pretty. Too precious.”

He leaned forward slightly, breathing hard, hair falling in his face as he looked down at you, utterly wrecked.

“But you?” His voice dropped to a growl. “You’re perfect for this.”

Your spit was everywhere. Down your chin, across your lips, wetting your shirt. Your mascara ran. Your mouth was burning. Your throat ached.

And still, he pushed. Still, he used. You clawed at his thigh, not to stop him—never to stop him. Just to hold on. He saw it. Of course he did.

“Yeah, there it is.” he muttered. “Good fucking girl.”

It shouldn’t have felt like praise. Not with the venom in his tone. Not with the way he chuckled after, like he was mocking you for liking it.

But it did.

You moaned again, choking.

He pulled out—suddenly, cruelly—and you collapsed back onto your knees, coughing and gasping, saliva stringing from your lips to his cock. He grabbed your chin, forced your gaze up.

“You look disgusting.” Another pause. A smirk. “Bet that’s the first time you’ve ever looked honest.”

You whimpered, eyes glassy, and he grinned.

“Wanna prove you’re not just a fucktoy with puppy eyes?”

His cock twitched in his fist as he wiped the head across your spit-slick lips.

“Beg for it.”

You squirmed. It was subtle—at first. Just the faintest shift of your hips, the twitch of your thighs pressing together like your body was trying to keep a secret.

But nothing got past him. Sam tilted his head as he watched you, still holding his cock lazily in one hand, the other curled tight in your hair. His eyes dragged down—slow, clinical—watching the way your knees pressed inward, your breath trembled, your lips stayed parted like they were waiting for something to fill them again.

"Huh." 

Then came the question.

Not gentle. Not teasing. Just a cold, curious observation.

“This doing it for you?”

You whimpered. Actually whimpered, heat crawling up your neck.

He didn’t sound surprised. He sounded intrigued. Like he was collecting data. Not because he cared, but because he wanted to understand.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your body moved before your mouth could—trying to dive back down on him, hungry for him, needing the weight back in your throat like it could somehow fill the hole he left behind.

But he didn’t let you. He yanked you back by your hair, hard enough to make your scalp scream, and you winced, gasping.

“Mm-mm,” he murmured, grip like iron.

Then, with slow, calculated efficiency, he toed off his jeans completely—never letting go of your hair. Never breaking eye contact.

Once freed from the denim, he crouched in front of you. Not in a comforting way. In a hunter-lowers-to-eye-level-with-prey kind of way.

His face was close now. His gaze even closer. It pinned you in place, peeled you open. His free hand lifted—palm dragging slowly down your chest, over the rise of your stomach, grazing the hem of your dress. Then underneath.

His fingers found your panties, and paused. His brows lifted just slightly. Something like surprise flickered through his expression.

The fabric was soaked. Slippery. Sodden. Warm.

He pressed two fingers flat against the centre, dragged them down slowly, then back up with a little more pressure. You whimpered, thighs twitching, hips trying to follow his touch. He felt how wet you were. How your body pulsed through the thin cotton like a heartbeat.

He huffed a breath—amused, almost impressed. “Well,” he said softly, voice full of mock-wonder. “Would you look at that.”

Then his fingers slipped past the waistband, straight into the slick mess waiting for him. He gathered it. Dragged two fingers through your folds, slow and indulgent, like he was tasting with his skin.

Then he pulled back, withdrawing with a wet sound that made your cheeks flame. He held his fingers up between you, the mess strung between them in glistening threads. He watched it stretch like silk pulled apart between his fingers. Tilted his head like he was examining something rare.

His voice dropped.

“I’m surprised,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy seeing you like this.”

A pause. He met your eyes.

“Soaked through. Gagging on my cock. Getting off on the fact that I don’t give a shit whether you start sobbing or not.”

Another beat.

He smirked. “But I gotta say…”

He shoved the two slick fingers into your mouth without warning and you gasped around them, tasted yourself instantly, throat bobbing around an unintentional swallow.

His voice lowered to a growl.

“I really fucking like it.”

You were choking softly around the fingers he’d shoved between your lips, the taste of your own desperation thick on your tongue when he pulled them free with a wet pop and wiped them across your cheek like you weren’t even worth a towel.

He stared down at you—hair falling into his face, chest rising slow, lips curled at one corner like this was all mildly amusing. Like you were a puzzle he wasn’t quite finished solving.

Then, without a word, his hands moved. Fast. Clinical. One in your hair. One at your waist. He hauled you to your feet like you weighed nothing, spun you, and shoved you down onto the bed—not violently, not passionately. Just… functionally.

Like he was moving furniture.

You barely had time to gasp before you were flat on your back, your dress rucked up, your panties shoved aside with the kind of lazy disregard that made you burn with humiliation.

Sam didn’t climb into bed with you. He didn’t kiss you. He just stood beside the mattress, towering over you with his cock level with your face and his fingers already sliding between your thighs again.

This time, there was no curiosity in the touch. Just intent. His fingers plunged into you—two, deep, unceremonious. No warning. No build-up.

You cried out, hips jerking.

He didn’t look at your face. He watched where he was inside you. Watched the way your cunt clenched around his fingers like it was trying to keep him. He pumped them slow. Methodical. Twisting, curling, dragging every slick sound out into the open.

“You’re wetter than I expected,” he muttered, like it was a flaw in his hypothesis. “Didn’t think that pathetic little throat of yours could soak your panties this bad.”

You whimpered.

He finally glanced at you then, eyes flicking up to meet yours. Cold. Curious. Then he smiled.

“Look at you,” he said. “Spit on your chin. Tears on your cheeks. Thighs shaking.”

He drove his fingers in harder. Your back arched.

“You gonna come for me like this?”

You nodded, breathless.

He slowed. Too slow. Torture.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not sure why I’m even trying.”

Your heart thudded.

His eyes narrowed.

“I’m not doing this to make you feel good. Don’t get that twisted.” Another thrust—sharp. Knuckle-deep. “I’m not your fucking Sammy.”

You sobbed out a moan.

He laughed under his breath.

“I’m only doing this because I don’t fuck dry holes,” he said, like it was an afterthought. “So if you want me to use you properly—”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping, dark and slick like oil.

“—you better come for me.”

He crooked his fingers. Once. Hard.

You screamed. And Sam just watched you unravel like it was a lab result. Like he was timing it. Measuring the tremble of your thighs. Watching your mouth fall open. Watching your orgasm take you with his fingers inside of you, his voice in your ear, and his cock waiting just inches from your lips.

And when you finally shattered?

He exhaled through his nose.

“Good girl,” he said. Not kind. Just… acknowledging. “Now you’re ready to be ruined.”

Your body was still trembling, slick with sweat and soaked between your legs, when he dragged his fingers out of you—slow, wet, deliberate. You gasped at the emptiness, but he didn’t give you time to mourn it.

Rough hands gripped your hips, flipping you over like it was nothing—like you were nothing but weight to reposition. Your stomach hit the mattress. A soft, helpless whimper left your lips as he dragged you downward, your chest staying flat to the sheets while he pulled your hips to the edge—legs dangling, ass up, thighs slick and shaking.

You felt the heat of him behind you. The unmistakable press of his cock as it slid between your folds—not in. Just through. Gliding. Mocking. Using your soaked, swollen cunt like a sleeve to stroke himself without giving you what you needed.

You whimpered, thighs twitching.

He groaned, low and quiet. Almost surprised.

“Well,” he muttered, dragging himself through your wetness again, letting the head of his cock nudge your clit—just once. “Would’ve been nice to know you were this fucking filthy when I still had a soul.”

You whimpered again, breath catching.

“Then again,” he continued, notching himself just slightly against your entrance, “maybe it’s better this way.”

You started to glance over your shoulder, desperate to see his face—any piece of him, but you didn’t make it. His hand slammed down between your shoulders, pinning your neck to the bed.

“Eyes forward.”

Your breath hitched.

“You don’t look at me,” he said, voice low and cruel in your ear. “You’re not looking at Sam.”

A pause. His grip tightened.

“You’re just something to fuck.”

Then he shoved into you in one brutal, unceremonious thrust.

You screamed. The stretch was sharp, overwhelming—he didn’t give you time to adjust. Didn’t stop. Didn’t ask. He bottomed out with a low grunt, hips flush to your ass, hand still on your neck as you writhed beneath him.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re tight.”

Your body clenched around him instinctively, and he laughed.

“Is this what you wanted?” He taunted, voice thick with smug cruelty. “To get wrecked by someone who doesn’t give a shit if you come or cry?”

He pulled back—just enough to make you gasp—and slammed back in harder.

“Tell me how bad you want it.”

You moaned, clawing at the sheets. His hips slammed forward again, faster this time. Deeper. Brutal. Relentless.

“You wanted Sam to love you,” he snarled. “But you’ll come for me.”

He didn’t stop. Not even when your voice cracked into sobs between moans, not when your thighs quaked with each punishing thrust.

If anything—he sped up.

Not frantic. Not wild. Just relentless. Measured. Deep. Each stroke dragged slow on the way out and slammed hard on the way back in, punching the air from your lungs until all you could do was whimper into the sheets.

Your body gave in before you did—hips rolling back to meet him, cunt sucking him in like it was made for him.

And he laughed. “Fucking knew it,” he grunted. “Knew you’d love this.”

You gasped—somewhere between a sob and a moan. He leaned down, his chest pressing to your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You act like you miss who I was,” he whispered. “But your pussy doesn’t lie.”

You choked on a cry, face burning.

He pulled back and slammed in harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you like it better this way.”

You shook your head, broken and blushing, unable to form a word.

He clicked his tongue.

“You’re lying.” Another deep thrust. “You’re dripping down my cock and you’re lying.”

His hand slid from your neck to your hair again, curling tight, yanking your head back.

“You’re lucky I even want to fuck you at all,” he hissed. “You’re nothing but a hole to me now.”

And yet—his voice was almost pleased. Like your humiliation was arousing. Like watching you betray yourself—watching you come on the cock of the man who didn’t love you anymore—was better than anything he’d gotten from the girls who came before.

You cried out again, right on the edge—your whole body trembling, heat building too fast, too high.

He felt it. Of course he did. And that’s when he flipped you. Fast. Forceful. One hand gripping your thigh, the other wrapped around your ribs as he hauled you onto your back and shoved your legs up, spreading you open like a book.

Your dress bunched around your waist. Your ruined panties still stretched to the side. And he was still inside you. He leaned over you, still moving, still deep, and his eyes—those eyes—locked on yours.

Unblinking. Unholy. Strange.

He watched you drown. Watched you gasp and writhe and lose yourself on his cock, your nails digging into his arms, his chest, your legs shaking against his hips.

And he smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. But smug. Dark. Triumphant.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Eyes all wide. Like you’re scared of what you’re feeling.”

He fucked into you harder. Slower. Dragging it out. Watching it wreck you.

“You’re not scared of me, sweetheart.”

His thumb found your clit, circled once—just once—and you whined.

“You’re scared of how much you like it.”

You were right there. Right there.

He leaned in, lips by your ear, voice a brutal whisper.

“Go on,” he said. “Come for the monster.”

You didn’t even realise how close you were until he pulled out.

You sobbed—actually sobbed—as the fullness left you, your body trembling, on the cusp of climax with nothing to hold onto. Your cunt clenched around emptiness, pulsing helplessly, begging without words.

“Aw,” he drawled, standing between your legs, cock glistening, twitching. “Were you gonna come?”

You nodded, throat raw, tears slipping hot down your cheeks.

“Too bad,” he said.

You whimpered, clutching at the sheets. His hand gripped your jaw, forced your gaze back to his face.

“You’re not allowed to come until you say it,” he said, slow and cruel. “Say who’s doing this to you.”

You shook your head, half in defiance, half in shame. He just smiled, and then slammed back into you. Your scream was shattered. His thrusts were brutal now—targeted. Deep. Fast. Fingers digging into your hips like he was trying to leave a mark behind your bones.

Your orgasm rebuilt fast. Too fast.

He felt it. Saw it in your body, the twitch of your thighs, the flutter of your cunt.

“Close again, aren’t you?” He panted, voice ragged with pleasure and power.

You nodded, eyes rolling back.

“Say it.”

You bit your lip.

He slapped your thigh—sharp.

“Say my fucking name.”

“Sam,” you gasped.

“Not good enough.”

He slowed—hips grinding deep. Cruel.

“Not who I was. Say who I am.”

You cried out, back arching.

He leaned in, mouth at your ear, breath hot and shaking with control.

“Say you want this version,” he hissed. “Say you want me.”

And you did. You did. You choked on a sob as the words spilled out of you:

“I want you. This you. Soulless. Cruel. Please, Sam—”

You came sobbing. It ripped through you—blinding, raw, ruinous. And he laughed—a dark, breathless sound—watching you fall apart under him like you were breaking in real time.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he groaned.

He pulled out suddenly—again.

You gasped, still pulsing, and in seconds he was jerking himself over your stomach, your dress hiked up, your body spent and open and wrecked.

“Take it,” he growled, and with one last grunt, he came. Hot ropes across your belly, your skin, your clothes. Marking you. He stood there a moment, catching his breath, eyes roaming over you like he’d just finished a ritual.

Then—without a word—he turned. Walked into the bathroom. Left you there, gasping, shaking, drenched in the evidence of what you’d let him do. What you’d begged for.

The sheets were twisted beneath you. Your dress ruined. Your legs limp. Your throat raw. And all you could do was stare at the ceiling and ache. Because he wasn’t yours anymore. But you? You were still his.

After, the room fell into silence.

Not peace. Not rest. Just a thick, breathless quiet.

The bathroom light flicked off behind you, and you heard him emerge. Barefoot. Unhurried. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. You felt him before he even touched the bed.

The mattress dipped as he sat, then rolled onto his side behind you, his presence a slow, creeping heat. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t speak. He just watched. Always watched.

Eventually, his voice dripped into the silence like ink in water.

“You regret it?”

You blinked, still facing the wall. Your eyes were dry now, though you could feel the salt left behind on your cheeks. You hesitated—then turned your head to look at him.

He had reclined on his side, propped on an elbow. Hair tousled. Lips still flushed and swollen from the things he made you do. There was a thin red line down his chest, just below his collarbone—a scratch you gave him.

And those eyes.

Still strange. Still wrong. Still the only ones that made you feel seen.

Not loved. Not adored. Seen.

Like every ruined inch of you was visible in them. And maybe that was what you needed all along.

You shook your head. “No.”

He watched you for a moment longer. Then he nodded. Just once. Like that was what he expected. Like that was what you were always going to say. He reached out—not gentle, not soft—and pulled you closer. Just enough for your thigh to slide against his, your cheek brushing his shoulder.

It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to.

He didn’t kiss your forehead. Didn’t whisper promises. Didn’t hold you like something to protect. He just kept his hand on your hip. Loose. Possessive. Unspoken. Like he had always known this was coming. And maybe he had.

Because something about you had always ached to be destroyed.

And something about him—this him—had always known how.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @nevercameraready @0ccvltism <3

[cryptic-underground]

I fucking swear I posted a wip of this months ago but I finished a comic I've been slowly working on for like three months months(not the Hunt comic, I started this comic way before that).

It'll be going up tomorrow probably, it's The Music Freaks related. I hope you like it!

Sneak peaks if it:

It took me SO LONG !!!

[justablah56]

why does executive dysfunction need to hit it's hardest on the dead day of the class I'm failing, huh?

[that-sarcastic-writer]

A Touch of Madness

Logan Howlett X girlfriend!reader

Summary: Logan comes to you after being away, and all he wants is your touch, and he knows just how to get on your good side. This is just porn without plot.

Takes place in the same universe as Too Sweet but can be read as standalone

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors dni, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), fingering, couch sex, soft rough sex, Logan talks you through it, the claws make an appearance (I have a thing for his claws okay), Logan is obsessed with his girl, fluffy relationship, established relationship

WC: 3.9k

A/N: how did I make this longer than too sweet when it was supposed to be a Drabble. Hello idk how to write short shit. But like hello yall are so awesome? I appreciate all the love yall have given my first Logan fic. I also have an older Logan fic in the works but that one has plot so it’ll be a minute before its out. For now here this <3

He couldn’t take it anymore. You were driving him mad. It’s not like he deserved your anger. Not fully anyway. It wasn’t his fault he was gone this long. He had been thinking about you all week, about your soft lips, about the warmth of your thighs, about your sweet moans only for his ears to hear. And all he wanted was to pull you into his arms and take you, over and over, until you begged him to stop. 

But no. 

You were being childish. That’s what he called it anyway. 

“Sweet girl,” he called after you, like a puppy following close behind you as you strided around your apartment. He knew you were doing it on purpose, the excuse of having to do chores so you could elongate his torture. The way you so innocently looked back at him made him clench his jaw. “C’mon.” 

“Don’t sweet girl me, Logan. I told you, I’m busy.” You sassed him, huffing as you kept walking, finding the most insignificant of chores to waste your time with. He rolled his eyes at you, eyebrows furrowed into this perpetual gaze of annoyance. 

The truth was, you were aching for him, your thighs warm and your skin tingling solely at the thought of him taking you to do as he pleased. But, if there was something in this world you could be, it was petty. And if you had to suffer a whole week without him, he could suffer for an hour, even if it was also at your expense. Truly, you almost enjoyed the annoyance in his face, the sharpness in his voice, him damn near groaning behind you every time you evaded him under the excuse of needing to get some dumb chore done. 

“You’re killin’ me here, sugar.” He actually groaned this time, his jaw set. You stopped in your tracks and turned your head to look at him, shooting him a pointed look. “I said I was sorry.”

“Serves you right. And I don’t care if you’re sorry. You haven’t called me in a week.” Your words were sharp with bitterness and it dawned on him. That was why you were upset. A slight bit of humor tugged at the corner of his lips and he breathed out a laugh. You stared at him with blank eyes, you weren’t laughing. 

“C’mon, is that seriously why you’re upset? You know I was out of the state.” He tried to reason with you. Charles had entrusted him and Storm with finding a certain mutant that was causing havoc, three states over. And Logan had very much underestimated how long this would take them. So here he was, after a whole week away, damn near begging you to let him touch you. “It wasn’t like I wanted to go anyway.”

No, he would much rather be with his sweet girl, one that was being particularly difficult and making him suffer when all he wanted to do was hold you, to feel the warmth of your soft skin. 

He stepped into your personal space, his intoxicating scent almost making you give in. You counted to five in your head, eyes closed to remind yourself that you were, indeed, angry at him. 

“So? You got a phone, don’t you? You could’ve called me.” You huffed, eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled into a small pout, Logan had to hold back the urge to laugh at you. “You can’t disappear for a week and expect to come here and do as you please.” 

You shot him a sharp glare, he just stared at you, eyebrows raised in surprise at your sudden shot of confidence. His sweet girl was talking back to him? Giving him attitude? He tilted his head at you, almost as if to dare you to walk away from him.  

There was a bit of malice in your eyes as you gave him one last look before you walked away, thinking of what other useless chore you could add to continue his torture. But Logan had other thoughts in his head. If you weren’t going to behave, he would happily put you in your place. 

“Hey, c’mere or I’m gonna bring you here myself.” He called after you, the strings of his sanity hanging on by a thread, just waiting for you to tug at the last strand. He knew you too well. You turned your head, eyes big in feign innocence and you tilted your head at him in defiance. 

“Make me then.” The words left your mouth before you could think them through. In hindsight you should have known better, but you also wanted to see just what could happen if you pushed him hard enough. You saw the way his eyes flashed with malice, he stared you down, and in that moment you remembered just how small you were compared to him. “Oh fuck.” 

Your heart pounded in your chest as adrenaline rushed through you, but it wasn’t like you could go outrun him, especially not in your tiny apartment. He caught you, though he did purposely chase you into your living room, simply because he wanted to get you going, pumped with adrenaline. You squealed as he wrapped his arms around your torso and pulled you against his chest. His sharp canines nipped at that one spot on your neck that had you whimpering. 

“You goin’ somewhere, sugar?” He husked, his lips hot on your cheek. You couldn’t help but sigh in contentment, eyes closed. God, you missed him. 

“Mhm, still mad at you.” You mumbled, barely hanging on to your silly grudge. A chuckle rumbled in Logan’s chest. 

“That’s alright. I don’t need you to be happy with me to do what I want to do.” He inhaled, breathing your sweet scent, and he spoke as he threw you over his shoulder. “Just need you to look pretty while I do it.” 

You weren’t complaining about your position, you were in fact, bursting into giggles as he effortlessly carried you to the couch, though your giggles turned into another squeal when he smacked his hand flat against your ass. Logan had a grin on his lips as he tossed you on the couch, wasting no time in spreading your legs apart to settle between them.

He leaned down, gripping the armrest above your head, caging you in as he leaned down. He brushed his nose against yours, sighing softly.

“Don’t be such a brat. Kiss me.” The words rumbled in his chest with a groan, his primal needs overcoming his senses. He didn’t have to tell you twice. You laced your fingers in his hair, pulling into a hard and heated kiss.

His tongue slipped inside your mouth as he shrugged off his flannel, tossing it somewhere on the floor, his belt soon following the same fate. You tried to sit up against the armrest, but you quickly realized Logan had other plans deep in his perverted mind. With a hold of your ankle he dragged you down on the couch, your back flat on the surface as you looked up at him with big eyes.

“Stay just like that, pretty.” He spoke, pressing another heated kiss to your mouth before tugging off your sweatpants, followed by your panties. He tossed them somewhere over his shoulder, somewhere you would have to run around searching for later. But you couldn’t give a fuck about that. All you could focus on was the heat forming between your legs as Logan settled between them.

His eyes met with yours one last time before he was diving in between your warm thighs. His tongue licked long stripes from your hole up to your clit, circling around the sensitive nerve before going back down. Over and over until your soft gasps and sighs of pleasure turned into moans. His large hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open to do as he pleased. One leg hung over the back of the couch and the other was thrown over his shoulder, and he effortlessly held you down as he shoved his tongue into your cunt. He was like an animal, insatiable as he took you on his tongue.

“Oh fuck. Shit—Logan—” Your eyes rolled back, lips parted as you whined. You gripped the back of the couch, soft twitches taking over you each time his nose brushed your clit.

It was no secret that Logan found pleasure in giving you yours, and he ate you like it. Grunts and hums rumbled in his chest as his tongue found your clit again, and he reveled in the particularly high pitched cry you let out when he slipped two fingers into your wet core. 

“Needed to taste you so fuckin’ bad. I thought about it all week.” He spat into your clit, groaning at the way your tight walls squeezed his fingers. He could only imagine what you would do when it was his cock stretching your walls. 

“Yes, yes, yes.” You chanted, fingers lacing in his hair as he lapped at your clit. You wished you could hold your pleasure, rivet in it for just a little bit longer, but the way he curled his fingers against your most sensitive spot, the way his tongue was so relentless on your swollen clit, you couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh my—”

Your words never left your throat, chest pounding with sheer adrenaline as your release coated his face and fingers. It was sudden, it left you breathless as your thighs twitched with aftershock. Your eyes were wide and glossy in shock as you shuddered with the remnants of your orgasm. It wasn’t until you pathetically attempted to drag yourself away that Logan stopped. You were shaking, gasping softly when he pulled his fingers from you, but you all but cried when he licked at your wet pussy, getting a taste of you.

“Logan, please I can’t—” Your voice was shaky as you tried to move away from his face, he chuckled at you, pressing his face against your inner thigh before he crawled up to your face.

“‘Is okay. You did good.” He kissed your lips, his large hands holding your face as he let you taste yourself on his tongue. You moaned, clenching around nothing already in anticipation of him filling you. “You wanna stop?”

“No, no, no! Need you, please!” You were quick to protest, wrapping your legs around his waist to prevent him from going anywhere. You couldn’t really stop him from doing anything, but he found it endearing that you tried. He bumped his nose against yours, lips pulled up into a tiny smile.

“Need me where, hm?” He opened his eyes to look at you, and truly how he didn’t bend you over the nearest flat surface the second he saw you was beyond his comprehension. You looked so perfect like this, underneath him, clinging to him. His sweet girl. He didn’t know what it was about you, but from the moment he met you he was done for. You drove him absolutely mad and now he just couldn’t get enough of you.

“Inside me, Logan. Please.” You sighed out, face flushed with embarrassment. He smoothed out the frown lines on your forehead with a tiny kiss. A sweet gesture in comparison to what he was about to do to you.

In one swift motion he had you bent over the armrest, with your ass to him and your chest flat against the armrest. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip as you glanced over your shoulder to watch as he pulled off his white tank top. Your glazed eyes fawned over each perfect muscle in his body, taking particular interest in the veins that popped in his arm when he flexed them as he ridded himself of his jeans. How you ended up with a man so incredibly hot, you had no idea, but you were thanking the Gods for that.

“I need to be inside you, too.” He rasped into your ear, groaning in ecstasy as he sank himself into your needy cunt. Your jaw fell open he filled you, inch by inch. He pulled your t-shirt over your head, instantly attaching his lips to your shoulder as he rutted his hips against your ass. 

His pace was grueling from the start, grip tight on your hips, sure to leave bruises in the morning. A little reminder of his intoxicating presence. You braced yourself on the armrest, sounds of pleasure leaving your lips almost instantly. He pressed his forehead against your cheek, the thick hairs on his chest leaving a tingling sensation across your back as he held you flush against his chest. Heavy breaths filled your ears as you so desperately reached to touch him, any of him. Your trembling fingers found the sound of his face and he leaned his head to capture your parted lips into a messy kiss. He swallowed your sweet sounds as the sting of his cock had you squeezing the life out of him.

“This what you needed, hm? Maybe I should fuck sweet pussy more often? Give it more attention?” He grunted the words in your ears, lips pressed against your cheek as a sheen layer of sweat began to coat your soft skin. You whimpered and nodded weakly, your cunt clenching him with excitement. He smirked softly, his hand coming up to lace through your hair. “Yeah? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweet girl?”

Logan held your face down as his hips drilled into you, each delicious drag of his cock bringing you closer and closer to your sweet release. God, you needed it. All you could do was moan in response.

“Y-yes! God, yes. Please Logan.” You whined out shamelessly, eyes rolled back into your head. Logan hummed, the sound rumbling in his chest as he pressed his lips to your temple, the gentle gesture ironic considering just what he was doing to you. He said nothing as he sneaked his free hand to the front of your body, rough fingers rubbing harsh circles on your sensitive clit. Your jaw fell open, your hand flying to grip his wrist. Your thighs clenched around his hand, whining as his cock  brushed that one spot that had you seeing white. “Logan—”

Your voice was a warning, but he welcomed it. He flicked his wrist without mercy as he rolled his hips, his words only encouraging you to fall apart for him.

“Come for me, pretty girl. You can do that, can’t you? I know you want to.” He let go of your hair to turn your head to meet his eager lips. He happily swallowed the pathetic sounds that left your mouth as he flicked at your clit, his cock hitting so impossibly deep you were left trembling as your release seeped around him. 

Logan held you down on his cock, his thumb playing with your clit until you were gasping and your nails dug into the skin of his wrist. He kissed along your jaw as his hips stilled for just a second, your body still shaking underneath him.

“You okay?” He asked softly, grabbing your face to look at him. You looked at him with hooded eyes and nodded weakly, barely lifting yourself off the couch.

“Yeah. ‘m okay.” 

Logan tilted his head at you, an eyebrow raised with amusement as he leaned down to leave a kiss to your sweaty forehead.

“Perfect.”

He grabbed your hips, pulling out his cock to manhandle you onto your back before he was sinking himself into you again. Your slick walls welcomed him perfectly, like this was the only place he belonged, but he wasn’t complaining. If he could die, he would die happily buried deep in your cunt.

“Oh, God, Logan.” You gasped, thighs twitching as you looked down to find where his thick cock is filling you, splitting you open over and over. Your jaw fell open as you watched him grab one of your ankles and he held it up by his shoulder, spreading you open for him to dig himself deeper and deeper within you tight walls. 

“Look at me, baby.” He groaned, chest heavy as a thin layer of sweat covered his muscled body. You did your best to comply, you looked up, eyes blurry with tears of pleasure as he damn near folded your body in half. Your knees were pressed against your chest as he leaned down to brush his nose against yours. “Yes, there she is. My pretty girl. I missed you.” 

You couldn’t help but moan at his words, and also at the sting of his cock rapidly bringing you to your third release. The way he brought your legs to his shoulders, he sunk himself so deep within your walls you swore you felt him in your stomach. It felt so good you wanted to cry.

“Missed you too, Logan.” You brought your lips up to his, eyebrows furrowed into an expression of pure arousal as you gripped his hair, clinging to him for dear life.

Your release was quick and sudden, hitting you without a warning the second Logan pressed his thumb to your swollen clit. You were just so sensitive, tears staining your cheeks as you sobbed. You clutched on to his large bicep as you spilled around his cock. The way your tight walls squeeze him made him groan, eyebrows furrowed as he focused on chasing his own release while fucking you through your own.

“Look at you, you’re just so good for me. Fuck it, I’ll just take you with me next time.” Groans fell freely from his soft lips as he braced himself on the back of the couch with one hand, and the other held the armrest above your head. He leaned down to press his forehead against yours as your sweet praises and chants of his name filled his ears. 

The sound that rumbled in Logan’s chest was animalistic, a deep growl as he coated your insides with his hot release. The metallic sound of sharp claws filled your ears once more as his claws unsheathed themselves from his knuckles, one on the back of the couch and the other just above your head, again. You gasped his name with a soft laugh, though you would be lying if you said it didn’t drive you feral when his claws accidentally came out. You brought a hand to his face as he pulled his claws out of your couch, the sharp metal once again hiding themselves within his knuckles with a sound. He held himself up on his forearm as his head fell to your neck.

“I’ll pay for it.” He muttered a chuckle into your neck, leaving a soft kiss to your jaw. You laughed, draping a hand over your forehead, breathing in deeply as you felt your mixed releases seep around his cock and drip onto the couch. He should just buy you a new couch, he thought.

“Wanna buy me a new body while you’re at it?” You teased him, already sensing you would have bruises and your thighs would ache for days.

“Did I hurt you?” Concern filled his voice as he lifted his head to scan your face for any discomfort as his hand came up to graze the thigh draped over his waist. You scrunched up your nose at him and shook your head.

“Of course not hun. Don’t be silly.” You traced your fingers over his face and gave him a lopsided smile.

“I did miss you, for the record.” 

You pressed a kiss to his lips. “I missed you too Logan.”

“Lemme clean you up sugar.” He sneaked a kiss to your cheek as he untangled himself from you, much to your protest.

You whined at the emptiness he left you as he stood up. Though you did quite enjoy the sight of his perfect ass he walked off to find something to clean his mess with. When he came back, he had a small towel and he cleaned you without protest, he left warm kisses on your face as you talked to him about your day. He ultimately tossed the towel aside and slipped on his boxers, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of his still hard cock, but you needed a break. You didn’t let him leave though, reaching to grab his wrist with soft eyes

“Wanna watch a movie? I miss watching movies with you.” You mumbled, voice soft as you looked at him with pleading eyes. He laughed softly at you, you made it sound like you hadn’t seen him in a month.

But, how could he ever say no to his sweet girl?

“Mhm, put on somethin’ .” He gently moved you so that he was lying behind you on the couch, his big arms wrapped around you as he held you against his chest. Though you were still completely naked, you paid no mind to it. It actually felt kinda nice to be so close to him and feel the warmth of his body in such an intimate way.

He covered you both with the throw blanket you always kept over the couch for days exactly like this, for those days you wanted to feel warm and close with him on the couch. He ignored the three holes where stuffing was coming out of the ripped fabric as he pulled the soft blanket up to your chest and as you happily settled in his arms, clicking away at the TV. He would buy you a new couch, just as he bought you new pillows, and new blankets. And anything you asked him to, really.

Logan wasn’t used to domestic, the soft touches, cuddling, but he liked doing it with you. He craved it actually, probably just as much as he craved the sex.

“Next time you’re away that long, just give me a call? Please? So that I’m not worried sick thinking you died.” You finally said, the whole reason for such intense feelings merely an hour ago finally surfacing. He laughed softly at how ridiculous you sounded. He technically can’t die, he thought.

“I wouldn’t.. I can’t…Y’know what? You’re right. I’m still getting used to this whole having a girl thing. But I'll do better, yeah? Don’t need you to be mad, sugar.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek, settling his face on your neck as he attempted to pay attention to whatever horror movie you decided to watch today. “But if you’re gonna let me fuck you like that when you’re mad, get mad more often.” 

“Logan.” You scolded him, nudging his ribs softly as a warm blush coated your cheeks, knowing you wouldn’t hurt him, but it still made him chuckle. 

He had to admit, he lasted way longer than he did last time. He lasted almost halfway through the movie before the feeling of his cock sitting hot and heavy in his boxers became apparent to him again. He inhaled your scent softly, his lips ghosting over your neck as he rolled his hips softly against your ass. And while you did try to protest, whining that you wanted to get through one movie with him, the sting of his cock was better than any movie in this world. The credits rolled, the soundtrack now drowned out by the sound of your sweet moans. Logan would be damned if he let you leave the warmth of his body for even just one second tonight. Or maybe ever. 

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation—you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.

[zombii-writess]

ɪ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴡᴏɴᴅᴇʀʟᴀɴᴅ

summary: ever since you've woken up in Twisted Wonderland, you've been in awe. i mean how could you not? magic was everywhere!

your friends just shrug it off, thinking that there was nothing special about this world, but you, oh you can't help but giggle like a child whenever something explodes, whether on purpose or accidently, in potions class. of course, someone has noticed the joy at the smallest things in your eyes, and he can't help but admire that.

characters: Riddle, Leona, Azul, Kalim, Vil, Idia, and Malleus,

type: fluffy / gn reader / romantic / bullet points + lowercase intended / reader is yuu

a/n: had this in my head for a while but whenever im given the chance to write i forget everything, some characters might be ooc and like most of the stuff i just searched up lol

unedited

✁-----

[ⅰ] riddle rosehearts

riddle likes your enthusiasm about wanting to learn things. so when you came up to him with a bunch of questions regarding his world, you bet he pulled out a stack of books and plopped them on a nearby table.

"i hope your free for the next hour, [name], because we aren't leaving until your curiosity is satisfied."

he thinks you're going to whine and make an excuse to leave, but he's left silent when you nod and plop down on the chair, back straight and ready to learn at whatever knowledge was going to be thrown your way.

it ended being longer than an hour. you couldn't help yourself asking questions about certain things like wars, how magic came to be, how it was possible to for dorms to have their own dimensional pocket for its location, and blah blah blah.

and riddle couldn't help himself to answering your questions, which led to more questions and again blah blah blah.

finally, you guys get a break for snacks and refreshments, riddle decides to ask you about your world. is there truly no magic in your world? ...magicians? they give the allusion of magic without being able to use it? interesting.

and break ends without both you realize it, but this time, riddle's the student and you're the teacher.

[ⅱ] leona kingscholar

usually, leona doesn't care if you're around him whenever he's sleeping, he likes napping on you. as long as it's quiet and there's no ruggie bugging him about any assignments, he's a happy lion.

but he can't help flicking his tail in irritation at your constant staring at his tail and furry ears when he's trying to sleep. he knows you probably want to touch them.

yeah, leona knows he's good looking, but could've you done your sight-seeing when he's more awake and ready to tease you?

"hey, herbivore, is there something on my face?" leona opens an eye and stares at yours with his green one. he notices you eying his ears and with a loud sigh, he repositions himself to rest his chin on your belly. "only for 3 minutes"

giggling, you immediately reach over and stroked at his fuzzy ears. then comes the questions. "do you use different shampoo for your tail?" "how do you wear headphones?" "your tail is very pretty!"

while you chatted away and messed with his ears and hair, leona fell deeper and deeper into slumber. he'll answer your questions when he wakes up.

[ⅲ] azul ashengrotto

why did he agree to this? why couldn't he just tell jade and floyd to take and show you the beauty of the deep sea? but knowing them, they might pull something and that something was this!

stuck in a sunken ship, with you, in his octopus form! but he can't help but flush at your gentle petting towards one of his many arms, the appendage wrapping itself around your fingers. he curses at the twins under his breath.

azul tries to focus your attention on other things he has found in the ruined ship, "look at this jewel, isn't it shiny?" "no? well, uh, then what about these shells? don't they look prettier to look at?" but the more he brough items using his limbs, the more amazed you are.

"wow, your arms are useful, not to mention very beautiful." azul pauses, soaking up your words, heart fluttering. "this shade flatters you so much, i bet you look good in any color"

azul and you didn't realize how close you had gotten to each other, chests touching and eyes locked like nothing else mattered. "azul, you're very beautiful."

his heart clenches at your words, swallowing a bit and murmuring a small 'thank you.' azul's limbs tightening their grip around you. "thank you, [name]..."

[ⅳ] kalim al asim

he's a yapper like you, poor jamil is seconds away from slamming his head into a wall from your ramblings.

you're amazed at some crystal lamps he has? guess what's sitting on your desk in your dorm. what do you mean there's no such thing as enchanted jewelry in your world? don't worry [name] he'll cover you head to toe in enchanted jewelry.

but then kalim has an idea. what if he took you on a magic carpet ride? you liked it last time surely, you would want to do it again. you beam at the idea and before jamil could get a say in, kalim scoops your hand in his and drags you to the treasury where he keeps his magic carpet.

squealing in delight, the air smacked your face to which you buried yourself in kalim's clothing as you clung to him. kalim laughs with you as he guides his carpet up into the clouds. '[name] check out this view!'

you gasp at the sight; the moon was full and bright in the dark sky, stars twinkled in the dark dome, the air was crisp and cold. kalim feels his face warm up at the sight.

he'll take you anywhere you want as long as you stay by his side

[ⅴ] vil schoenheit

you remind him of rook in a way, always admiring the simplest things and always impressed by the tiniest things. he's seen the way you look at him with stars in your eyes whenever he makes sparkles fly in alchemy and potions class.

vil knows your curious and he absolutely thrives at your constant attention on whatever he's doing. be it doing his make-up, skin care routine, or doing schoolwork. as long as it's you, he doesn't mind your attention behind cameras.

currently, he's doing your daily skin care date night while you yapped away about potions and his skin care.

"you make your own skin care products right? that's amazing, i couldn't trust making my own and expect my face to come out as clear as yours." you laugh

vil huffs as his pinky scoops up some lip balm, then holds your chin gently with his pointer finger and thumb and applies the product to your lips. which he totally didn't need to do all of that when there was a small stick.

"that's why i'm here, [name], i could show you some tricks i've learned through trial and error."

[ⅵ] idia shroud

after over blotting and apologizing to everyone, idia expects his life to remain the same, occasionally having interactions with his peers, you have shown up to his dorm, thanks to ortho, and expressed your curiosity in his hair.

idia stutters out an incoherent explanation, tips of his hair burning a pink from the concentrated look in your eyes, and once he finishes, idia goes to close his door but jumps at your hand gripping onto the door. you weren't satisfied.

eventually you invite yourself inside and after countless questions about him, you mention technology from your world and that catches his attention.

he listens to your explanation, occasionally snickering at the outdated technology your world had. when you ask about the technology from this world, idia comes out a bit more from his shell and goes on a 3-hour rant about technology from Twisted Wonderland, with you occasionally asking questions.

idia hopes you don't notice the tips of his hair turning pink, but of course, you ask him, admiring the color.

[ⅶ] malleus draconia

he admires that about you. for someone who'll live for a short time, you always cherish what little time you have. malleus has lived for a long time; he's seen things come and go, and over the years, he seems to have lost the passion to seek and explore what life offered.

but being with you with your daily late-night walks, with your rambling of how you found potions being able to heal injuries and sicknesses absolutely mindboggling.

malleus listens attentively to your speech on mythical creatures back in your world, how dragons were your personal favorite, and how in your world, in fae mythology, it's rare for a fae to choose to become mortal. that certainly catches malleus' attention. (i literally just googled this so idk if this is accurate)

he's certainly never heard of this statement, but it does intrigue him. now your speech leads to questioning him or questioning about his title as one of the top five powerful mages. how do you get that title? are you born with it or do you have to prove yourself to professionals? can anyone receive this title?

malleus just smiles and answers your onslaught of questions, heart fluttering at your attentive gaze

Tip jar (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Yandere batfamily x neglected reader

From the moment you were ten, you had sought their attention like a moth drawn to a flame. But the flame was always too hot, always too far away, and with every desperate attempt to get close, they burned you. You had been a shadow in their world, hovering at the edges of their lives, wanting, needing. Needing. That word, so simple, yet it had been the curse of your existence. You needed them. You needed their time, their care, their love. But they never saw you, never acknowledged the pit of loneliness that gnawed at you every time you begged to be included.

They had brushed you aside, every single time.

The family, your family, was never really yours.

It started when you were just a kid. “Not now, kid,” they would say. Or “Go play somewhere else.” Every time you tried to insert yourself into their lives, they shoved you away, like a toy they’d grown tired of. They didn’t need you. Not when there were bigger things at stake. Not when Gotham was drowning in its own darkness, when the Batcave was filled with the hum of machinery and the rush of adrenaline.

You were just a distraction.

You were nothing.

The words didn’t change as you grew older. They only got sharper.

When you were twelve, you tried again—this time with more subtlety. You offered to help, to be something, anything that would make them notice you. I can be useful, I promise. But no. No, they couldn’t have you tagging along. Not when there were more important things to do, more important people to be with. You were only a child.

By the time you turned fifteen, the bitter reality had set in. You weren’t wanted. You weren’t needed. They were a family—their family—and you? You were the outcast, the inconvenience they only tolerated because they had no choice. They didn’t want you, but they had to keep you around. The occasional glance from Tim, a brief acknowledgment from Dick—enough to keep the illusion of familial love alive, but never enough to make you feel like you mattered.

It wasn’t just Bruce anymore. He had become an empty figure in your life, a distant authority figure who only spoke when there was something to be done. Do this. Do that. Don’t ask questions. That was how you learned to live under his roof—like a shadow. Like a nothing.

There were moments when you thought you might be able to break through. When you thought maybe—just maybe—they would see you for who you were, someone who could stand beside them, shoulder to shoulder, not as a burden but as a part of the family.

But those moments were fleeting. They were crumbs, pieces of hope that you clung to like a starving animal, only for them to be yanked away, leaving you empty once again.

By the time you turned sixteen, you no longer asked. No longer begged. You had learned that your needs were nothing but noise to them. So, you stayed quiet, retreating into the corners of their lives. You were there, but invisible. A ghost that haunted the edges of their family but was never invited to sit at the table.

But it wasn’t just the coldness that broke you. No. It was the sharpness of their words.

The day it all ended—the day your last shred of hope died—had come like a storm.

You were seventeen when you finally broke. You had asked, yet again, for something so simple. You wanted to hang out, to spend the evening together, just for once. No work. No patrols. Just them. Just family. But Dick—always so perfect, so composed—snapped.

“Stop nagging, goddammit!” His voice was low, but the venom was there. The venom that cut deeper than any blade. “I don’t have time for this. You’re not a kid anymore. You should know better.”

And it was in that moment, when the words hit you like fists to your chest, that you knew. It was over. They will never care about you.

No more pleading. No more silence. You were done.

You wanted to scream, to break down and tell him how it felt to always be ignored, to always be pushed aside. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. All you could do was stare at him, the person you had once looked up to, the brother who had made you feel like you belonged. And now? Now he hated you. He resented you. You were just a thorn in his side, something he couldn’t wait to get rid of.

The Batfamily didn’t need you. They didn’t even want you. You were just a memory in the background of their perfect little world.

And so, you left.

You packed your things and left Gotham without a second thought. You didn’t care anymore. You didn’t care about them. You didn’t care about the lies you had told yourself for years, that someday they would come to love you. No. You were done.

You found a small apartment in a city far, far away. The rent was cheap. The food was okay. It didn’t matter. For the first time in years, you felt a strange kind of peace. No more begging. No more hoping for something that was never going to come.

But the peace didn’t last long. It never does.

Months passed, and the Batfamily went on without you. It wasn’t like you expected them to notice, but they did. They always did.

It started slowly at first. A message from Bruce, terse and businesslike, asking how you were. A phone call from Dick, his voice hesitant, full of uncertainty. Tim sent an email—just a few lines, but still. He’d written “We miss you.”

You didn’t respond. The first few days, you let it sit there, those words ringing in your ears. We miss you. The words came so easily now, but where had they been all those years? You stared at the screen, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. Miss you? They had pushed you aside when you needed them most. They had ignored you, told you to shut up, told you to go away.

Now they missed you?

You threw your phone across the room and sat down, gripping your hair, letting the quiet take you over.

It wasn’t until the second month that they started to call. At first, it was Tim—his voice softer than it had been in years, like a penitent ghost, when he called you.

“Please… just talk to us. We’re… we’re worried about you.”

You didn’t pick up.

Then, Dick. His voice cracked when he asked if you were okay. Just talk to us. How many times had you told them that? How many times had you begged? And now, they were begging you? You felt the rage swell inside you, the bitterness of those years threatening to break you apart.

And that was when they came.

It wasn’t just a phone call. It wasn’t just messages anymore. They came looking for you.

Nightwing was the first. He showed up at your door, standing there in his familiar suit, but his smile was tight, his eyes uncertain.

“Please,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “We just want to talk.”

You stared at him, the same person who had once smiled at you like you meant the world to him. And now? Now he looked like a stranger. Someone who didn’t know who you were. And maybe, in a way, he didn’t.

“Why?” you asked, your voice rough from months of silence. “Why now? Where were you when I needed you?”

The guilt in his eyes only deepened. “We were wrong,” he said, the words fragile, like he was afraid they would break if spoken too loudly. “We… we miss you.”

The anger rose in your chest. They missed you?

The words sounded so hollow. What good was their love now?

They all came. One by one, each member of the family arrived at your door, apologizing, begging for forgiveness, for your attention, your love.

But it was too late.

They had pushed you away for too long, and now you could feel it: the suffocating weight of their regret, the twisting hunger of their need.

They needed you. They needed you so badly. They would never let you go again.

It wasn’t just about family anymore. It wasn’t just about reconciliation. Now, it was about possession.

And the family would do whatever it took to keep you close—no matter the cost.

Gotham had never felt farther away, yet the shadows of the family loomed larger than ever.

You weren’t sure if you were ready to go back, to reopen that door. But deep down, you knew one thing.

They would never let you leave again.

And now?

Now, they were willing to do anything to make sure of it.

(A/n: no part 2 becuz it's a one shot 😸)

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Demon King Headcanons

You have accepted the Demon King’s marriage proposal! Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance

[Main Story]

The proposal, as you quickly found out, came as a surprise to everyone. Not even the King’s loyal butler knew of such intentions; he’d assumed they were finally going to destroy everything and everyone at once. To him, the dramatic scene of you and his Lord enveloped in flames was anything but a romantic confession. It was your final battle. So one might imagine the poor lizard’s confusion when the Demon King returned with you following behind. “S-sir?” He questioned meekly. The armored creature nodded at his servant. “It has been done. We’ll plan the wedding upon our arrival home.” The what? His baffled expression must’ve given him away, because the Demon continued: “What’re you gawking like that for? Didn’t I ask you earlier how humans forge a bond?” The butler stumbled to search for his words, swallowing dryly. “Well y-yes, your Majesty…I just didn’t expect it to be anything more than curiosity.”

The same speechless reaction repeated itself all the way to the Kingdom. Soldiers, diplomats, other monstrous entities of the unknown Land, they all greeted you in disbelief. So much, in fact, that you began to poke fun at their hesitant response: “I am his mortal enemy”, you’d announce with a dramatic bow. “Spouse! We talked about this!” the Demon Lord would quickly correct you, flustered.

Truth be told, you're not quite sure what made you accept this ridiculous offer. Perhaps a mixture of intrigue and disillusionment. The city you've dedicated yourself to stood no longer, burnt to a crisp along with its corruption and crookery. In a way, the monster had unshackled you from a responsibility you no longer wanted to bear. And if that wasn't enough to convince you, well, the sight of the Ruler himself kneeling before you certainly sealed the deal.

Although it may take a while for you to accept the idea that your worst adversary had actually been infatuated with you this entire time. Were there even any hints? During your last battle you nearly died. You'd crawled out of an enormous crater on your fours, bones shattered and ligaments torn. When you pointed this out to your groom-to-be, he stared at you in horror. "I had no idea humans were that fragile. I was trying to adjust my strength so as to not do any harm." You could only nod, patting away the sweat beads forming on your forehead. Uh huh. Maybe it's better you didn't experience his full range of attacks.

Ever since the devastating revelation, he's been extra careful when handling you. Sometimes he'll awkwardly hover his large hands above you, with a concentrated frown on his face. "What the hell are you doing?" you ask, eyeing him suspiciously. "I'm trying to be gentle." he'll answer. "You're not even touching me." Fair point, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

The Demon King will often ask you about customs from your world as a way to make you comfortable, just in case you get struck by the occasional homesickness. His Realm is very different from what you're used to, after all. Lamentably, his own years spent in the human world were not too fruitful from a cultural point of view. He was either busy stalking you or devouring the souls of the innocent. Now that he has nothing else to worry about, he will gladly listen and even do his best to actively participate.

You wake up shrouded in thick smoke. Overwhelmed by heavy déjà vu, you rush down the grand stairs, searching for the source of the fire. Are you being attacked? Enemies of the Demon King? You elbow yourself against the kitchen door, similar to when you left your home to find the city ablaze. The Demon Lord turns to face you, visibly overwhelmed and exhausted. You gawk at the scene unfolding before you and remember to close your mouth, mainly out of politeness. "It's too small. I'm afraid I cannot use it", he reveals timidly, holding a human spatula between his fingers to showcase the impractical size difference. You glance at the disastrous attempt behind him and manage to deduce he'd been trying to make breakfast. In an unspoken agreement, he steps back and allows you to take over.

"I'm surprised you let him burn down the kitchen", you mention to the butler once you get a moment to yourself. The scaly servant sighs, and theatrically lifts his clawed hands in hopelessness. "Pointless to argue with him when he's like this, (Y/N). In my entire life serving the Family, I've never witnessed a more stubborn leader." He points to the lavish portraits adorning the walls with a faint smile. "And, to put it frankly, he's obsessed with you. I've never seen him in a more deplorable state. Marrying a human?! The shame, the outrage!” he cries out. “No offense intended to you, of course. You must understand." You hum in agreement, a tad uncomfortable, yet sympathetic. "M-maybe it'll tone down after the wedding?" you suggest as encouragement. "Oh, no, I suspect it will only get worse", he bemoans in return. Then, he promptly straightens his back and resumes his duties.

You go on your own way, not wanting to burden the lizard in his work. As you cross the hallway, you find the Demon King himself scanning each room, somewhat agitated. He notices you and his features soften. "I was wondering where you'd vanished." You approach him with the words of the butler still ringing in your ears.

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Two: love, and love well

tw: religious abuse, domestic violence, minor grief, minor man handling

When you arrive home, you lay the wine out on the table like an offering to Jesus Christ Himself. 

A perfect trifecta, the florid liquid sloshes and slowly settles in their bottles as you wipe your sweaty palms on the front of your apron. Skin soaked in moonshine, the scent is so strong you almost feel tipsy off of the fumes alone. Luckily, your father has locked himself away in his office, rendering him too far away to smell the stench on you—likely hunched over his well-loved bible to take notes. Even now you can see the way that poor book falls apart at the seams with loose pages and a fractured spine. 

(Is this why he rips you apart the way he does? Is this how he loves, and loves well? By ruining? Let all that you do be done in love. If your spine was just as crooked as his bible, would you find him attempting to mend you with glue?) 

Instead of ruminating about your father’s strange expression of care, you take note of the light that bleeds on the floor. Honey gold, it livens up the wood floors your father forced you to scrub clean the previous weekend. Cleanliness is close to Godliness, and still he managed to track dirt in not even hours after you had finished. It’s of no consequence—you are grateful to be given so many opportunities to improve yourself in both skill and personhood. 

Sighing, the setting sun reminds you that there is a meal to be cooked. Having been denied lunch in favor of running errands, your mouth waters at the sight of the ingredients alone. Beans, sourdough biscuits, brown gravy and sowbelly; the steam and flames leaves your cheeks toasty by the time they’re finished cooking. 

You fix up two plates and gather the cutlery to set the table before taking a seat. There are three chairs that surround this small, square table, yet one has remained empty for longer that you’d care to admit. Sometimes, if you stare at the gaping void on your right for long enough, you can nearly feel the warmth your mother left behind. She lingers in odd places throughout the house—in the jar of sourdough starter she created that you still feed; in the lilies she planted along the deck that refuse to die no matter how many times your father yanks them from the earth; in the face of the full moon that winks at you through the window as the sun sets. 

As soon as the clock strikes seven, the rusty hinges to your father’s office squeak open. Quiet, like scuttering field mice. His pace is languid as he wanders towards the table, foggy eyes piercing through you. Greeting him with a smile, you gesture to his place at the table where cooling food awaits him with puffs and swirls of steam. 

“Supper’s ready, Daddy,” you say as if it wasn’t already obvious. “And I got the wine just like you wanted.” 

He responds with nothing but a hum as he takes the seat next to you. His chair creaks and groans beneath his weight, crying out like a wounded animal begging for relief. Swallowing, you roll your lips together as you await his word. 

“Say Grace, girl,” he orders. 

Eagerly, you fold your hands and rest them above the table before bowing your head. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Father, we thank you for your many blessings. We thank you now for this meal. Please bless it. May it nourish and strengthen our bodies to your honor and glory. Amen.” 

Your prayer flows from your mouth like blood from your wounded knuckles, and it’s enough for your father to be content with it. You wait for him to take the first bite before you dare to indulge in the meal you slaved over the hot stove for. A stitch of hunger ravages your stomach and it refuses to relinquish its hold on you until you’ve shoved a spoonful of beans into your mouth. Stomach tinged with avarice, it hardly allows you to taste the flavors on your tongue before demanding you swallow. 

Dinner is a quiet affair, like usual. There is nothing for you to share with your father that he doesn’t already know—or something he could find the heart to care for—and he seems to speak to you only to order you around or share his displeasure about something. Usually, his silence means you’re doing well, so you bask in the cold nothingness. 

Though, it usually doesn’t take long for him to shatter through the algid atmosphere with a sharp tongue. 

“The change that Mr. Beckett gave you? Where is it?” he asks. 

Nodding, you swallow the food in your mouth before placing your utensils on your plate to rest. “I’ve got it right here in my pocket,” you assure. 

Yet, when you burden yourself with cloth against your aching wounds once more, your stomach drops when you can’t find the change you were given. Blinking, you dig deeper, and still there is nothing but the cotton of your apron. Soft, you’ve had this clothing item for years and it has never betrayed you before. Desperate, you stand to your feet to search, worried that you can’t feel the change in the swathes of fabric in your dress. 

The only thing your fingertips brush against is a torn hole. 

It’s big enough to fit your thumb through frayed seams—plenty large enough to lose the coins Mr. Beckett gave you. Your heart leaps into your throat where it threatens to choke you and you are brutally reminded of your time in the saloon. Those strange men, how anxious you were to flee that place, how your apron caught on the stool…

“Well?” your father questions impatiently. 

“I-I’m sorry, Daddy. I don’t… I don’t have it,” you admit. 

Though you’ve already admitted defeat, your hands continue to fruitlessly paw at your skirt. Was it left behind at the saloon? Could you go back now and see if Mr. Beckett cleaned it up? Or did you leave a trail of coins behind you during your walk home like breadcrumbs meant to lure children? Would you have to scrounge the earth on your hands and knees in order to make this right? 

“You don’t have it?” he repeats incredulously. 

“My apron tore, it must’ve fallen out of my pocket,” you explain with trembling hands. “I-I’m sure Mr. Beckett still has it. I’ll go back and look for it. I’m sorry, Daddy, I promise I didn’t mean to lose it.” 

He is quiet. Silent for long enough that your heart begins to quiver in your chest like a hare burrowing beneath the earth to hide from vicious predators. You stand with a rigid spine as you wait for him to wipe his hands on the front of his trousers. When he finally looks at you, his eyes hold nothing but virulent desire. 

“No one who practices deceit shall dwell in my house; no one who utters lies shall continue before my eyes,” he quotes. “Nothing but excuses and empty promises. Tell me, girl, why do you lie to me?” 

“I’m not lying, I swear it,” you assure. 

“Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord,” he quotes further. 

“Daddy please, I’d never lie to you,” you beg. Tears begin to trespass along your cheeks, but you know better than to wipe them away. If you don’t acknowledge their existence, then maybe he won’t either. 

“Not only are you a liar, but you are a thief,” your father claims as he rises from his seat. He moves around the table and you find your teeth biting into your tongue to prevent you from begging any further. “What punishment do you think is fit for a liar and a thief? Do they deserve mercy? Does a false witness go unpunished, girl? Or shall he who breathes out lies perish?” 

You are given no time to contemplate his questions and rehearsed verses before the back of his hand bites into the apple of your cheek. He carries more strength than a preacher should—oftentimes you wonder if he carries the strength of God Himself when he punishes you. Your ears ring at the impact as your feet stumble from the force. A lip in the wooden floor catches your heel, and you cry out as you fall onto your rump. Lights dance in your vision like sun flares on a photograph as you stare up at your father. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was a halo of light around his head. 

But you do know better. The only thing that ever illuminates your father is his anger. 

He strikes you three more times on the same cheek. He’s kneeling next to you and yet still towers over you—always maintaining power and control. Pain blossoms along the side of your jaw and up into the mushy bits of your brain as you stifle your sobs. A migraine is bound to burrow into the thin layer of your skull soon, but for now the only thing that hurts worse than this throe is your repentance. 

“Well,” he speaks when he’s finally determined that you’ve had enough. “Go then. If you say you’ve lost it, then go find it, and don’t you dare return until you do. Do I make myself clear, girl?” 

Clutching the side of your face, you nod only for him to bark at you to speak. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.” 

When the cool dusk air hits your skin, you do not find yourself heading into town. You do not chase the change that lurks in the thicket that lines the trail or in Mr. Beckett’s rowdy saloon. Instead, you follow the moonlit trail that your mother used to take you on when you were a child. 

It looks different in the dying light of the sun—or perhaps you have your tears to thank for the distortion. Still, it’s a path you could follow even with your eyes plucked from your head, and you continue to stumble further and further away from home while you lament in your sorrows. Even the crickets join you in your babbling as they leap out of your way and dive into the bramble. 

Something has broken in you today. Something that has been suffering from stress fractures and erosion for longer than it should have, and now it gushes. It ferments like wine and festers like a bad wound and for a moment you swear you hear the moon urging you to follow its guiding light. Your father always told you that if you ever got lost, all you needed to do was look for the steeple that towers close to God and you’d find your way back, yet now you find relief in looking over your shoulder to see it growing smaller in the distance. Even as the worn trail ends in a fit of weeds and fallen trees, you persevere along the chossy earth. 

Your feet don’t stop moving until your toes catch on a clump of sagebrush at the top of a steep hill. You save yourself before you tumble to the ground and you use that opportunity to let yourself slowly sink into the dirt. It isn’t until you’re resting on your bum that your body is able to comprehend the amount of pain you’re in. The sting of your knuckles, the bruises that taint your knees, and the throb in your cheek—it all coalesces until it sears your skin just as bad as your obloquy does. 

Despite it all, there is still beauty. 

It flickers in the distance as your sleepy town begins to enjoy evening festivities with lit lanterns and warm windows. Perched high in the hills, you have a perfect view of the way wagon trails carve into the earth like a knife through fresh ham. A part of you swears you can hear someone playing the piano in Mr. Beckett’s saloon, but you shake that illusion as soon as your eyes land on the steeple of your father’s church once more. 

You are still too close to home for comfort. 

Once you manage to catch your breath, you stand back up on your aching feet and continue trekking through the foreign and unforgiving terrain. You are grateful for the milky moonlight that illuminates the space between tree trunks and bushes, though you still find spindly branches pulling at your dress. 

You’re unsure of what you should do in a situation like this. Surely your father sits at home finishing the meal you prepared for him as he waits for you to return with the change he is owed. Yet, the thought of returning home while your wounds are still fresh makes your stomach twist with a terrible, mawkish longing. 

Any craving for your mangled sense of home quickly evaporates at the scent of smoke. 

It’s an active fire—still burning with freshly cut logs that sputter dark smoke. A skinny plume rises in the air where it weaves between stars and you find yourself utterly stricken with curiosity. The scent grows stronger as you meander. You’re not sure what you’re hoping to find. Here in the middle of the night, out on the fringes of your town—the environs of the wilderness—surely it would be nothing good. 

(And never satisfied are the eyes of men.)

Marmalade light bleeds between branches as you catch sight of a small campfire stirring in the distance. Shadows warp your point of view, making your head spin and forcing you to brace against a tree as you squint to make sense of the shapes. You see horses. Several hands tall, they dip their heads low as they lazily graze on the sparse bits of grass at their feet. Their owners seem to also be enjoying food of their own as the scent of game wafts toward you on the bitter breeze. 

Braving a few steps closer, you catch the tail end of a chuckle and what sounds like an insult. Then, you see it—an odd haircut bathed in amber. Cropped short on either side of his head, yet leaving a longer trail down the center, the style reminds you of a horse’s mane. 

“You can piss right off with that type of talk.” 

“Aye, but I’m taking all the firepower with me. Not unless you trust Simon with the dynamite.” 

There’s a scoff. “Scary thought, that. Bad enough already trusting you with it.” 

Their accents are strange—unfamiliar at the very least. They speak as if they’re fresh off of the boats that traversed across the Atlantic, which isn’t anything interesting. Plenty of people from all over the world flock to see the United States and stake a claim, yet travelers are rare around these parts. You’d expect accents like this to hang around Grand Hollow, not the tiny town of Penmosa on the fringes of nowhere. 

Yet, there’s something especial about these figures. Marginally familiar like the way juniper bushes smell just like their berries taste, yet bitter enough to leave your lips puckering. You can’t discern if it’s because of the huff of the man on the right side of the fire, or the warm smile of the man on the left, but there is something haunting about their presence. You soak in the view of them and find nothing but a herald for something truculent. 

It isn’t until you meet the sapphire blaze that glints from across the campfire that the familiarity crashes down on you. A low brim hat nearly smothers the flames in his gaze, but there’s no mistaking the man that seems to appear from thin air—these are the men Mr. Beckett warned you about. Recalcitrant outlaws who bring nothing but trouble. Your sweet bartender had told you that they were nothing but wild animals, and now here in the penumbra you are able to witness this for yourself.

(All things are full of weariness; a man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.)

The urge to flee hardly has the time to boil in your bones before a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth to silence you. Your scream dies as a gasp in your throat while your fingers claw at a thick forearm, nails desperately attempting to peel into skin like it’s fresh bread and not pure iron. Squirming heels spade into the dirt in front of you, but the beast at your back moves the earth in order to drag you toward the fire and the pack of wolves that await you. 

Mind whirling, you scream into tobacco tainted flesh as the beast huffs with effort to keep you contained. You find yourself suddenly yearning to see the steeple of the church once more, but that desire dissipates as you’re tossed on the ground where you land on your already injured knees with a yelp. 

“Don’t like eavesdroppers,” the voice behind you growls. 

Palms pressing into the earth, you twist around to gaze at the herculean man that stands above you. He’s just as tall—if not taller—than the horses hitched to the pine trees nearby, and his face is obscured with a dark bandana. Only his eyes are to be seen; not even the incandescence from the fire can thaw the frost he exudes. 

“I-I wasn’t eavesdropping,” you stutter. 

“No?” the masked man prods. “Just out in the middle of nowhere staring at our camp for fun then, huh?” 

“No, no, I just- I was wandering was all. I promise, mister. I didn’t mean any harm, I swear it.” You’re stammering. Tripping over your words before they form. This beast pins you with his gaze and you’re stuck with the threat of his claws as the flames of the campfire lick at your back. The heat is almost enough to evaporate the tears on your cheeks. 

“Bullshit,” he says, acidulous. 

“Easy, Riley.” 

A canorous voice rings behind you, calming the escalating situation though doing nothing to quell your quickening pulse. Eyes stuck on the brute before you, you are forced to listen as a pair of spurs jingle quietly in tune with the crackling of the fire. Languid. Creeping. The sound halts to your left and you finally muster the courage to look. 

The boots are nice. Well kept, though worn. Classic cowboy boots with the pointed toes and strong heel meant for keeping steady in stirrups. For a moment you feel as if you’re kneeling in the church again with knuckles bared. These are your father’s boots pacing back and forth as he greedily determines your castigation for whatever transgression you’ve committed before him. 

Then, the figure kneels, and you are brutally brought back into the present. The faded blue jeans, the thick belt, and the six shooter glinting in the amber light. This is him—the leader of the 141 Mr. Beckett told you about. There’s no mistaking his vivid azure gaze. 

You are plagued with an odd callosity—if you truly had your wits about you, you’d be making a run for it. Now, you are no better than a fawn fainting at the sound of gunshots. 

A perturbing smile flickers across his lips as he reaches up and removes his hat, revealing neatly kept dark hair beneath. His eyes don’t leave you, not even as he runs a hand over his locks to smooth out the bumps. 

“We’ve got nothing to be worried about here, boys,” the man assures with a sonorous chuckle. He glances around at them where they shift and huff as if disappointed at the lack of fresh meat that should be splayed before them. Then, his eyes find you again where they narrow—almost taunting. “Nothing but a lost lamb, aren’t you?”

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[rafesangelita]

Rafe visiting sweetheart pogue reader after knowing her better at her little bake shop she works at and they get to talking and she confesses its her absolute dream to open and run her own bake shop and he buys her a little cute shack to start her business off !!! 💕💕

warnings: super sweet fluff, sexual tension that rafe has to force himself not to act on

a/n: this came out longer than i wanted it to, but i loveeee writing for pogue!sweetheart!reader so much, pls send reqs for her if you’d like <3

it was a rather slow day at the icecream shop, so when you heard that little ding! indicating that someone had walked in, you were more than happy to see none other than rafe. “hey!” you chirped, adjusting the pink apron that currently hugged your waist.

“are you the only one working?” he walked up to the counter, your bright smile making his heart beat wildly in his chest. “yeah..” you trailed off, looking over to your manager’s office, “maybe i could ask for a quick break so we could talk?” rafe nodded. “i’d like that.”

he waited until you disappeared before he flipped the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ and turned the small lock on the door, so you two could converse without any interruptions. “okay!” you walked back up front. “favorite flavor?” rafe’s mind went blank as you reached for something, your skirt riding up your thighs as you did so.

“uhm- uh, rocky road is good.” you finally grasped the cups you were looking for, beaming at rafe’s response. “i love that one, too! but strawberry cheesecake has been my go to for a while now.” rafe didn’t want to make it obvious that he was staring hard, but he found that it was rather difficult when you were around him.

he couldn’t wrap his head around how someone so sweet and bubbly and charming as you are, could also be so unintentionally sexy at the same time. “rafe?” you snapped him out of his trance, a soft laugh leaving your lips. “here we are.” you walked around the counter, placing the cups of icecream down on a nearby table.

you reached behind you as rafe took a seat, your nails not allowing you to untie the knot you made in the strings of your apron. “what’s wrong?” he looked up at you in confusion. “my apron is a little stuck..” you turned, backing up until you stood been his legs. “can you untie this for me please? i just got my nails done and i did it a bit too tight.”

rafe was going insane. here you were in a mini skirt, potentially giving him a full view of everything that was underneath as you coyly waited for him to ‘help you out’. “sure, yeah-” he cleared his throat, hands coming up to fiddle with the strings that stopped just above the curves of your ass.

once he had it off, you sighed, taking the seat across from him. “where are you coming from?” rafe was still flustered when you took your spoon in your mouth, his eyes following the way your lips wrapped around the damned thing. “work, actually.” he blinked away, zeroing in all his focus elsewhere.

“really? what do you do?” now it was your turn to watch him, the veins on his arms making you lick your lips. “construction. it’s my dad’s business.” you nodded, trying to push the image of rafe all hot and sweaty from working outside, out of your head. “so you’re a handy man?” you teased, unintentionally tapping your foot against his leg.

“i know my way around.” you caught rafe looking at your lips, a shy smile taking over your feautures. “i wish i had those skills, it’d make things so much easier for me.” you raised your eyebrows. “how so?” he leaned forward. “well.. it might sound dumb, but it’s my dream to open my own little bakery. the problem is; i don’t know where to start, i don’t know who i have to get in contact with for licensing and permit stuff, and i definitely don’t know how to install any kind of kitchen appliances.”

rafe thought for a moment.

“do you have a certain location in mind?” he asked. you hummed, shaking your head. “no, i don’t care where it is. i’d just like a bigger space.” rafe nodded. “that doesn’t sound dumb by the way,” you looked up, “i think it’s neat that you want to open up your own business. the entire island will be over the moon once they find out they can get those chocolate chip cookies whenever they want.”

you had never shared that information with anyone, but by the way rafe responded, you were glad it was him that you spilled it to. rafe saw the small flash of sadness pass through your eyes before you shook it off. “one day..” just as you were about to check the time, your manager walk out of her office. “closing shop early today, do you mind helping me out real quick?” without hesitation, you got up from your seat.

“wait for me?” you gave rafe your icecream and apron to go outside with.

“of course.”

over the next two weeks, you found yourself by rafe’s side, whether he was following you around while you made sales, or helping you bake, you two seemed to be attached at the hip. “are you working tomorrow?” rafe currently sat on the floor of your camper, leaning against the lace-trimmed cushions of your pull out couch. “nope!” you offered him a spoon of buttercream to taste test, watching as he took his digit in his mouth.

“goddamn, that’s amazing,” rafe gave you a thumbs up, “but anyways— i was asking because i have a surprise for you.” placing the bowl of frosting on the counter, you turned. “oh?” you sat down, his head resting against the side of your knee. “i think you’ll really like it.” rafe kept his eyes down in his lap. “can i guess what it is?” he shook his head, “i won’t tell you if you’re right or wrong.”

sighing in defeat, you and rafe spent the rest of the night decorating cookies and taking turns shuffling songs until he was ready to head back home. “i’ll be here to pick you up in the morning, ‘that sound okay?” he was leaning against your doorframe, your fingertips itching to reach out for him. “mhmm, thank you for all your help today..” you stepped closer, swallowing thickly as he rested a hand in the curve of your neck.

even though rafe wanted to kiss you and feel your lips on his, he settled for a peck on your temple, which you were more than happy to receive. “goodnight, y/n.” he waved before getting in his truck and driving away. locking the door shut, you couldn’t help the pout that graced your lips at your now empty, quiet, camper.

eager to know what rafe wanted to surprise you with, you were quick to get ready for bed, forcing yourself to go to sleep before having to wake up and get ready.

“promise you’re not peeking?” you giggled, your hands resting on top of rafe’s as he guided you to some unknown location. “i promise!” finally, rafe came to a stop, a shiver running down your spine at the feeling of his body pressing against your backside.

“okay, go ahead and open.” you were buzzing with excitement, your mouth falling agape once your vision cleared. there, in front of you sat a perfect little shack, the word ‘sold’ on a red banner adorning the front. you blinked, slightly confused. “this is so cute! did you buy it or something?” rafe nodded, his mouth falling to your ear.

“it’s yours.”

you took a minute to process his words, letting go of a breath that you didn’t know you were holding. “rafe..” he placed his hands on your shoulders, turning you around. “a couple weeks ago you said it was your dream to have your own bakery but you didn’t know where to start, this is your starting point.” your eyes were watering now as you looked up at the man in front of you.

“i don’t think i can accept this.” you laughed, butterflies swarming your tummy when rafe wiped your tears. “you can, and you will.” you couldn’t hold back anymore, throwing your arms around him. rafe wasn’t used to this feeling in his chest, but he knew it felt right.

“it still needs to be renovated, but i talked to my dad and he agreed cameron development will cover everything.” you pulled away, dumbfounded. “i- why?” rafe’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “why not? you deserve it.” sniffling, you looked back at the shack, already envisioning the place up and running. “i can’t thank you enough, rafe.” you couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe that rafe, let alone anyone, would do something like this for you.

“we’ll get to that later,” he winked, making you laugh, “should we go pick out a paint color?”

[talaok]

PostOutbreak!Joel likes reader but he tries to hide it because of the age gap. To try and put us off, he can be a bit standoffish/mean but Ellie can tell it’s a facade and tells him to drop it and the age thing doesn’t matter if you really like each other. Then a fluffy confession omggg

Pairing: PostOutbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

Warnings: unspecified age gap, joel being a lil insecure and scared, and Ellie being a menace, but its mostly all fluff who am i kidding

a/n: this was the cutest fucking request ever, thank you anon

You know those books or movies where it's painfully clear to everyone but the two main characters that they love each other, and you keep reading or watching thinking "How could anyone not see that he likes her?" as you increasingly get more frustrated and annoyed?

Well, this is a bit like that,

not a bit actually, completely so.

And in this metaphor, you and Joel were the two oblivious main characters, while Ellie, poor Ellie, was the unfortunate witness of your blindness.

It was so incredibly clear to her that she sometimes struggled not to laugh at your interactions.

I mean the first time Joel saw you was the very first time she'd seen him blush and forget how to speak in the span of a second- it was hilarious.

And then when he'd catch him staring at you or pretend not to purposely take the longer route home just to catch a glimpse of you outside the bakery... it was hard to only chuckle underneath her breath, but she managed... 

until today

Joel slammed the door as he got it, like really loud, not like his usual slam.

"what's wrong?" Ellie asked, her brows frowning in suspicion as he kicked his boots off his feet before halfheartedly dragging them to the kitchen where she was sitting.

"nothin'" he grumbled, 

Now that made Ellie sigh with annoyance,

he was always the one to blab about how she could always confide in him, and if that was the truth, then that meant it went both ways.

"Y'know a grumpy old man once told me that it's good to share how you're feeling" She tilted her head to the side, raising her brow as Joel rolled his eyes, filling a glass with water "Would be real hypocritical of him to not take his own advice..."

Said old man, was now rolling his eyes even harder, drowning the full glass in a second

"'s nothing, don't worry 'bout it"

"Joel" Ellie only glared at him,

and as always when it was her,

he was convinced faster than he liked to admit

He sighed, before speaking "It's stupid" he said

"I don't care" Ellie shrugged, placing her elbows on the kitchen counter where she sat and using her hands to support her head, her whole focus on Joel,

who sighed, again.

"I just-" he placed the glass in the sink before turning back to her "I just saw y/n talking to I guy I-"

"Oh my god you're jealous!" she said it with such enthusiasm and with such a smile pulling at her lips that you would have guessed she'd just won the lottery

"no" Joel frowned, shaking his head "What are you on about? I'm not jealous, I just don't like the guy"

"yeah" Ellie snorted "I'm sure you just "don't like the guy"" she air quoted as she laughed 

"Why would I be jealous?" Joel went on pretending,

perhaps lying to himself together with her, the jury was still out.

"I'm just worried for her-" he argued "she's too kind and too fucking nice and Jake's an asshole"

again, Ellie only smiled as she watched him lie so blatantly

"why would you be jealous?" she pondered his question with amusement "well I don't know... maybe 'cause you have the biggest fucking crush on her"

"What!?" he spat "I don't know what's going on with you today, where did you get all these ideas? I-"

"Oh my god please shut up Joel" she groaned, rolling her eyes "That rude asshole act you do around y/n may work with her, but you don't fool me, Miller"

Ellie could swear she saw a hint of panic in his eyes

"I know you like her, just like I know she likes you" She finally said, done with this little act "I honestly don't get why you two don't just declare your love to one another and live happily ever after or some shit"

It was like he froze,

and while Ellie thought it was because he'd just been busted by a 14-year-old, it was for a wholly different reason

"she doesn't like me" he stated

And at that, at that Ellie could just groan as her palm descended dramatically down the length of her face

God, she'd always known he wasn't the brightest, but this? This is a little too much even for him

"Are you blind or something?" she threw her hands out for emphasis "She's definitely better at hiding it than you, I'll give you that, but I mean, still... it's fucking obvious dude!"

"Ellie" Joel only shook his head "you 'don't know whatcha talkin' 'bout"

Ellie was now very close to yelling at him.

"Joel I'm serious, she likes likes you!" she argued, "why do you find that so hard to believe?"

But of course, Ellie couldn't have known what was going on in Joel's mind, how certain he was that it wasn't true,

about how he knew he didn't deserve someone like you, someone so kind and beautiful and smart,

how he had spent months trying to get the thought of you to leave his tainted mind,

how he'd decided to be mean, rough, rude to you in the hopes that you would stop being so nice to him, in the hopes that you would start to avoid him, to hate him, and he'd never have to see you or that gorgeous smile again.

And finally, Ellie didn't know about how he was too incredibly, terribly old for you, for such a pretty young woman.

Half his hair was gray for god's sake, he never had a chance

"I could be her father Ellie" he finally confessed what had been eating up at him for so long "I'm too fuckin' old"

Ellie didn't even need a moment to take that it, she listened, thought about it, and immediately rolled her eyes

"SO WHAT?" 

You don't understand how long she had to pretend not to want to give the both of you a good shake, 

it was only right for her to finally shout it out

"First of all, you're not that old" she started listing, "second of all, she obviously doesn't care" she continued "and finally Joel, if you really like her, and if she really likes you, then it doesn't matter!"

But Joel was not convinced, he'd spent too long telling himself the opposite, and he couldn't even fathom the possibility of what Ellie was saying

"you just have to tell her"

she said it like it was easy, like the mere thought of it didn't give Joel a minor heart attack, like he hadn't woken up from multiple dreams where he would confess his love and you would laugh at his face, or worse, tell him you felt the same, something Joel knew not to be the truth.

Also, Joel had no idea when exactly throughout this conversation he'd admitted to liking you, but I guess it didn't matter now, it made no sense to keep the farse on.

"I can't Ellie, I-"

"oh my god you're such a chicken" she moaned "You're the one that always tells me to be brave!"

"that's different"

"how!?" she bugged her eyes, holding her palms up in show of her frustration "I get that it's scary, but what's the worst thing that could happen?"

And that, for some reason, stuck with him,

He really had nothing to lose,

It's not like you were friends or you would talk often, it's not like he would be ruining a relationship, there wasn't one,

And yet... yet it still terrified him,

"Ellie... I don't know"

"c'mon man, but your big boy pants on" she groaned "I'm telling you, she fucking likes you"

__ __ __

Joel didn't do it.

He couldn't. He just-

You were perfect, you were perfect in a way that made him feel all the more dirty,

like being close to you, talking to you, touching you... would be like plucking a flower with torn-up hands, 

And fuck him, but Joel was scared, like he'd gone back 40 years and become 16 all over again.

He couldn't do it, he couldn't, wouldn't do it, and he'd set his mind to that, made peace with his cowardness and dread.

Until of course, Ellie's twisted mind came up with a way to force his fears to life.

"Howdy"

The kid was smiling so broadly that she looked like a child with a brand-new toy,

but Joel's eyes were somewhere else,

he was looking at you

"Hi Joel" you smiled, punching a knife into his gut

You were at his front door with his kid, who was very clearly plotting something, and Joel wondered for a moment if this was what would finally make his heart give out.

"Hi," he said, his voice sounding distant

Why is she here?

"Aren't you gonna let us in?" Ellie urged, 

Us?

"Uhm, I-"

but Ellie had already sneaked inside, dragging you behind

And now the awkward scene was even more awkward, just at the entrance of his home.

"All alright" Ellie clapped her hands, watching Joel stare at you as you tried to avoid his gaze "I'm gonna go to my room," she said, shouldering him not so subtly

"Cool down dude" she mumbled, before disappearing upstairs.

What the fuc-

"I'm sorry to barge in like this" you finally spoke, a gentle smile on your lips "Ellie said you needed to tell me something, so I just... came here I guess" you finished with an awkward laugh

Fuck-fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

"If it's too much trouble I'll just go-"

"no," Joel said, before he could stop himself, finally realizing he was still holding the door's knob, and in a spur of bravery, deciding to use it to close the door.

"Oh, ok" you mumbled, puzzled by his demeanor "so uhm, what is it you needed to tell me?"

God damn that fucking trick-playing kid of his

"do you- do you want something to drink?"

the question took you aback, but then you did something that stunned Joel even more, you laughed,

you laughed softly, quickly, like you were letting out all this stupid awkwardness in a simple gesture

because that's how you were: Magical

"Sure" you shrugged, grinning "some water would be nice"

If Joel had to watch your face for an instant more he feared he was gonna explode, so he did all he could think of, he walked to the kitchen, only glancing at you again when he handed you your drink,

to his dismay, finding a smile still drawn on your lips.

"thank you" you said, taking a sip

god, even the way your lips wrapped around the rim made him want to drop to his knees.

He needed to get a grip.

"so... are you gonna tell me or do I have to guess?" you joked, your fingers drawing patterns on the glass

Was this really happening?

Was this hell?

"I..." he trailed off, running a hand through his hair as he glanced from the counter to you on repeat "I wanted to tell you that..."

"that?"

"that- the uhm-" he shut his eyes for a second, searching for words "the...bread you gave us this week was real good"

Goddamnit

"oh"

Even you couldn't hide your disappointment

I mean, you certainly didn't expect it. A compliment from Joel Miller? What universe were you in? 

Just like you didn't expect any of this... him actually letting you in his house or offering you water...

You had half expected him to shut the door in your face,

The most he had ever given you was a half smile at a joke you told him while he was picking up bread, the rest were all rude grumbles or just a bunch of stoic looks... 

and yet... yet a part of you couldn't help but have set expectations a little higher.

What a silly fool you'd been, 

hoping for a love confession from a man who has made it very clear he despises you,

but still- a girl can dream, right?

"thank you" you mumbled, as Joel cursed himself over and over in his head "that's very nice of you," you smiled, stalling a second to see if he was gonna say something else, interrupt you at some point,

but he remained silent

"well if that's all, I'm gonna go then, thank you for the water I-"

Until he wasn't

"no-stop- I-"

Ellie was right. 

He had to do this, he had to win his fear and try at least, or he was gonna regret it for the rest of his life, and he already had too many of those.

The problem was that you looked really beautiful today, and he'd never been good with words

Fuck it- if he was gonna make a fool of himself so be it,

He had nothing to lose and everything to win,

he had you to win.

"Yes?" you asked, trying to tame your hopes down

Think Joel, think

how the fuck do you tell a woman you like her?

"There's one other thing I've been meaning to tell ya" he cleared his throat, standing up straighter as he took a step closer to you.

"'m not great at doing this type of thing" he admitted, shaking his head slightly "but Ellie... she's right, I'm always tellin' her to be brave and everythin', so... I guess it's my turn now," he said, letting out a short, anxious laugh "I don't even know- I guess what I'm tryna say is that I'm gonna be honest now, but I want you to know that- that I know what you're gonna say and it's ok" he swallowed thickly, preparing himself from your inevitable rejection "I understand, really, I just- I thought I should try at least" 

What was going on?

What the fuck was he saying?

"Joel, what are you talking about?"

This was it.

It was now or never.

"Y/n I-"

his heart was beating out of his chest, and his legs felt like jelly, but he had to do it, he had to take a leap of faith-

"Y/n I like you" he breathed like the words longed to be out of his mouth "I like you a lot, I have for a while now"

he watched your mouth part, your whole face filling with shock as you blinked over and over, trying to make sure this was really happening.

"Y-you like me?"

"yes" he nodded "And as I said, I know you don't feel the same, I know I'm old, and I've been an asshole to you all this time, so it's ok, really I-"

"stop talking Joel" you huffed a laugh, stepping closer, and then closer again, until your hand was on his arm "please just-" you bit down a smile, and he was so confused, so fucking confused, "say it again," you asked

"I like you y/n" he murmured, trying to get his mind to start working again,

but you were leaning closer,

and who cared what his name was anyway

"you were rude to me"

"I was, I'm sorry I-"

You pretended to be thinking about it, glancing upwards as you pursed your lips together

But who were you kidding?

"you're forgiven" you smiled, looking up at him as you slowly raised yourself on your tiptoes to gently, oh so gently, press your lips to his.

Joel was certain he had just died.

But then he opened his eyes again, and you were still there, beaming up at him, and he felt such a wave of happiness that he could have started crying right there,

only he took on a different route and grabbed each side of your face with his hands, crashing his lips with yours and kissing you, kissing you like he'd been dreaming of for months

exactly how you imagined he would,

better than you imagined, actually

so much better.

"Ha! I told you, Joel!"

He groaned as he leaned away, shooting Ellie an annoyed glance

"What are you doin' here?"

"just came here to gloat" she shrugged, watching you two with a grin plastered on her face

"I think you've done enough of that" he muttered, but you could only smile

"thank you, Ellie," you grinned "Thank you for doing this"

She raised her brows, looking at Joel as if saying "See, she's thanking me, why aren't you?", but then her expression got more genuine as she shot you a smile

"you're welcome" she smiled "Better having to see you kiss than having to put up with Joel being all sad 'cause you're talking to Jack or any other guy"

You gasped with amusement as Joel shut his eyes in embarrassment, his cheeks tainting with red

"Ellie-" Joel grumbled, 

A soft giggle flowed through the room as Ellie turned away and went back up to her room, seemingly satisfied with her work

"You were jealous?" you teased him, your hands on his chest, while he'd moved one of his from your face to your waist.

"maybe I was" he fessed up

You smiled even brighter 

"And you like me?" you asked for the thousandth time

"yes, sweetheart, I really fuckin' like you" he smiled too now, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that made time stand still and the world spin around

"I like you too Joel" you finally said, giving the man an actual mini-stroke.

"say it again"

[mossangelll]

Dress Me like Your French Girls

yandere!caitlyn x reader x yandere!jinx requested by anon!

took me longer than i would’ve liked (with many tense mistakes included oops) but i hope you can enjoy! i took a lot of liberties with this request and kinda ran with it ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

tw: kidnapping, violence, controlling behaviour, objectification

Bedsheets made of prussian blue silk and white lace borders, floor to ceiling windows that looked out to the great expanse of the gardens, even fresh flowers set on your vanity each morning without fail - all before you even had the chance to rub sleep from your eyes. You knew the beauty that surrounded you was merely a mirage, something to distract you from opening your eyes to its harsh reality. You may be a nobody from Zaun but you’re no fool; you could see the minute you stepped foot in this place you that it was just a prison, even if it had a crystal chandelier.

Today, you’re sat at your walnut desk reading the book Caitlyn - no, Cait, got for you.

It was something about flowers you couldn’t care less about but you know when Caitlyn comes to see you for the evening, she’ll expect to hear all about your riveting day, including your thoughts on the book she gifted to you. Suppressing the urge to roll your eyes, you turn the page with a gloved hand, but the words and diagrams blur together into a puddle of ink you can’t decipher. Well, as long as you could recount a handful of trite facts she should be satisfied.

After all, she mentioned a special gift that you would both enjoy, that is what her focus will be on for most of the evening.

Your eyes flicker to the wardrobe stuffed to the brim with expensive, custom-made garments that looms over you and you find your mind turns to static in an attempt to block out all the intrusive memories you’d rather lose to the abyss of time, even if you know that you will never be able to cut away Cait’s lasting scars.

She will always intertwined in your life as much as you are hers.

Whenever she brings one of these “gifts” to your room, you know what to expect. It’s never anything sordid - oh, Cait could never do anything as debased as what those cruel animals do. Ever the pinnacle of Kiramman self-control, or as you like to call it - repression. But still, when she’s done, her tongue darts out to lick her lips, her face blooms with all the effort of her rapidly beating heart and she has the demeanour of a woman starved, she simply…retracts into herself as if the inferno burning deep inside of her isn’t roaring to be let out and engulf everything it touches.

It starts with Cait slipping into your room at night with a heavy sigh, head leaning against the ornate doors and fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turn bone white.

The light from the chandelier is dimmed, casting dark shadows to contrast her silhouette and pronounce the weariness of her face, and yet she manages to have not a single hair out of place much to your ever-growing chagrin.

Then, she ambles over to where you’re sat, each tap of her heeled boots in sync with the pounding of your heart, making her own attempt at casual conversation (that somehow always manages to come off as strained, like she has to force the words out from her throat) about your day as if any of this was normal, as if you actually had free will and the ability to make your own choices, not just the the illusion of it all. But that was what Cait was best at, keeping up illusions no matter how cracked and faded they become.

She guides you with hands tight on your shoulders to sit at the ornate vanity, a hand moving to the middle of your back to force it ramrod straight, so she can brush your hair with a featherlight touch from the crown of your head to the tangled ends. Back before you had her rules ingrained into the every other fibre of your being, you told her that you’re not some porcelain doll that could break at the smallest touch but all you get in return was the hardened stare you’d come to know well in the reflection of the mirror - you don’t speak unless spoken to. Always.

She starts to get you ready for bed, ever so slightly calloused hands wiping away the day’s makeup. It felt wrong to see her, sole heir to the House of Kiramman, act so subservient just for you. It was an unnatural upheaval of the entire hierarchy that dictated your life until this point and it never fails to make your head spin with its taboo intoxication.

She saves the part you dread the most for last, and no matter how many times you went through the same monotonous routine, you still felt uneasy every time the clock’s chime rang through the halls closer and closer to her arrival.

Cait ensured she was the only one to undress you from whatever restrictive clothes she had forced upon you in the morning. No maids could be trusted to be anywhere near you, let alone get to see you in such a revealing state. That was reserved for her eyes only.

Graceful fingers weave between the laces of your corset, unravelling the thread at a snail’s pace. Sometimes, though she would vehemently deny the accusation with great fervour, she would yank at the corset strings just a tad too tight, fingers flexing at your waist to calm herself when she felt your hands grasp at her forearms in an attempt to stabilise yourself. You knew just as well as she that she got a sick thrill from how much you needed her.

The corset is soon discarded alongside the rest of your clothing and she traces the curve of your spine, goose bumps rising on your skin like hackles, before choosing your nightgown for the evening from the very wardrobe you despised with each ounce of your body.

She would get you to lift up your arms and have you to stand in the gauzy fabric as she pulls it up your body, not even giving you the chance to huddle in on yourself.

She makes you twirl for her in the centre of the room and her eyes glow in delight as the skirt of your dress fans out and rises before gently falling back down, so close to being indecent but just able to keep from toeing the line she drew. You wonder if the moonlight can penetrate through the thin dresses and illuminate each and every part of you, even the parts you’d rather remain unseen, and if that’s why she makes you do all this, even if she’d never admit it.

She sits you down on your plush footboard and kneels at your feet, blue eyes staring up at you with restrained wonderment. Humming in satisfaction, her hands slowly, painstakingly slowly, push the sheer fabric of your nightgown higher up your legs until you feel the need to cover yourself from her piercing gaze.

Her fingers hook into the tops of your stockings and all you want to do is cross your legs, shove her thin frame away and say no, no, no!

But you know Cait has no patience for that kind of attitude - especially not from you. So you stare down at her, hair free and untamed, and allow her to tug the stockings down your legs, your shaking hands clutching the sturdy underside of the footboard.

She tends to stall at this point, hands instead choosing to lightly stroke and swirl patterns on the doughy flesh of your thighs. Your chest heaves even more than it did before and far beyond what should be humanly possible and you find it hard to understand exactly what is going through her mind at that moment.

Cait wears her heart on her sleeve and though you ache to use that against her, it’s still so hard to pick apart her actions that it leaves your head spinning with the commotion of it all.

Time passes slowly in the still of your room as she inches closer to you, almost imperceptibly, until her head lays on your kneecap so softly you wouldn’t even know she was there if not for the light tickle of her hair.

Her lips leave paper-light kisses on your skin as she mumbles you through the intricacies of her day, things you could never even begin to understand, but you can tell how much it means to her just to be sat with you - the enforcers, her critical mother, every single expectation that is forced upon her shoulders, it all fades into the background as the frown on her face slowly dissipates.

Once she’s content she continues pulling off your stockings until they lie in a crumpled pile on the carpet next to her. You don’t know what she does with the stockings but you never see them again, another of Cait’s great mysteries.

Such an intimate routine that you know is unnervingly chaste. No lingering touches or stolen kisses you can’t object to, it never goes beyond that point and somehow that makes it so much worse because you spend your days in wait for a day that you know will come eventually - you just don’t know when.

She leads you to your grand, four poster bed and tucks you in with such an overwhelming amount of love just oozing from her pores that a part of you almost wishes this was ok, that you met her under normal circumstances and that you actually loved her.

“Beautiful.” she sighs without fail every time she’s done getting you ready, stroking your hair in an attempt to get you to sleep. Though you’re never quite sure if she’s talking about you or her creation.

You slip out of your trance and look at the golden hands on the clock you swore had gone forwards despite no time passing at all. You’re still on the same page you were ten minutes ago - shit.

The curtains were drawn, letting in rays of light that hit the crystal chandelier. You would’ve found the whole affair to be beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that the light refracted directly into eyes - you had to work hard to resist the urge to squint your eyes or blink.

Caitlyn- fuck, Cait! You feel the urge to rip your hair out at each stumble and mistake. You could never trip up like this in front of her, not if you wanted to steer well clear of her punishments.

Cait doesn’t like to see you make ugly faces or anything even remotely human, “Such… crude expressions don’t suit your face, darling.” She said in that soft tone of hers but the words would be dripping in derision.

Her hand would ghost the side of your face, so close to touching you that you could feel the warmth radiate from her but then she pulls away like she was being held back by some invisible force. But, to your surprise, she pushes through the internal conflicts that raged within her and her hand would return to grace the side of your face and trace from your brow bone down to the apples of your cheeks which she would gently cup, the other hand going to smooth out the lines and tension that marred your forehead before letting out a small, “All better.”

It’s hard to remember what life was like before Caitlyn sunk her claws into you, before you stopped being human and simply became her toy. You don’t know how she managed to take you - all you know is from the loving declarations she whispered in the dead of night about how she would stop at nothing until she got you - as if you would swoon. All you felt was sick to your core.

Click. Click. Click.

You hear footsteps just outside your door and freeze - why is she here so early? You hurry to your assigned place and assume doll-like role Cait expects from you. You can hear fumbling at the lock and the door handle jangling from the force of her hand. Today must have been rough on her which means your evening ritual will last longer than usual. Bile rises up your throat at the thought but you school your features into the perfect mask of neutrality. There, you think, all perfect for Cait.

So you find yourself surprised when instead of Caitlyn in her all-consuming haughtiness, a false pretence you saw through long ago, you see a woman with long blue braids and a ferocious smile stalking towards you without a care in the world.

How did she get past the guards?

“Lookie here, you’re the hidden treasure our fair lady has been keeping hush about. My intel didn’t tell me it’d be so…delicate.” She swung her head back to bark out a sharp laugh as a manicured hand twirled a graffitied gun around her finger. Still, when her laughter stops, she stares at you with a look you can’t decipher, something…darker swirling in her dilated eyes. Something you’re certain you’ve only ever seen in Cait’s eyes.

“Not like she’s doin’ a good job.” She speaks off to the side in a lazy, condescending drawl, a hand covering her mouth, and you search the room for the invisible audience. What is going on? Who is she?

Suddenly, the lithe intruder jumps to your place at the desk, slinging her arm around your shoulders in such a familiar way you can’t help but feel flustered.

“Hiya, toots. I’m Jinx and you are…?” She waggles her hand in your face before trailing off in wait of an answer but you keep your eyes trained in front of you. Not a single movement betrays you.

You can tell this upsets her as the conspiring look on her face quickly turns sour - she’s not used to being ignored.

She swings herself around with surprising dexterity and lands in your lap before you can even process what’s going on - she’s so close you can feel each puff of air leave her nose and hit your face in short bursts.

At this distance, you can notice every little detail that marks her face. The skin surrounding her pink eyes streaked with dark, branch-like veins. Her gap tooth and dark purple lipstick that stained her plump lips. The soft curve of her rounded cheeks and the misbehaving strand of cerulean hair that escapes the confines of her long braids. She smells like gunpowder, sweat and a hint of the cloying sweetness that could only be from artificial sugar. Her clothes are tattered but full of life and personality with each spot she had sloppily sewn back together herself - most importantly, she was everything Cait wasn’t. A welcome breath of fresh air in your own, albeit unnecessary, opinion.

Her cold hands poke at your cheeks in a childlike manner, indignation bubbling up inside of you and so close to bursting out. Why did everyone treat you like an object to be observed and played with?

“You are a real person, right?” The intruder squishes your cheeks together, staring into your eyes with rising suspicion. What kind of question even was that?!

You want to fidget and squirm, desperate to get away from whoever this Jinx is but the cautious voice in your head stops you, what if this was a test from Cait? To see if you would remain loyal to her? To see if you would stick to her rules no matter what?

But she claps her hand with a resounding crack that echoes throughout the room, maybe even the entire wing of the manor judging by how the birds outside took off, and your whole body jumps in shock completely abandoning your desire to remain as still as Cait would expect of you.

“Hah! Caught you! I knew you were real!” She jumps up from your lap and fist pumps the air. She seems so proud of herself for finally eliciting a reaction out of you that you decide it must be ok to test the waters and figure out exactly what is happening here.

“W-who are you and what are you doing in my room?” Your voice is low from disuse but it still manages to catch her attention away from her victory dance.

Her pink eyes wander over your doll-like figure, so unnaturally stiff and composed. It was as if you were posed and left to rot away in your dollhouse until your owner came to play with you again.

“I think I know how ya’ feel, all alone like this. You wanna be happy, tell me I’m wrong.” She shrugs with an air of indifference, but she’s anything but. The cogs have started turning in her head and set into motion a plan she can’t resist despite the immorality of it all. A plan where she saves you from this place so you can be happy - with her. Then again, when has she cared about morals?

Tremors ripple through your body and you gulp, not knowing where to look or what to think. You won’t give in to her downright cruel line of questioning, no matter how much you want to scream out that you were kidnapped and you just want to go home.

“I have no idea what you mean.” You decide to settle on instead, turning your back at the only chance of freedom you had.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong - I mean look at you. You’re dressed up like a stupid Piltie and you’re telling me you can make your own decisions?” Her hand gestures to your get-up and you look down at yourself in shame, face feeling hot and your limbs shaking, “Pfft, and here I thought I was the liar.” She shakes her head in derision.

“I’m about to do you a favour, toots.” Her arm reaches to hold onto the back of your chair, blocking off any path of escape, and she stares dead into your eyes and you can’t help but startle at how cold they are, not even a speck of warmth hiding beneath the surface. She slinks off to stand behind you where you’re unable to figure out what move she’ll try to pull next.

Before you can start to question what she meant, a sharp pain hits you in the base of your skull.

Flashes of colour swim in your vision and the sudden urge to throw up overcomes you before you lose control of your body, slumping over from your seated position and hitting the floor before everything fades to black.

masterlist

[cheesus-doodles]

A Twist in the Tale

Leona Kingscholar

Masterlist

‎

well that took a lot longer than I expected...glad for this to be done to completion though! merry christmas and happy holidays everybody, I hope you have a good time <3

Piercing, half-lidded green eyes watched you from across the bustling cafeteria, lion ears occasionally twitching as Leona picked up on your ongoing conservation with Ace. “....urgh I can’t believe there’s so much!” The red-haired whined, ruffling his hair in dismay as he dropped onto the table. “Crewel is a monster, I swear.”

“There is quite a bit,” came your rather sympathetic answer, unnecessarily kind if you asked Leona. “It will definitely take a while.”

On any other regular day, you, Grim and those two annoying Heartslabyul flies that you hung around were hardly worth his attention, let alone being eavesdropped on - mundane, brainless chatter that actively lowered his IQ with every passing minute. Crewel’s class wasn’t particularly difficult, not by a long stretch. Yet here he was. Clearly, today was as far from a regular day as possible. 

Because there had always been something off about you, Leona mused to himself, his tail whipping from side to side, observing with as much discretion as a predator stalking its prey as you took another bite from your sandwich, covering your full mouth with your free hand in an attempted politeness when Deuce’s crass remark had you chuckle. He had known as much since orientation, when you failed to be sorted by the Dark Mirror - there was just something fundamentally different about your smell compared to everyone else that couldn’t simply be chalked up to otherworldliness.

It’s just that he never bothered. You had been just another nobody, hardly worth his notice or time to investigate.

Up until his overblot incident, of course.

‎‎

A steaming plate of hamburger steak clankering down onto the table in front of Leona was enough to startle him out of his train of thoughts. “Leona, why ya glaring like they owe you money?” Ruggie quipped, thumbing in your general direction as he fell into the seat with a sigh, lazily lounging across and occupying the entire bench - not that anyone else dared to share. “Wait, do they actually owe you money?”

Despite it being well past peak-lunch hour, the cafeteria was still rather packed with students milling about, the cacophony of noises from loud and hushed conversations alike only adding to the growing headache Leona felt starting to pound from the depths of his mind. Far from his ideal environment of a quiet, peaceful area where he could nap undisturbed, the constant din was one of many reasons the Sunset Savannah’s second prince avoided this wretched place as much as going home.

And the rest of his dorm certainly took note of his unusual appearance in such a public area, whispering among themselves even as they kept a respectful distance, picking a careful semi-circle around the table where Leona and Ruggie sat - easy enough to ignore, really. They knew better than to prod where they weren’t welcomed, if not risk learning the hard way that their housewarden was lazy, not weak. 

Leona picked up his fork, stabbing it into the minced patty rather viciously, tearing his gaze away from you and down to the plate. The food looked especially unappetizing today. “He smells different.” The words slipped from his lips before the lion beastman could stop it, surprising both himself and Ruggie in the process, the sandy-brown haired boy whipping his head up to stare at him in disbelief. Right before said hyena thought it appropriate to dramatically turn to look at you, immediately earning him the prince’s ire.  There was no denying who Leona was referring to, but why did he have to be so obvious about it?

You, fortunately, did not notice. 

”The Ramshackle prefect?” Ruggie wondered aloud, nose tweaking, before turning back to face his housewarden. “I suppose so, given he’s from another world and all. What about it? If they don’t owe you money then it doesn’t really matter what they smell like.” A pause, the gears clearly turning behind the other’s blue-gray eyes, before he leaned forward, a cheeky grin plastered on his face, eyebrows wriggling. “Unless…”

He should have guessed where this was going. “Forget it.” 

“Come on Leona, I ain’t a blabber.”

“If you keep flapping your lips Ruggie, you’re about to find ‘em sewn shut.”

The hyena beastman simply smiled knowingly even as he threw his arms up in defeat, instead turning his attention to his feast of sandwiches.

Rubbing his forehead in annoyance, the rough texture of the glove dragging across his skin did not help in the slightest with his headache. Why was he bothering with this again? Whatever he could learn surely wasn’t going to be worth this amount of irritation.

But two weeks on from having you thrusted straight to the centre of his life and much to his dismay, Leona finds himself unable to get you out of his head, well after you seemed to have moved on rather easily. It’s not that he liked you (perish the thought). He just had to find out, Leona assured himself, and then he could put this whole fascination behind him and move on with his godforsaken life. He needed to know what made you different.

‎

He watched you stand, your empty tray in one hand, the other waving to the group. His ears stood up instantly, his attention returning to you. Were you going somewhere?

“... be heading out to the town, do you guys want anything?”

Town? A quick think, and he understands. Memorizing your group’s class schedule wasn’t difficult, and as a non-mage, you wouldn’t be able to attend any of the usual classes that your friends would have that involved magic. The first year Heartslabyuls were having flying class next, which meant that you weren’t attending. 

“Again?” Grim whined, slouching to rest his head on the table top. “How come you always get to go and have fun without me?”

Chuckling softly as you held your history textbooks to your chest, you shrugged. “I’m just going to pick up some supplies since I have a bit of free time.”

It seemed Ruggie had joined in on the eavesdropping. “Planning to follow him?” Said shameless hyena smirked, propping his two hands behind his head, though that move made him wince slightly; seems like Ruggie hadn’t yet fully recovered from the whole Spelldrive incident just yet. Serves him right though.

Leona scoffed, standing from the bench. He wasn’t hungry anymore. “I need a nap.” Stalking wasn’t quite his thing, and you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, given how your way home was literally dependent on that dirtbag of a school principal. He’ll solve this nagging puzzle at his own leisure. 

A look of alarm washed over Ruggie’s face. “Wait, Leona! Can I have your plate if you’re not eating it?”

‎

His opportunity came sooner than expected.

The sky above Savanaclaw Dorm had turned dark an hour ago, the moon hanging above the darkened desert illuminating the swirling sand blown along by a gentle breeze. Outside his closed room door, the dorm was still lively with activity, students mulling about the corridors discussing the recently past final exams and Spelldrive tournament or gathering by the waterfall in the lounge to enjoy some peace and quiet. 

Leona, however, was locked away inside his room, his brain still annoyingly fixated on you. He hadn’t been able to follow you out to town from NRC yesterday, not without having to answer some very uncomfortable questions about his motive. Tapping one nail rhythmically on the hard wood top of his desk, the second Sunset Savannah prince continued to think and brainstorm - not mull about like some lost little lover, mind you - all the possibilities to the mystery that was you. He had a few theories, a few ideas, but none of them fully made sense with all the information he currently had. 

Letting out a sigh, the man leaned back, running one hand through his mob of brown hair. He had to be missing something somewhere, a piece of the puzzle. Right then, as if on cue, as if there was some divinity out there who had decided to shine down on him, lion ears picked out an unusual stir of disgruntlement emulating from outside. Leona tried to ignore it, as he always does, but the commotion refused to die down even after a few minutes. So with great reluctance, he stood from his chair.

It was your begrudgingly familiar smell wafting through the otherwise still air that his sensitive nose instantly picked up the moment Leona opened his room door, quickly followed by your mob of hair amidst the rest of the beastmen that he spotted as he made his way over to the lounge. Well well well. “Of all the places to find you in,” he drawled out, his tail flickering behind him as the room fell silent, the murmurs quickly dying out in his presence. “Savanaclaw ain’t no place for herbivores.”

You scratched the back of your head awkwardly. This clearly wasn’t your first choice.

Jack stepped forward, almost as if to shield you from the housewarden’s line of sight with his larger stature. “Leona, they-”

“We got kicked out of Ramshackle!” Grim wailed out, clutching onto your leg, the purple anemone sticking out grey fur a dead giveaway to the lead up to this conundrum.

“Not a chance,” Leona drawled out, crossing his arms even as his mind whirled behind those half-lidded green eyes. This was it: his chance.

You had always lived alone - or rather with Grim, though the fiery racoon hardly counted as a proper roommate - at Ramshackle Dorm since your arrival in Twisted Wonderland. Out of reach from him and any potential other students that Leona could have intimidated for information. But now, it seems you made a deal with that cephalo-punk Azul Ashengrottel, and Jack had delivered you directly to him like a good little puppy, unknowingly helping you straight right into his grasp.

The white-haired beastman blinked. “You didn’t even pause before answering…”

“No pets allowed in the dorm,” the Sunset Savannah prince shrugged. “They shed all over the place.” He hadn’t quite figured out where he could put you up temporarily (three days was more than enough for him to solve his little vexing puzzle, hell he’ll take one day and hopefully kick the two of you out by tomorrow evening). 

Leona couldn’t roll over so easily, no matter how much the pit in his gut yearned for it. He had to at least put up a decent fight in front of his dorm’s students, and most of all, Ruggie. He’ll never live this down otherwise.

‎

Okay, so perhaps you sharing his room wasn’t ideal, nor was it really part of his spontaneous plan. But what was done was done. It’s temporary anyway.

Your footsteps, light as a fae’s, were easy enough to pick up against the otherwise silent dorm. Picking your way carefully through the dark room, you made your way out, the room door clicking shut behind you and blocking out the little light that poured in momentarily from the dim corridor. If you had been the slightest bit more observant, you might have noticed Leona’s green eyes sliding open to watch you, lion ears twitching as they followed the ambient sound of your rustling clothes. 

It was the middle of the night, way past his usual bedtime - and it should be way past yours as well. Grim was fast asleep on the spare bedding at the foot of his bed. Very telling that you didn’t take your little minion with you.

Waiting for a few more seconds, the lion beastman carelessly tossed off his blankets, following you out of his room. And your telltale smell led him past closed doors and loud snores that echoing down empty hallways, straight towards the bathroom. 

Interesting. Time to find out what you were hiding.

‎

‎

You hummed a light tune under your breath, allowing the warm water to run over your body. You had expected Savanaclaw Dorm to be different from what you were used to, with the sneakpeek you’ve gotten before the Spelldrive tournament hinting that it was different enough from the life you knew back at Ramshackle, but you had to admit to yourself you hadn’t expected it to be this different. Imagine your surprise upon realizing that there was only one communal bathroom - and only learning that fact as you entered. You hoped no one noticed how fast you turned and left.

Shaking your head, you focused on rinsing off the shampoo from your hair, the stall walls though open at the back at least giving some privacy from the side. The water splashing down onto the tile from the showerhead echoed through the otherwise empty room; exactly as you had planned. It was only at this time of night that you would be able to get any semblance of privacy, and you silently pledged to yourself to never take Ramshackle Dorm’s silence for granted again.

You scrubbed down, trying to shake the thought of losing Ramshackle to Azul out of your head. You would do everything to make sure that didn’t happen, and you weren’t going to forgive Grim, Ace or Deuce that easily for all this mess they got you in.

Lost in the what-ifs, you failed to notice the patter of footsteps entering the shower room, right up till a deep voice piped up from behind you.

“So that’s why you don’t smell like the others.”

You froze.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the water cascading down your body and your very obviously female chest. You didn’t know what to do, didn’t dare to breathe, racing to think.

Fuck.

In a snap, you screamed, picking up the nearest object and hurling it straight at the intruder without looking, your other hand immediately reaching for the towel you had hung over the stall wall. The shampoo bottle was narrowly dodged, bouncing off the wall behind him and clanking to the floor. “W-what the fuck- get out!” You squeezed your eyes shut, your face beet red as you grabbed another bottle, throwing it with all the strength you had. Someone saw you. Some guy’s seen you. You should have been more careful, maybe you shouldn’t have showered at all, maybe you have-

“Shut it!” One large hand was quickly slapped over your mouth, the other grabbing your hand and stopping you from flinging your third munition. “Do you want the entire dorm to wake? Just breathe, dammit.”

You shook off his hand, moving to secure your towel around you before you took a deep breath, looking up to see who had walked in on you. 

Leona Kingscholar, the Savanaclaw Housewarden himself, looking mighty amused at the revelation that you were, in fact, of the opposite gender. A red-faced lady in the house of men.

“Does that crow know?”

“Crowley? Of course he does,” you snapped, clutching the towel wrapped around you tightly. “Now can you get out?”

The lion beastman only leaned onto the stall door, crossing his arms. “So how have you been hiding that all this time?” He drawled, pointing at your chest with his chin. You picked up another bottle threateningly, and Leona immediately raised both hands in surrender, taking a step back and behind the stall door.

“Peace,” he drawled. “I’m just here for answers.”

“And I’m here to bathe,” you barked back. “Chest binding is what I do, now out.”

The chuckle as the second prince strolled out reverberated through the still bathroom. You groaned, sinking to a squat and hiding your face in your hands. You were never going to live this down now, were you?

[hisfavegirl]

Choices - Aemond Targaryen x SisterWife!Reader x Aegon Targaryen.

Summary : you were tired of being just a shadow, after that night something inside you changed. the choice you made that night changed your entire life.

After that night — the night you found yourself once again in Aegon’s arms, wrapped in his warmth until the break of dawn — you made a decision. No longer would you allow yourself to be consumed by the ache Aemond had caused. The pain had festered for too long, and you were done being a prisoner to it.

As you stepped out of Aegon’s chambers that morning, the castle corridors seemed quieter than usual, though you knew it was only an illusion. Eyes followed you. Servants, guards, and courtiers glanced your way, some pretending to be preoccupied while others stared openly, their gazes sharp with judgment or curiosity. Their whispers echoed softly behind you, low murmurs carrying words you didn’t care to hear.

But you didn’t falter. You kept your head high, spine straight, and your steps measured with purpose. The faint smirk on your lips was barely noticeable, but it was there — a silent defiance. Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them think whatever they pleased. For the first time in a long while, you felt in control. You had spent too long chasing affection from a man who refused to see you. Now, they would all see you.

The light fabric of your gown swayed gently as you walked, the cool morning air brushing against your skin. You could still feel the warmth of Aegon’s touch lingering on you, like an invisible armor shielding you from their stares. Your heart didn’t ache this morning — not for Aemond, not for anyone.

As you approached the main hall, you saw Alicent at the end of the corridor. Her eyes met yours, narrowing with a look you knew well: suspicion. Her gaze flickered to the way your hair was still slightly tousled, the faint mark barely hidden beneath the neckline of your gown. Her lips pressed into a firm line, but she said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her silence was its own form of disapproval.

But you didn’t slow down. You walked past her with that same unshaken grace, ignoring the weight of her gaze on your back. You had made your choice, and you wouldn’t apologize for it. Let them all watch. Let them all whisper. None of them had ever truly seen you before. But now, they would.

You were in your chamber, brushing through your silver hair in front of the mirror, the soft glow of the morning sun spilling through the window. The air was calm, the gentle chirping of birds outside offering a rare sense of peace. You adjusted the neckline of your gown, letting it rest just right on your shoulders. But that peace was short-lived.

The sound of your chamber door being thrown open echoed through the room, making you flinch. The handle slammed against the stone wall with a loud clang, and as you whipped your head around, your heart froze. There he stood — Aemond. His face was a mask of fury, his single eye sharp and burning like wildfire. He didn’t wear his eyepatch, and the sapphire in his empty socket caught the morning light, making it gleam with an eerie brilliance. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his breathing, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles had turned white.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze bore into you like a blade, unwavering and filled with rage that simmered just beneath the surface. It wasn’t the cold indifference you’d grown used to — no, this was something much more dangerous.

“You think I wouldn’t hear it?” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. He took a step forward, slow and deliberate, like a lion stalking its prey. “The whispers. The stares. Do you know what they’re saying?” His voice grew louder with each word, his tone sharp as steel.

You didn’t respond, your jaw tightening as you kept your ground. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you refused to look away. Let him rage, you thought. Let him see that I am no longer his to break.

He took another step forward, his gaze never leaving you. His lips curled into something caught between a snarl and a sneer. “They’re saying you left his chamber this morning.” His words came slow, deliberate, as if he wanted to savor the taste of them — as if saying it out loud made it more real. His eye narrowed, his gaze raking over you as if searching for evidence of your betrayal.

“Say something,” he demanded, his voice sharp like a crack of thunder. “Deny it. Dare to lie to me.”

You exhaled slowly, straightening your posture. You felt the warmth of defiance rise in your chest. No longer would you tremble beneath his gaze. No longer would you be the one left unseen, unloved. If he wanted the truth, you would give it to him.

Your eyes met his with quiet, unyielding strength. “Why should I?” you asked, your voice steady and clear. “It seems you’ve already decided what to believe.”

His nostrils flared, and for a moment, his eye darted to your neck. You knew what he saw — the faint mark that lingered just above your collarbone. His lips pressed into a hard line, his chest heaving. His gaze lingered on that spot for far too long before his eye snapped back to yours.

“Is this how you get back at me?” he snarled, stepping even closer, his face inches from yours now. “Him?” He said it like a curse, filled with disgust. His breath was hot, his presence overwhelming. “You’d disgrace yourself — disgrace me — just to prove a point?”

Your eyes narrowed, your lips curling into a bitter smile. “Disgrace you?” you repeated softly, as if tasting the words yourself. You tilted your head slightly, letting him see the mark more clearly, daring him to look at it. “You speak of disgrace, husband, but tell me —” Your voice was quieter now but sharp as a blade. “Was it not disgrace when you left me for her?”

The words hit him like a slap. His eye widened for a moment before it narrowed into a glare more dangerous than before. His jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching as he clenched his teeth. You saw it — that flicker of guilt, that fleeting moment of realization. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by pride and rage.

“You forget your place,” he said coldly, his voice like ice.

You raised your chin, your gaze never leaving his. “No, Aemond,” you said firmly. “I’ve only just found it.”

Silence hung between you like a drawn sword, sharp and dangerous. His breathing was heavy, his gaze wild with emotions he refused to name. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cower. For the first time, you stood as his equal — no, more than that. You were beyond him now.

Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel, his black cloak whipping behind him as he stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut, the echo reverberating through the stone walls. You exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from your body, your heart still pounding like a war drum.

Your gaze shifted to the mirror. You stared at yourself for a long moment, fingers brushing over the faint mark on your neck. Slowly, your lips curved into a small, victorious smile. Let him rage. Let him burn. He had his chance, and he threw it away.

You stepped into your mother’s chambers, the air thick with tension. Alicent stood in the center of the room, her face hard with disapproval, eyes sharp like the edge of a dagger. Her arms were crossed, her fingers tapping slowly against her sleeve — a silent warning you knew all too well.

Beside her stood her. Your sister. Helaena. Her soft, distant gaze remained fixed on the floor, fingers nervously twisting together. She looked as innocent as ever, unbothered, unaware of the weight of it all. But to you, she was a symbol of everything you had lost. Every unspoken word. Every stolen glance. Every moment of your husband’s love that was never yours to begin with.

“Sit,” Alicent commanded, her voice firm, unyielding. You knew better than to refuse. Slowly, you walked toward the chair across from her and sat, keeping your back straight, head held high. If she wanted to scold you, she would have to see that you were no child to be lectured.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Alicent’s voice was low but sharp, every syllable cutting through the silence. Her eyes bore into you, searching for a hint of shame. “The entire Keep is whispering about you. About him.” Her lips curled with distaste at the mention. “Do you think this is how a princess behaves? Do you think this is how a wife honors her vows?”

You kept your gaze on her, unblinking. “Did he honor his?” you asked, your voice quiet but unyielding. “Did he honor me, Mother, when he left me to wither in the shadow of another woman? Did he honor me when he sought solace in her arms instead of mine?"

Alicent’s face stiffened, her nostrils flaring as if you’d struck her. She stepped forward, her eyes narrowing with warning. “Watch your tongue,” she hissed. “You are his wife. It is not your place to question him. It is your duty to endure.”

“Endure?” You let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking your head. “I have endured, Mother. I have endured his indifference, his silence, and his loyalty to someone who was never his to love. And you expect me to endure it forever?” Your eyes flickered to Helaena, still quiet, still absent in her own mind. “Is that what you taught her too?”

“Enough!” Alicent’s voice cracked through the air like a whip, sharp and final. “Do not speak of your sister in this.”

But you didn’t stop. Not now. Your eyes locked on Helaena, and for the first time, she met your gaze. There was no malice in her eyes, only confusion, and somehow that made it worse. “You took him from me,” you said, voice laced with quiet fury. “You didn’t even know you were doing it, did you?” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Do you know now?”

“Stop this,” Alicent snapped, stepping between you and Helaena. “Do not blame her for your failures.” Her voice was colder now, laced with disgust. “I raised you to be better than this — to be better than your selfishness. Do you think Aegon cares for you? Do you think that boy sees you as anything more than his next distraction?”

Your heart twisted, but you didn’t let it show. You had already asked yourself those questions, lying awake at night in the stillness of Aegon’s chambers. You had seen the shadows of doubt creeping into your mind. But here, before Alicent’s judgmental gaze, you wouldn’t break. You couldn’t.

“At least he sees me, Mother,” you whispered, eyes narrowing into slits. “At least he doesn’t pretend I’m invisible.”

Alicent stepped forward, her face inches from yours now. Her gaze was fierce, unrelenting. “He will ruin you,” she said with quiet fury, her voice deadly calm. “And when he’s done, when he grows bored, you will be left with nothing. No husband, no name, and no place in this world.” She leaned in, eyes hard as steel. “Is that what you want? To be nothing?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your eyes burning with unshed tears, but you did not let them fall. “I was already nothing to him,” you said softly, each word hitting like a blow. “At least now, I am seen.”

Alicent’s face twisted in disappointment, her lips pressing into a thin, angry line. She shook her head slowly, eyes filled with something like pity. “You are lost,” she whispered, stepping back from you as if you were something tainted. “And you will regret this.”

“Perhaps,” you replied, rising to your feet, your heart pounding but your voice unwavering. “But at least I will regret it on my terms.”

You turned to leave, walking past Helaena without sparing her another glance. She didn’t stop you. She never did. And as you left, you heard Alicent’s voice behind you, cold and sharp as ever.

“Don’t come to me when he casts you aside,” she said, her tone final, like a judge passing sentence.

You didn’t turn back. Let her think she had won. Let them all think that. You had nothing left to lose.

You walked along the garden path, your gaze soft as you watched your daughter chase after a butterfly. Her tiny feet padded across the grass, her giggles filling the air with a melody sweeter than any song. Her silver hair shimmered in the dappled sunlight, her little hands reaching for the butterfly that danced just out of her grasp.

A smile tugged at your lips. Moments like these felt like fleeting dreams, too delicate to last but too precious to forget. The weight of everything else seemed lighter here, where only the sun, the breeze, and your daughter’s joy existed.

From the far end of the garden, you noticed a figure approaching. His familiar, unhurried stride was impossible to miss. Aegon. He walked with his usual air of mischief, hands in his pockets, his eyes locked on you with a knowing grin.

“Look at her,” he called as he drew closer, tilting his head toward your daughter. “Chasing dreams she’ll never catch.” His tone was playful, but his eyes lingered on you a moment too long.

“She doesn’t know that yet,” you replied, watching your daughter spin in circles, trying to catch the butterfly as it fluttered just beyond her reach. “Let her believe she can.”

Aegon’s grin widened at that. “Spoken like a mother.”

By the time he reached you, your daughter had already noticed him. Her eyes lit up, and she abandoned her chase, running toward him with all the speed her little legs could muster. “Uncle Aegon!” she cried, her voice high and delighted.

“Little dragon!” he laughed, crouching down just in time to catch her in his arms. He lifted her with ease, spinning her around, her giggles turning into shrieks of joy. “Higher? Higher, you say?” he teased, his voice loud with mock surprise.

“Higher, Uncle! Higher!” she squealed, her arms stretched toward the sky as if she could touch the clouds.

Aegon obliged, hoisting her even higher, spinning her in wide circles that had her squealing with glee. His laughter mixed with hers, louder and freer than you’d heard in a long while. It was so genuine, so unburdened, that you felt your heart tighten.

He finally set her down, but she refused to let go of him, her small hands clutching his tunic as she leaned her head against his chest. He glanced at you, his breathing slightly uneven from the effort, his smile quieter now.

“Looks like I’ve been claimed,” he said, his voice laced with affection as he ruffled her silver hair. “Can’t say I mind.”

You chuckled softly, stepping closer. “You’ve always been her favorite.”

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to you with something sharper, something unspoken. “Am I?” he murmured, his gaze lingering on yours just a moment too long.

Before you could respond, your daughter tugged at his sleeve. “Again, Uncle Aegon!” she pleaded, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Again?” he repeated, feigning exhaustion as he let out an exaggerated sigh. “You’ll be the death of me, little dragon.” But despite his words, he crouched down once more, letting her climb onto his back like a rider claiming a dragon.

“Ready?” he asked, glancing back at her.

“Fly, dragon, fly!” she declared, her small fists clinging to his tunic like reins.

With a grunt of effort and a laugh on his lips, Aegon straightened, carrying her on his back as he jogged around the garden, her squeals of joy trailing behind them.

You watched them, your heart swelling with something you couldn’t quite name. For once, everything felt… simple. No whispers. No stares. No burdens too heavy to carry. Just laughter, sunlight, and the sound of your daughter’s happiness echoing through the garden.

You and Aegon walked side by side through the corridors of the Red Keep, his arms steady as he carried your daughter. Her little hands clung to his collar as she leaned her head on his shoulder, her soft giggles filling the silent hall. You couldn’t help but smile, your gaze fixed on them — your heart lighter than it had been in days.

The faint echoes of whispers followed you. Maids glanced from behind pillars, guards exchanged quick looks, and noblewomen passing by slowed their steps, eyes lingering with curiosity and judgment. The weight of their stares was a familiar burden, but today, you chose to ignore it. Their words, their gossip, their assumptions — none of it mattered.

“Look at her,” Aegon chuckled, glancing at your daughter in his arms. “Falling asleep on me after all that excitement. Typical little dragon.”

“She knows where it’s safe,” you replied softly, your eyes shifting from your daughter’s peaceful face to his. He gave you a grin, one that was far too self-assured, as if he knew exactly what you meant.

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, everything else fell away — the murmurs, the stares, the weight of expectation. It was just the three of you walking down a corridor that had once felt so suffocating but now seemed less so.

But not all eyes were so easily ignored.

From the shadows ahead, you felt it — the cold, sharp gaze of Aemond. His presence was unmistakable. He stood at the end of the corridor, his hands behind his back, his posture rigid. His one eye, the one that mattered, was locked on you. No — not just you. His gaze shifted to Aegon, to your daughter nestled against him, then back to you.

You felt the weight of his stare like a blade pressed against your back, sharp and unforgiving. It begged for your attention, demanded it. But you didn’t look at him. Not this time.

You tilted your chin higher, your smile never faltering as you turned back to Aegon. He noticed, of course. Aegon always noticed. His grin grew wider, bolder, as if daring Aemond to act.

“Don’t look back,” Aegon muttered low enough for only you to hear, his voice laced with quiet defiance. “He hates it when he’s ignored.”

You bit back a laugh, glancing up at him with a raised brow. “Good,” you whispered back.

With that, you continued forward, side by side with Aegon, ignoring the burn of Aemond’s gaze like it was nothing more than a chill in the air. And for the first time, you didn’t feel small. You felt seen.

As you walked past him, Aemond’s hand shot out and gripped your wrist with unyielding strength. You gasped, jerking back, but his grip was like iron.

“Aemond, let me go,” you hissed, twisting your arm, but it was useless. His one eye burned with something wild and furious.

“No.” His voice was low, dangerous, like the calm before a storm. He yanked you forward, pulling you along the corridor.

“Aemond!” Aegon’s voice echoed from behind, sharp and commanding. You glanced back, heart pounding, seeing Aegon striding toward you with purpose. “Let her go!”

Aemond didn’t stop. His fingers dug into your wrist, his pace steady and unrelenting. You stumbled to keep up with him, barely able to keep your footing. The cold stone walls of the Red Keep blurred as you moved past them.

“Aemond, stop!” you snapped, your voice sharp and defiant, but he didn’t even flinch. The guards and maids in the corridor turned away, their eyes averted, unwilling to intervene. No one ever did.

When you reached his chamber door, he shoved it open with one hand and dragged you inside. The door slammed shut behind you with a deafening thud, the finality of it making your chest tighten. He released you with a forceful push, and you stumbled back, clutching your wrist, your heart pounding like a drum.

Your breath was ragged, your eyes sharp with fury as you glared at him. “What is wrong with you?” you spat, your voice sharp with disbelief. “You have no right to—”

“No right?” Aemond’s voice was eerily calm, his words cutting like a blade. “I am your husband. I have every right.” He began to pace in front of you like a predator stalking its prey. His eye, sharp as ever, never left you.

“You are a fool if you think you still have that right,” you hissed, your eyes narrowing with defiance.

His head snapped toward you at that, his jaw tightening as his nostrils flared. “Careful,” he warned, his voice low and icy.

But you were done being careful. The weight of everything came crashing down on you. Your chest felt tight, but your resolve had never been stronger. You stepped forward, your voice unwavering as you met his furious gaze head-on.

“Don’t you dare talk to me about rights, Aemond,” you seethed, fists clenched at your sides. “Not after what I heard last night. You have no right to be angry. No right to drag me here like some possession. No right to demand anything from me — not after you crawled into her bed.”

Aemond froze.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The only sound in the room was the distant crackling of the fire. His face went still, too still, the flickering flames casting shadows that made him look almost inhuman.

He turned slowly, his gaze locked on you now with a dangerous intensity. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice tight and controlled.

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t lie to me, Aemond. I heard you. Your voice. Her voice.” Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall. “I stood at the door, Aemond. I heard you.”

His eye flickered, his mask cracking for a split second before he composed himself. “It’s not what you think,” he said, his voice quieter now, but there was no apology in it. Only pride.

“Don’t insult me,” you bit back, your eyes stinging with the betrayal that burned in your chest. “Don’t stand there and pretend it meant nothing. Don’t stand there and act as if I’m blind. I am not her, Aemond. I never will be.” Your voice cracked on the last word, but you lifted your chin, defiance blazing in your eyes.

He took a step toward you, but you raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “No. You do not get to touch me. Not after this.”

He tilted his head, his eye narrowing as if studying you in a new light. His lips pressed into a thin line. “So this is why you’ve been running to Aegon?” he sneered, his voice low and cutting. “You think he’ll love you? You think he can give you what I can’t?”

“At least Aegon sees me,” you shot back, taking a step forward. Your breath was shallow, your heart racing, but you didn’t stop. “At least he doesn’t pretend I’m someone else when he touches me.”

Aemond’s face twisted into something raw, something dangerously close to pain. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his breathing heavy.

“He will ruin you,” Aemond said, his voice shaking with barely restrained rage. “He will ruin you, and you will come crawling back."

“Then I’ll ruin myself,” you whispered, your voice hoarse but unwavering. You stepped past him, your gaze fixed on the door. “But I will never crawl back to you.”

You didn’t look back as you walked away, your hands trembling but your heart steady. The heavy thud of the door echoed behind you, but it didn’t scare you this time. For the first time, you felt free.

It had been a month since the night that drove you further away from Aemond. The distance between you two had grown into an unspoken chasm. You no longer sought his gaze, and he no longer reached for you. Instead, you found solace in Aegon and your daughter. Aegon was always by your side — in the gardens, at meals, and even during the quiet hours of the night when the world outside seemed to forget you existed.

Your mother, Alicent, watched you closely. Her disapproving gaze followed you wherever you went. She didn’t need to say it aloud — her silence was louder than any scolding. Her subtle warnings were clear: Stop this behavior. Fall in line. Do your duty as a wife. But how could you, when your husband’s heart had never belonged to you?

Then the news came.

The whispers spread through the halls of the Red Keep like wildfire. Servants murmured it as they passed, and the nobles whispered it behind raised goblets of wine. Princess Helaena is with child.

Your heart clenched in your chest. You stopped breathing for a moment, and then it all clicked into place.

It wasn’t Aegon’s.

You knew it the second you heard it. Your blood ran cold, and your mind filled with images you had tried so hard to bury. The sounds you heard that night outside Helaena’s door, the low whispers, the soft creak of the bed, and the unmistakable voice of him. Aemond.

It had been him all along.

Aegon had been with you that night amd the night after, his arms around you, his voice reminding you that you were seen, that you were wanted. There was no doubt in your mind that the child Helaena carried was not Aegon’s. It was Aemond’s. Your husband. Your own husband had betrayed you in the most devastating way.

Rage, sadness, and something else — something colder — coiled in your chest. You always knew, didn’t you? Helaena had always been the one he adored. You had seen it at every family supper, every glance he cast her way, every moment he chose to sit beside her instead of you. He had always been hers. You had been nothing but a shadow of her, a stand-in for what he truly desired.

The realization left you hollow. You could feel it gnawing at the edges of your mind. But this time, you refused to cry. You refused to let him break you again. Your gaze hardened, your breathing steadied, and you lifted your head.

If he wants her, he can have her.

But you would not be silent. You would not be small. You had your daughter. You had Aegon, and perhaps that was enough. Let them whisper. Let them stare. Let your mother scowl. You had already endured enough heartbreak to last a lifetime, and you would not give them the satisfaction of watching you shatter.

Not this time.

You walked hurriedly toward your husband’s chambers, your heart pounding in your chest. The cold stone floor of the Red Keep echoed beneath your feet, every step filled with purpose. Tonight, it ends. Tonight, we face the truth.

Reaching his door, you didn’t bother to knock. You pushed it open with enough force to make it creak loudly, the sound echoing through the room. The warm glow of the fire bathed everything in flickering amber light.

There he was.

Aemond sat by the fire, his long silver hair untied, cascading over his shoulders like a silk curtain. He looked different like this — younger, perhaps even vulnerable. His blue eye, the one that had always cut through you like a blade, was locked on the flames. The sapphire in his other eye socket shimmered faintly in the dim glow. He hadn’t bothered to wear his eye patch tonight.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t turn to face you. He knew you were there. He always knows when you’re there.

“Have you come to accuse me again?” His voice was low, dangerous, but there was something brittle beneath it. “Or is it more of your petty rebellion for everyone to see?”

His words were like arrows aimed at your heart, but you refused to let them hit their mark. You stepped further into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft but firm click.

“You know why I’m here, Aemond.” Your voice was steady, colder than the sea on a winter’s morning. “We are going to end this tonight. No more pretending.”

He let out a bitter laugh, tilting his head back to rest against the chair. His eye finally moved to you, sharp as ever, full of cold fire. “Pretending? Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” He leaned forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. His gaze never left you. “Careful, wife. You may not like the answers you receive.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms. He dares to play coy? After everything?

“I heard you that night, Aemond,” you said, each word like a stone thrown into a still pond. The silence that followed rippled with tension. “I heard you with her.”

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t even blink.

Instead, he tilted his head to the side, regarding you with that same calculating stare he always gave his enemies on the battlefield.

“So, you’ve decided to play the victim now?” he said, his tone sharp and mocking. “You, who spent your nights in Aegon’s arms while our daughter slept alone?” His voice was louder now, filled with venom. “Do you think I don’t hear the whispers? Do you think I don’t see the marks he leaves on you?”

Your breath caught in your chest, but you didn’t let it show. You refused to be the one to break. Not this time.

“Don’t you dare twist this on me, Aemond,” you snapped, stepping forward, your eyes blazing with fury. “I did not betray you first.” You pointed at him, your voice growing louder, stronger. “I was yours. All of me was yours. I waited. I hoped. I endured. While you sat there, loving her.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. “Do not speak to me of betrayal when you gave me nothing but scraps.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he said nothing. His fingers twitched like he was moments away from lashing out, but he held himself still.

“You are a fool,” he hissed. “You think love is something that is given freely, something that is owed to you. It is not. I gave you my name. I gave you a child.”

“You gave me nothing but pain!” you shot back, tears threatening to spill, but you refused to wipe them away. “You gave her everything, and you left me to rot.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, his tall frame casting a long shadow over you as he approached. He stopped just before you, his gaze bearing down on you like the weight of a thousand swords.

“And yet,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, “you keep coming back.”

The words were like a blade to your chest. Your breath hitched, and you swallowed the lump in your throat. You looked up at him, eyes filled with all the hurt, all the rage, all the love that had twisted into something cruel and unrecognizable.

“Not anymore,” you said, voice hoarse but firm. “This is the last time, Aemond. You can have her, have all of her. I won’t fight for someone who never fought for me.”

His face remained a mask of stone, but his eye flickered with something. Regret? Doubt? You didn’t know, and you didn’t care.

You stepped back, heart pounding like a war drum. Your hands felt cold, but you didn’t let them shake. With one last glance at him, you turned toward the door.

“Don’t you dare to walk away from me,” he growled, his voice rough like thunder in the distance.

But you didn’t stop.

Not this time.

You reached for the door handle, and his voice came again, softer but no less sharp.

“If you leave now, you don’t come back.”

You froze for a moment, letting his words sink in. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to look at him from the corner of your eye. You met his gaze, unflinching, steady as the tide.

“I already left, Aemond,” you said quietly. “You just never noticed.”

And with that, you opened the door and walked away.

Before you could get far from his chamber, you heard the sharp, hurried sound of footsteps behind you. Your heart jumped into your throat, but you didn’t stop walking.

Then, a strong hand seized your wrist.

“Aemond—” you gasped, turning your head just as he yanked you back with enough force to make you stumble. Your back hit his chest, and his grip on your wrist tightened like an iron shackle.

“Let me go,” you hissed, twisting your arm to free yourself, but his hold didn’t budge. His fingers dug into your skin, firm but not painful — not yet.

“Not until you listen,” he growled, his breath warm against the side of your face. His voice was low, sharp, and dangerous, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. He pulled you back into his chamber, slamming the door shut behind him with his free hand.

“Listen?” you spat, yanking at his grip again. “I have done nothing but listen, Aemond! I listened to your silence. I listened to your lies. I listened when you let me hear you with her!” Your voice cracked with raw emotion, but you didn’t care.

He spun you around, and for a moment, you were face-to-face with him. His eye burned with barely restrained fury, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin, angry line.

“Say it,” he said through gritted teeth, his eye locked on yours with a heat so intense it could burn. “Say what you’re truly angry about.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill, but you refused to give him that satisfaction. “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” you bit out, chest heaving with barely restrained emotion.

“I want to hear you say it,” he demanded, his voice harder now, like steel striking steel. His eye flickered with something wild, something desperate. “Say it.”

“You want me to say it?” you shouted, slamming your free hand against his chest, though he didn’t flinch. “Fine. I’m angry because you chose her! Her! I was your wife! I am your wife! And you betrayed me!”

Your breath was ragged, each word like a piece of you breaking off, shattering on the stone floor.

“And you think I betrayed you first,” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “But you left me long before I ever went to Aegon. You left me alone, Aemond. Alone.”

His face twisted, lips parting as if to argue, but no words came. For the first time, he looked lost. His grip on your wrist loosened just slightly, but he didn’t let you go.

“I never left you,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, as if that was supposed to be enough. As if words could undo everything.

“Liar,” you whispered, tears now falling freely. “If you didn’t leave me, why was I always alone?”

Silence. His face, his cold, perfect mask, cracked for just a moment. He opened his mouth, but nothing came. No excuses. No lies. Nothing.

His silence was louder than any confession.

You felt your heart break all over again.

“Let me go, Aemond,” you said quietly, not as a demand but as a plea. Your eyes, red with unshed tears, met his. “Please.”

His fingers hovered for a moment longer, as if unsure whether to hold on tighter or finally let go. Then, slowly, his hand slipped from your wrist. The warmth of his touch faded, replaced by the cold air of the room.

He didn’t stop you this time as you turned around.

He didn’t follow when you opened the door.

And he didn’t say a word when you walked away.

You ran toward your chamber, tears streaming down your face like an endless river. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat louder than the last, fueled by a storm of anger, hurt, and betrayal.

Reaching your door, you shoved it open with trembling hands. The wood banged against the wall, but you didn’t care.

Then you stopped.

Your mother, was already there. She stood in the center of the room, her eyes immediately locking onto yours. Her expression shifted from calm patience to sharp concern the moment she saw your tear-streaked face and heaving chest.

“What’s wrong?” she asked urgently, stepping forward, her voice laced with worry. Her gaze scanned you from head to toe, searching for an injury or any sign of what might have happened.

Your chest heaved with a sob, and you didn’t hesitate. You threw yourself into her arms, wrapping yourself around her like a child seeking shelter from a storm. Her warmth enveloped you instantly. Her hands pressed firmly against your back, one of them cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“Mother,” you gasped between sobs, “he’s gone too far this time.”

Alicent stiffened at your words. Her arms remained around you, but you could feel the shift in her. Her breathing slowed, her posture grew more rigid.

“What did he do?” she asked softly, but there was no softness in her tone — only cold, sharp control. The same control she always used when the world demanded more from her than she could bear.

You shook your head against her shoulder, tears soaking into the fabric of her gown. “He—” your voice cracked, thick with emotion. “He betrayed me again, Mother. I heard him. I heard him with her.”

Alicent’s breath hitched, and her fingers stilled in your hair. Her jaw tensed against your temple, and for a moment, she didn’t speak. You felt it before you heard it — the cold, quiet fury settling into her frame.

“Helaena,” she muttered, her voice so low you barely caught it. Her grip on you tightened. “I warned him. I warned him.”

You pulled back slightly, wiping at your face with shaking hands. “He doesn’t care, Mother,” you said bitterly, eyes filled with pain and exhaustion. “No matter what I do, he always goes back to her.” Your voice broke again, and fresh tears welled in your eyes. “Am I not enough?”

“Don’t say that,” Alicent said firmly, cupping your face in her hands. She tilted your head up so you had no choice but to meet her gaze. Her eyes, filled with a mix of heartbreak and fierce protectiveness, bore into yours. “You are more than enough. Do you hear me?”

You nodded weakly, but doubt still clung to your heart like thorns.

Her gaze hardened, her lips pressed into a thin line. “If he cannot see it, then he is a fool,” she said with quiet conviction. “And I will not let my daughter be broken by a fool.”

Her words settled over you like a balm, momentarily easing the ache in your chest. Alicent pulled you back into her embrace, holding you tighter than before. For the first time in a long while, you felt like someone was on your side.

You continued to cry in your mother’s arms, your body trembling with the weight of everything you had endured. Her fingers stroked your hair in slow, soothing motions, the same way she had done when you were a child afraid of the dark. But this darkness was far more suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” Alicent whispered, her voice strained with guilt. She pressed a kiss to the top of your head, her hand resting firmly against your back. “I should have listened to you. I should have seen it.” Her voice cracked slightly. “I thought I was doing what was best for you, but I failed you.”

Her words only made you cry harder, the release of all your unspoken hurt pouring out at once. You clutched at her gown like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

“Tell me,” she said softly, voice steady but laced with desperation. She pulled back just enough to see your face, her eyes scanning yours with fierce determination. “Tell me what I can do to make it right. Anything, my sweet girl. Anything.”

You sniffled, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks, and for a moment, you hesitated. The weight of the words you were about to speak hung heavy in the air. But you had thought about this for too long, dreamed of it too often to stop now. Your lips parted, and your voice, though hoarse from crying, came out clear and unwavering.

“End it,” you said, looking her directly in the eyes. “End my marriage to Aemond.”

Alicent’s eyes widened in shock. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she said nothing. Her gaze searched yours, as though hoping she had misunderstood. But there was no mistaking the resolve in your face.

“You want me to… annul your marriage?” she asked cautiously, as if testing the weight of the words on her tongue.

You nodded firmly, your eyes unyielding despite the tears still clinging to your lashes. “Yes,” you said, your voice stronger now. “I don’t want to be his wife anymore, Mother. I’ve given him everything, and he’s given me nothing but pain. He doesn’t love me. He never did.” Your eyes hardened, your jaw set. “And I won’t waste another day of my life waiting for him to see me.”

Alicent’s face twisted with conflict. She glanced away, her brows furrowed in deep thought. Annulment was not a simple thing, not for people of your station. It would bring scandal, whispers, and questions from every corner of the court. And yet, none of that seemed to matter to you anymore.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “But you asked me what you could do to make it right, Mother. This is how.”

Alicent’s eyes returned to yours. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes shining with the same fierce love and protection she’d always given her children. Slowly, she nodded.

“If this is what you truly want,” she said slowly, her voice heavy with certainty, “then I will make it so.”

Relief washed over you like a wave, and for the first time in so long, you felt as if you could breathe again. You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around her once more, your tears now a mixture of grief and hope.

“Thank you,” you whispered against her shoulder, your voice muffled but full of meaning. “Thank you, Mother.”

Alicent held you tighter, her resolve hardening like steel. “No one will hurt you again, my love,” she vowed softly. “Not him. Not anyone.”

You stood by the window, eyes distant as you gazed at the horizon. The cool breeze brushed against your face, carrying with it the faint scent of salt from Blackwater Bay. The world outside felt vast, free — a freedom you had been denied for far too long.

The creak of your chamber door broke the stillness. You didn’t turn, already knowing who it was. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, the soft thud of his boots on the stone floor echoing in the quiet room.

“Should I be worried?” Aegon’s voice came from behind you, light and teasing as always, but there was something gentler in his tone this time. “You look ready to fly away.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his head tilted slightly as he studied you. His violet eyes weren’t hazy with drink for once — they were sharp, clear, and focused entirely on you.

“I’m not flying anywhere,” you murmured, turning back toward the window. “Not yet.”

Aegon stepped further inside, closing the door behind him. His footsteps grew closer until he stood beside you, his gaze following yours out to the sea. The two of you stood in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavily in the air.

“Mother told me,” he said quietly, his eyes flickering toward you. “About the annulment.”

You stiffened slightly but didn’t look at him. “Did she?”

He nodded, leaning forward, his forearms resting on the windowsill. His gaze was distant now, his smile faint but knowing. “She did,” he said, his voice unusually serious. “About time, I’d say.”

A dry laugh escaped you, short and bitter. “It won’t be easy,” you muttered, your fingers lightly tracing the cool stone of the window ledge. “There will be questions. Judgments.”

“Let them judge,” Aegon replied, his tone sharp with defiance. “They’ve judged me my entire life, and I’m still here.” He turned his head to look at you, his eyes warmer now, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You’ll be here too.”

You finally looked at him, really looked at him. There was no mockery in his eyes, no smirk on his lips. Just quiet understanding. It was rare for him to be this sincere, but when he was, it struck you more deeply than you cared to admit.

“I’m tired, Aegon,” you confessed softly, your voice barely a whisper. “Tired of fighting. Tired of hurting.” Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers clasped tightly in front of you. “I just want peace.”

Aegon reached out, his fingers gently brushing against yours before fully taking your hand in his. His grip was firm, grounding, but not forceful. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your temple.

“Then let me help you,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a plea. “Let me give you peace, even if it’s only for a little while.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You glanced up at him, and for a moment, all you could see was the boy he had once been — reckless, wild, but always searching for something more. He wasn’t perfect. Far from it. But he had always seen you.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into him, letting his warmth seep into you. His arms wrapped around you, his chin resting lightly on top of your head. For once, you didn’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders.

For once, you felt safe.

You froze in his embrace, your breath hitching in your chest. The words hung in the air like a spell, heavy and inescapable.

“I love you,” Aegon whispered, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the quiet hum of the wind outside. “More than a brother should. More than I ever should.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a wild, chaotic rhythm that drowned out every other sound. Slowly, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. His eyes — those sharp, tired violet eyes — were locked on you, unguarded in a way you had never seen before.

“Don’t,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”

“I won’t,” he replied without hesitation, his gaze unwavering. His hands remained on your waist, gentle but firm, as if afraid you might run. “I’ve held it back for too long. Lying to you, to myself, pretending it was just brotherly affection.” He shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “But I’m done pretending.”

You shook your head slowly, stepping back, but he didn’t let go of you completely. Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “This is madness, Aegon,” you said, your voice cracking. “They already think the worst of me. If they knew about this—”

“Let them,” he cut in, his voice sharper this time, his eyes blazing with defiance. “They’ve called me worse. Drunk. Useless. A failure.” He took a step forward, closing the distance again, his face inches from yours. “But you — you’re mine. You always have been.”

Tears stung your eyes, a mix of anger, confusion, and something far more dangerous. “I’m not yours, Aegon,” you said, though your voice was weaker than you’d intended. “I belong to no one.”

His gaze softened, his hands sliding down to your wrists, holding them gently. “No,” he agreed, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “But if you ever wanted to be, I’d never let you doubt it. Not like him.”

You flinched, his words cutting deeper than any blade. He didn’t have to say Aemond’s name for you to know who he meant. The memory of betrayal burned fresh in your mind — the nights you had waited for Aemond, the cold emptiness of his absence, the hollow pain of knowing he had chosen someone else.

Aegon saw it all. He always had.

“I’m not him,” Aegon murmured, his voice breaking slightly. “I won’t leave you wanting.” His thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “I won’t make you beg for love that’s already yours.”

You closed your eyes tightly, tears falling freely now. The weight of it all — the betrayal, the loneliness, the anger — came crashing down on you. But with it, there was something else, something you had tried so hard to deny.

Warmth. Safety. Him.

Your hands slowly unclenched against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. Your breathing was shallow, uneven, your mind at war with your heart. For so long, you had fought to keep your dignity, your pride. But for once, you just wanted to feel loved.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. He didn’t move, didn’t push. He just waited. No smirking. No taunting. Just him.

“Aegon…” you whispered, barely a breath.

“Say it,” he urged gently, his voice raw, desperate, yet patient. “Say you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away. I swear it.”

Silence filled the space between you, the only sound the unsteady beating of two hearts. Your lips parted, but no words came. Your hands slowly tightened in his tunic, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

You didn’t say it. You couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t true.

His eyes flickered with something between relief and disbelief, his breath shaky as if he had been holding it for far too long. Slowly, he leaned in, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

And when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t harsh or wild. It was soft, steady, and certain — a promise, not a demand. His hands cupped your face with the gentleness of someone holding something fragile and precious. You felt the heat of him, the certainty of him, and for once, you didn’t feel like you had to fight for it.

You just felt loved.

Days passed, and you remained in the quiet solitude of your chambers. The weight of everything — betrayal, heartbreak, and uncertainty — settled heavily on your heart. The walls felt both like a shield and a prison.

Your daughter’s laughter was the only light in your days. She would run into your room, her little feet pattering against the cold stone floor as she climbed onto your bed, babbling about butterflies, flowers, and whatever small adventure she’d had that morning. Her warmth reminded you that not everything was lost.

Sometimes, your mother would visit. Her presence was quieter now, less judgmental, as if she’d finally realized how much she had failed to see. She wouldn’t always speak, just sit beside you, her fingers brushing through your hair like she used to when you were a child. No words were needed in those moments.

And then, there was Aegon.

He came more often than anyone else. Sometimes he brought wine, other times small trinkets for your daughter. His visits were loud and unbothered, like a storm forcing its way into your still, quiet world. He would joke, tease, and try to make you laugh, though he rarely succeeded. But his persistence never wavered.

He never asked for anything. Never demanded. He just stayed.

But they never came.

Helaena never knocked on your door. Not even once. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps she simply didn’t care. Aemond’s absence, however, was a deeper wound. For a time, you had waited for the sound of his footsteps, the familiar thud of his boots against the stone. You hated yourself for it. Hated that part of you still wanted an explanation, an apology — anything.

But it never came.

Then, one morning, the whispers reached you. The servants spoke quietly as they passed your door. You overheard their hushed words about Aegon going to the Queen. Demanding that his marriage to Helaena be annulled.

“She’s with child,” one of them had said. “The Queen won’t allow it. It’s already too late.”

Your breath caught in your chest. You knew it wasn’t Aegon’s child. It couldn’t be. He had been with you. Every night, every moment since that fateful night, he had been with you.

The truth settled over you like a weight you couldn’t lift. It was Aemond’s.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown, nails digging into your palms. You thought you had buried that pain. You thought you had buried him. But hearing it spoken aloud, knowing that his betrayal had consequences beyond your own suffering — it shattered something inside you.

When Aegon arrived later that day, he found you standing by the window, staring out at the gardens below. Your expression was distant, hollow. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the fire place, arms crossed, watching you quietly.

Aemond stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with sharp, controlled breaths. His single eye burned with fury, the flames of his rage barely contained. Behind him, your mother’s voice called his name, sharp with warning, but he didn’t move. His gaze was locked on you — on you and Aegon.

You rose slowly from your seat, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. Aegon remained seated, his eyes narrowing with lazy defiance as he tilted his head back, watching Aemond like one watches a beast deciding whether to lunge.

“Aemond,” your mother’s voice came again, firmer now, closer. “Don’t.”

But he didn’t listen. His gaze flickered to Aegon, his lip curling in disgust, then back to you. “So this is what you’ve become?” he hissed, his voice low but dangerous, like a snake coiling to strike. “Parading yourself like some… common whore in the arms of our brother?”

Your breath caught in your throat, rage and disbelief mixing into something sharp and searing. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

“You dare speak of shame to me?” you shot back, your voice trembling not with fear but with barely restrained fury. “After what you’ve done with her? After you betrayed me for Helaena?” You stepped forward, your eyes locked with his, daring him to deny it. “Don’t speak to me of dignity, Aemond. You lost the right to judge me.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his eye narrowing to a slit. He took a step forward, his movements slow, predatory. “Helaena is the mother of my brother’s children,” he said coldly, each word measured like the swing of a blade. “She is my sister, my blood. I have only ever done my duty to her.”

“Duty?” you laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and hollow. “Is that what you call it now? Did duty drive you to her bed? Did duty make you hold her the way you never held me?” Your voice broke, and you hated it, hated the crack of vulnerability that slipped through. “Don’t speak to me of duty, Aemond.”

Behind him, Alicent stepped into view, her face pale with shock and shame. Her lips parted, but no words came out. She glanced between you and Aemond as if realizing, for the first time, the full weight of what had been broken.

“That’s enough,” your mother’s voice was hard, the voice of a queen. “Both of you.” She stepped between you and Aemond, placing a hand on his chest, forcing him to step back. “You have done enough damage, Aemond.” Her eyes met his with cold finality. “Leave.”

But he didn’t move. His gaze shifted, not to Alicent, but to you. His eye softened, his lips parting like he was about to say something — something important, something he hadn’t said before. But then his gaze shifted to Aegon.

Aegon, who hadn’t moved from his seat, watching it all with a calm, arrogant grin. Slowly, he raised his cup to Aemond in a silent toast, his eyes glinting with mischief and triumph.

That was it.

Aemond’s mask of control shattered.

With a snarl, he lunged toward Aegon, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him out of his seat. Aegon laughed, even as he was shoved against the wall, his grin unfaltering.

“Hit me, brother,” Aegon taunted, his voice low, his eyes wild with challenge. “Hit me like you want to. Hit me, and watch what happens next.”

“Stop it!” Alicent’s voice rang out, her hands trying to pull Aemond back, but he wouldn’t let go.

“Is this why you wanted your marriage annulled, brother?” Aemond growled through clenched teeth, his face inches from Aegon’s. “So you could claim her for yourself? She’s mine. Mine!”

You stepped forward, voice sharp and clear as steel. “I am not yours, Aemond. Not anymore.”

His grip on Aegon faltered for just a moment. Slowly, he turned his head to you, his breathing harsh and uneven. For a heartbeat, he looked at you not with rage, but with something closer to pain. His lips pressed into a hard line, and his eye searched yours like he was looking for something that had already been lost.

“No,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “You are mine. You have always been mine.”

Your heart twisted, but your resolve didn’t waver. You shook your head slowly, stepping back, putting distance between you.

“Not anymore,” you said, voice steady, final. “I belong to no one but myself.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered with something raw, something close to heartbreak. He looked to your mother, his eye silently pleading for her to stop you, to do something. But Alicent lowered her gaze, her fingers brushing her forehead like she carried the weight of every mistake that had led to this moment.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you pulled your hand from Aemond’s grip, but he caught it again, his fingers wrapping tightly around yours. His eye was wild, filled with something raw — desperation, regret, and anger all at once.

“Please,” he said, his voice breaking in a way you’d never heard before. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave me.” His fingers tightened around your wrist, and his breathing grew heavier. “I can fix it. I can fix everything."

You shook your head, your eyes filled with hurt, but your resolve did not waver. “It’s already done, Aemond,” you said, voice steady despite the storm in your heart. “The marriage is annulled. There’s nothing left to fix."

Aemond’s gaze flickered to your mother, searching her face for some sign that it wasn’t true. “Mother,” he breathed, his voice filled with disbelief. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you wouldn’t do this to me.”

Alicent’s face was a mask of quiet sorrow. Her eyes, though filled with love, held none of the mercy he sought. “It is done, Aemond,” she said softly, her voice heavy with the weight of her choice. “I will not see her suffer any longer.”

The words struck him like a blade. His grip on your wrist faltered for a moment, but he didn’t let go. His eye darted back to you, filled with panic now, as if he were drowning and you were his only lifeline.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head like he could deny the reality of it. “No, you’re mine. You promised me. You vowed before the gods.” His breathing grew shallow, his face twisted with something far too close to heartbreak. “You belong to me.”

Your chest ached, but not with love — with the weight of everything that had been broken. You took a breath and met his gaze with unwavering strength. “I belonged to you, Aemond. But not anymore.” You pulled your arm back, trying to free yourself from his grip, but his fingers only dug in deeper.

“Don’t do this,” he hissed, his voice low and filled with warning. “You don’t get to walk away from me. You are mine.”

“Let her go, brother,” Aegon’s voice cut through the tension, sharper than steel. He stepped forward, eyes locked on Aemond, his grin gone, his usual air of indifference replaced with quiet menace. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to Aegon, his face twisting with rage. “This is your doing, isn’t it?” he snarled, his grip on you tightening like a vice. “You’ve poisoned her against me.”

“You did that yourself,” Aegon shot back, his eyes narrowing. He moved closer, his steps slow but purposeful. “Let. Her. Go.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his whole body tense as if he were a bowstring pulled too tight. His breathing was ragged, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might strike Aegon.

But then Alicent stepped between them, placing a firm hand on Aemond’s chest. “Enough,” she said with all the weight of a queen’s command. “Let her go, Aemond. This is over. Accept it with dignity, or I will see you escorted from this room by force.”

Aemond’s eye darted to Alicent, disbelief flickering across his face. “You would turn against me too?” he asked, his voice cracking with something far too close to a child’s plea for his mother’s love. “For her?”

Alicent’s face softened with sadness, but there was no doubt in her eyes. “For all of us, Aemond,” she said quietly. “Including you.”

His fingers loosened. Slowly, reluctantly, he let go of your wrist, his hand lingering for just a moment longer before falling away completely. He stared at his hand as if it had betrayed him. He turned on his heel, his strides slow but deliberate as he left the room. The heavy sound of the door slamming shut echoed in the silence that followed.

You rubbed your wrist where his grip had left a faint mark, your breathing shallow. Aegon stepped closer, his eyes scanning you with quiet concern. “Are you hurt?” he asked softly, his gaze falling to your wrist.

You shook your head, eyes still on the door. “No,” you whispered, your voice steady but drained of emotion. “Not anymore.”

Alicent stepped forward and cupped your cheek, her eyes filled with guilt and quiet pride. “You were brave,” she said softly, her thumb brushing your cheek. “Braver than I ever was.”

You leaned into her touch for a moment, letting the warmth of her comfort wash over you. But then you straightened, your eyes hardening as you gazed toward the door where Aemond had disappeared.

“I’m done being afraid of him,” you said, your voice sharp as steel. “He can rage, he can threaten, but he will never control me again.”

Aegon’s smile returned, softer this time, tinged with something like pride. He stepped to your side, close enough for his arm to brush against yours. “Well said,” he murmured. “He won’t touch you again. Not while I’m here.”

For the first time in a long time, you believed it.

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack

[shaisuki]

📌 day three: exhibitionism + aizawa shouta

aizawa keeps you at arm's length.

teacher assistant's especially you, that are much younger than him are recipes for trouble and ua, despite its reputation as the best hero school all over japan isn't strict about colleagues being in a relationship. romance is hard enough to find outside when your job demands you to nurture future heroes that will soon be the pillar the country.

he may have just judged you too soon that you are like the previous assistants that attempted to seduced his fellow teachers and him. you were like nothing of the sort. too focused on the more things that needed to be taken care of and desperate to get that reference to be put in your resumé and the experience.

and the worst of scrutinizing you is he's the one who's slowly doing the things that a teacher shouldn't have. he's having unnatural thoughts of you. no matter of keeping the things professional and doing each other's assigned work, you creep on his mind. his stares are no longer innocent and would wander. thinking how soft you must be under your clothing. the stockings doing their purpose of covering your legs but it doesn't do justice to hide the fullness of them and the blouse you wore, it was delightfully sinful. everything about you screams of domesticity.

your voice is polite as you asked him where to put the recently acquired files. in which he only responds with a gruff. pointing at the cabinet where should it be placed and his eyes known for its function to his quirk can't deny to tear away his gaze at your thick thighs doubling in size as you crouch to place it.

confined spaces isn't a place he's comfortable with. not with you besides him. quietly staring at numbers of elevator changing as it descends to get to the floor where a conference is being held. he keeps his gaze straight at the door when he can see himself in a suit. the sight of it makes him itch and he's already wanting to get back to his sleep and you will be there. waiting for him. shit. he curses to himself. the slacks are already bad news and from how tight it was, it will show. he's blatantly disrespecting you from the way he thinks about you.

“aizawa-sensei, you should keep your thoughts silent. it's loud.” you say to him and he froze. “you forgot i can read minds.” he studies your expression. you weren't angry but he can see the swirls in those eyes of yours being plagued with the lines of betrayal and worry. his words are stuck on his throat. he can only stare at you with those black irises of his.

“it's fine. you should have just told me.” you offered him a small shy smile. “aizawa-sensei, can i?” he swallows and his expression remain neutral but his elevated heartbeat tells you another story. your palming him in his trousers. his erection growing the more you touch him. “it's okay, you can touch me, too.” and he snakes his arm around you. grabbing your ass and it was wrong to casually touch you like this when it's his fault for not being able to keep it in his pants. giving up in the temptation. the form being taken by you.

he's hot in your palm. throbbing in your touch, his cock coated with your spit seems to grow more and is attentive to the ministrations you were doing. it's getting bigger, cum beading on the tip and it made happy that your sensei is lusting over you. seems like ages ago that you were a mere fangirl of the underground hero and now, he's putty in your touch.

you grasp firmly his length. assessing his reactions and when you get the huffs and his hips bucking for more friction, you squeeze his cock before pumping it with your hand. you didn't mind that you were doing it in a elevator with the risk of being caught but you love the thrill of it, however it's not the same to him. you know how he hates doing something in public and you consider it to finish your job done.

it's pulsing, the sound of shlick as you jerk him off and the small puffs of breath he's exhaling. a brief kiss is exchanged before going back for more. just a little longer. swiping the slit of his cock with your thumb and speeding up your pace and with a groan. he cums in your hand. cursing silently at the mess he made.

the elevator dings, signalling that you two have both arrived at the floor where a press conference is being held. none of you spoke a word, keeping it a secret of what happened and it leaves a dull ache to your heart that it will be probably the last but how wrong of you to say that.

“(y/n)? had you seen aizawa?” midnight asked you. “n-no.” you stammer before hiding your moan with a cough. she seems satisfied with your answer before leaving the room. twirling the pen between your fingers before a shaky moan escapes your lips. the pen falls in the cool surface as you gripped the corners of your desk.

your tugged the man's hair below your desk. feasting on your fat cunt with your creamy thighs wrapped around his head. “aizawa-sensei.” you call him. your thighs quivering, a sign of your impending orgasm and with a silent scream you came on his mouth. his face surfaces between your thighs. licking the corners of his mouth before emerging. that was close but you two didn't care. it was a new thing that was happening between too.

aizawa's more than happy. who knew he did like fucking you all over the school with a chance of being caught.

[themdera]

Cast Aside

We all need a little help sometimes and that’s okay :)

“Alright, George,” you say, turning the taps on and letting warm water fill the tub. “Bath’s almost ready.”

He’s perched on the closed toilet lid, his broken arm resting carefully in its sling. The pout on his face is comically exaggerated. “This is humiliating. The boys will absolutely rinse me if they find out ”

“It’s not, they won’t” you reply, fighting back a smile. “Plenty of people take baths.”

“Yeah, but not because they can’t shower themselves,” he grumbles, shooting a pointed look at his cast.

“Well, that’s what happens when you launch yourself off a ski jump like you’re in the Olympics,” you tease.

He groans, tipping his head back dramatically. “I’m a tragic figure. Broken body. Broken pride.”

“And you’re about to have a broken ego if you don’t stop whining,” you retort, crossing your arms. “Come on, George. It’s just a bath.”

He glares at you half-heartedly, but when you arch an eyebrow, he sighs in defeat. “Fine, but you owe me.”

“You’re literally the one who asked me to help,” you remind him, biting back a laugh as you help him stand.

With a bit of maneuvering (and several complaints about his arm and his dignity), you manage to guide him out of his clothes and into the tub. He stares at it like it’s a life sentence.

“It’s just water, George,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a giant chunk of plaster on your arm,” he quips, but he carefully steps in anyway, lowering himself into the water with your help. Once he’s settled, he leans back, his frown finally softening.

“There. Not so bad, huh?” you say, grabbing the showerhead and turning it on.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “But only because you’re here.”

“How romantic,” you deadpan, aiming the showerhead at his head.

He twists to look at you, already grinning. “Speaking of romantic, how about a kiss?”

“George, sit still,” you warn, holding the showerhead just out of reach. “If you move, I’m going to soak your cast.”

“Go ahead. Then I’ll have an excuse to stay in here longer with you,” he says with a wink.

You groan, shaking your head as you start to rinse his hair. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” he corrects, grinning wider.

Despite his antics, you manage to get him cleaned up, carefully washing his mullet as he continues to try (and fail) to be helpful. Finally, you set the showerhead down, satisfied with your work.

“There. Done.” you smiled down at him.

“Not quite,” he says, his grin turning sly. “You still haven’t joined me.”

“George—”

“C’mon,” he coaxes, his voice soft. “The water’s warm. And it’s lonely in here without you.”

You sigh, unable to resist the warmth in his eyes. “You’re the worst,” you mutter, slipping out of your clothes and sliding into the tub behind him.

The water ripples as you settle in, wrapping your arms around his chest. He leans back against you with a contented sigh, resting his head on your shoulder.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, his voice low.

You press a kiss to his damp hair, smiling. “Yeah, it is.”

For a moment, the room is silent save for the soft sound of the water. Then George tilts his head slightly, his voice teasing but tender.

“I’m very happy I broke my arm,” he says softly.

You laugh, resting your chin on his head. “George, we regularly do this you regularly steal my Lush Bath Bombs. You didn’t need to break your arm for it.”

He chuckles, nuzzling your neck. “Yeah, but now I have an excuse to make you take care of me.”

“Don’t push your luck,” you reply, though the smile on your face betrays you.

He hums, a quiet, happy sound, and you feel his body relax completely against yours. As much as you tease him, you know there’s nowhere else either of you would rather be.

———————————-

Part 1 of my Arthur Hill fic coming soon👀