#it could be better but it took me like half an hour and i think it adds to the post

[sunsetmade]

When the Storm Came

Bsf!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: A viscous thunderstorm hits the OBX and the only person Rafe is thinking about is his best friend, who has the biggest fear of them.

Rain came fast in the Outer Banks.

One second it was calm—humid, gray-skied, the kind of heaviness in the air that warned you something was coming. The next, the sky cracked wide open and the storm fell in sheets. Loud and unapologetic.

I flinched, pressing my head against my blanket-covered knees as another boom shook the walls. My hands flew to my ears instinctively, trying to block it out. The thunder rolled again, louder this time, and I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on my breathing. But it was no use. The storm was getting worse.

Rain pounded harder against the windows, each drop sounding like a warning. My breath hitched with every crack of thunder, matching its rhythm in a way that made my chest feel tighter. I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the movie playing in front of me, hoping it would drown it out.

It didn’t.

The voices from the screen felt distant, muffled by the storm outside and the fear twisting in my stomach.

These were the moments I realized just how much I took the sunny days for granted—those slow, golden afternoons with Rafe. The way the light hit his eyes, the warmth of his voice, the ease that came with just being near him.

Rafe.

Even just the thought of him made my chest feel a little lighter, like I could breathe again. A small smile tugged at my lips as my eyes drifted to my phone, sitting untouched at the edge of the bed.

I reached for it quickly, curling back into myself as another low rumble shook the house. One arm remained tightly pressed over my ear, the other fumbled to unlock the screen.

His name was the first one on my messages. Of course it was.

Our last conversation from less than an hour ago still sat there—light teasing, a joke about the ridiculous smoothie he’d made earlier. So casual, so normal.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

I wanted to hear his voice. Just for a second. He always knew how to calm me down, like his words could wrap around me and make everything feel safe again.

But I hesitated.

He’s probably busy, I told myself. He has better things to do than deal with this. With me. With my stupid storm anxiety.

The thunder cracked again, louder this time. My finger flinched, still hovering. Just thinking about him helped. But I couldn’t help but wonder… if he knew how much I needed him, would he still pick up?

A sudden boom—sharper, louder than all the ones before—ripped through the air and shattered my train of thought.

I let out a small yelp and, without thinking, flung my phone across the bed. My body curled in tighter as I yanked the blanket over my head, desperate for some kind of shelter, some kind of buffer between me and the storm screaming outside.

It was silly, I knew that. A blanket couldn’t protect me from thunder. But in that moment, it felt like all I had.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The sky had been gray all day, but it wasn’t until the thunder started that Rafe really noticed.

He’d been pacing around his room, half-listening to whatever song was playing on his speaker, when the first low rumble shook through the house. He paused, mid-step. Looked out the window.

Rain was coming down hard now—fast, steady, and angry.

His stomach dropped.

Shit.

He didn’t even have to think. The moment the second, louder crack of thunder hit, he was already pulling his phone from his pocket.

Her contact was right there—top of the list, like it always was. He’d just texted her earlier. Dumb stuff. Nothing serious. But now he was staring at her name, thumb hesitating over the screen like it might bite him.

Another roll of thunder.

He could practically see her in his mind—knees pulled to her chest, blanket over her head, hands clamped over her ears.

She hated storms.

He remembered the first time he learned that. They were thirteen. A hurricane had been rolling in, and they’d taken shelter at Tannyhill with the rest of the Kooks. She’d sat on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, face pale.

She hadn’t even told him. He’d just… seen it. The way her hands shook. How she flinched at every crack of thunder. The way her voice was so quiet when she finally whispered, “I hate this.”

She’d always been that way—gentle, soft-spoken. Sweet in a way that made the world feel quieter when she was around. Rafe had never really been quiet. He wasn’t sure he knew how. But with her? He could breathe.

He pressed call. It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.

His jaw clenched.

She always answered. Always.

Without thinking, he grabbed his hoodie from the back of the chair, yanked it over his head, and headed for the front door.

She’d kill him for driving in this weather. But the thought of her sitting there alone, scared, with no one to talk her down—it made something hot and unbearable rise in his chest.

He didn’t even bother grabbing an umbrella. Didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He just drove.

Because that’s what he always did. He showed up for her.

And this time would be no different.

By the time he pulled up to her house, the rain was coming down in full sheets, wind shaking the branches overhead. Her car was in the driveway. Good.

He sprinted to her front door, knocking hard.

No answer.

He knocked again, then pressed his forehead to the door and called out, “It’s me.”

Seconds later, it creaked open.

There she was.

Oversized hoodie swallowed her frame, sleeves pulled over her hands, eyes wide and red-rimmed. Her hair was pulled back, a few strands sticking to her forehead from humidity, and she looked so small that it made something in Rafe’s chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

She nodded, but barely.

“I didn’t know it was gonna storm this bad,” she said, words wobbling like she was trying not to cry. “I didn’t wanna bother you, I know you were—”

“You’re never bothering me.” His tone came out sharp, a little too urgent. He exhaled, took a step inside. “I saw the clouds and just—I had to check on you.”

She stepped back to let him in, closing the door behind him. The storm outside roared.

“Lights flickered a couple times,” she murmured. “I thought they were gonna go out.”

Another crack of thunder. She winced.

Without thinking, Rafe pulled her into a hug.

She stiffened, just for a second, and then melted against him.

“I hate this,” she whispered into his chest.

“I know,” he said, one hand coming up to the back of her head. “I remember.”

His heart was beating too fast. She felt warm against him. Fragile.

“You always remember,” she said after a moment.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. “’Cause you’re my best friend.”

Her eyes lifted to his, and for a second, he wondered if she was about to say something. Something he wasn’t ready for—or maybe had been waiting years to hear.

But instead, she whispered, “Can you stay until it’s over?”

He smiled gently. “I was planning on it.”

They had settled into the living room, the low flicker of the TV casting a gentle glow over them. The storm outside had only grown louder, thunder cracking like a whip in the sky, rain slamming against the windows in relentless sheets.

She was curled up on the couch, wrapped tightly in a blanket, but it was Rafe’s presence—his warmth—that made her feel grounded. He sat right beside her, their sides pressed together, his thigh solid and steady against hers. She didn’t shy away. In fact, she leaned in—shoulder brushing his, her head resting lightly on his bicep.

Every time the thunder roared, she flinched just a little, and every time, his hand found a new place to soothe. First, it rested on her knee, his thumb drawing slow circles. Then it slid up, fingers tracing her arm gently, until it settled against the curve of her waist, warm and grounding. Later, he wrapped his arm fully around her shoulders, pulling her closer, letting her sink into him like he was the safest place in the world.

And to her—he was.

It was quiet for a while. Just the rain, the occasional rumble in the sky, and the soft sound of her breathing, which was finally starting to slow. She hadn’t fallen asleep, but she was nestled into his side now, the blanket half-forgotten in her lap. Her hand rested on his chest, just over his heart, fingers gently fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, her voice a little hushed and hoarse from earlier tears.

Rafe smiled softly, his chin dipping to rest on top of her head. “That’s what happens when you run through a downpour like a maniac.”

She let out a small laugh against his chest. It was muffled, but he felt it. She tilted her head to look up at him, cheek still pressed to his shoulder. “You didn’t have to come over.”

His eyes met hers—stormy like the sky outside, but softer, vulnerable in a way she rarely got to see. “Yeah, I did.”

She blinked, not looking away. “Why?”

Rafe’s jaw flexed like he was trying to keep something in. He looked away for a moment, toward the rain racing down the windows, then back to her.

“Because you’re my girl,” he said simply. “Storm or not.”

Her breath caught, just slightly, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.

He kept going, quieter now. “And because the thought of you sitting here, scared, without me—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sit still.”

She reached up then, brushing his damp hair back from his face, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. Her touch was soft, but it was full of things she hadn’t said out loud yet.

“You’re kind of stuck with me, you know,” he added, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

She smiled back, small and real. “I know.”

Her hand slipped down from his face, trailing along his jaw before resting back against his chest, over his heart. His hand slid down to her waist again, pulling her in even closer, and neither of them said anything for a long moment.

The thunder rolled again, but this time, she didn’t flinch.

“Hey,” she said softly, barely above a whisper.

He hummed in response, already watching her.

“I like being stuck with you.”

And somewhere between the steady rhythm of the rain and the warmth of his arms around her, the line between best friends began to quietly blur—shifting into something softer, something more.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 12

A/N: Me posting on schedule for once?? And finally adding a Cassian moment??

Content Warning: Descriptions of Injuries, Mentions of Blood/Torture/Slavery

Previous Chapter/Masterlist

-----------------

Cassian’s sitting up when I return in the late afternoon the next morning with enough mirthroot to get half the city high, his eyes bloodshot, rimmed with circles so dark I’m not convinced they aren’t bruises. 

“You haven’t slept,” I say by way of greeting. 

A shadow of stubble already crawls across his dirt streaked face, as if time is passing faster for him than for the others. Azriel’s wounds are the worst. They’d taken that flagrum to his already broken wings and I’m shit out of luck with how to treat such delicate limbs. I’d bandaged them best I could last night, and have come back this morning with enough coin to bribe the Arena’s healer into doing what I can’t, the least I can do is ease the other’s pain while they wait for their turn to be properly looked at. 

Cassian’s gaze drags to me like his eyes are made of lead. He’d let me touch his wings last night out of necessity, the bandages I’d set in place barely clinging on now. Sometime in the last couple of hours he’d managed to crawl into an upright position so he could watch the door, a fresh wave of blood dribbling down his sides to form a small puddle in the mud beneath him. “‘M fine.”

I approach slowly. He hadn’t said a word other than “fuck me” from the pressure of the bandages last night, had just gritted his teeth and accepted that I was the only one coming to help ensure he kept his wings. It was abundantly clear he’d allowed it out of necessity. Now that he can hear the healer making a fuss in Azriel’s cell, I’m unsure how necessary he’ll think I am.

“I brought something to help with the pain,” I say as I kneel in front of him. 

He watches me like I’m a snake coiled to strike. “Give it to Az.”

I place a worn leather satchel between us, the lip falling away to reveal a bottle of temetum and the multiple packs of mirthroot I’d acquired. His hazel eyes flick briefly to the bottle of undiluted wine before coming back to me. A move that would have been harder to track if he wasn’t so exhausted.

“I’ve got plenty to share. Take your pick.”

“Wine would be nice, I guess.”

At least he’s speaking to me. I uncork the bottle and hold it out to him. Finding cups was too time consuming, I’d figured they’d need a lot anyway, the three of them could easily finish off the bottle. 

He tries to take it, arm muscles so tight they’re shaking, but he can’t lift his arm very high off the floor before his face twists in pain. The whip had torn through both his wings and his back, it must have hit muscle somewhere. 

I move despite my better judgement, a hand on his bicep to steady him as he bites down on his lip to keep quiet. “Shit, here, let me help you.” I bring the bottle to his lips and tip it back, letting the crimson colored liquid slip slowly over the top.

I’ve never been more aware of him. The underlying scent of snow-chilled wind and crackling embers, heavy even under the coppery scent of blood and sweat clinging to his skin. The sheer size of him, every bit of him hard and sculpted for battle. I knew it; I’d seen it in action, but I was practically in his lap, watching every swallow he took as he drank the wine down like it might be his last chance at tasting it, and I realized I’d never been so close.

When I pull the bottle away from his cracked lips to let him catch his breath, his head falls forward just enough that for the briefest of moments, our foreheads touch. A breath shakes out of him, labored and heavy, and pained. 

Instinctively, the hand not holding the bottle reaches up to push a loose strand of sweat slicked hair off his cheek, where it falls in his eyes. His stubble is rough against the smooth skin of my palm, my fingertips gently tracing the swell of his cheek as I tuck it behind his ear. He doesn’t protest my touch like I expect him to.

“Thank you,” he whispers before pulling away. 

I want more. Damn me! Now that I’ve had a taste I can’t stop myself from wanting to trace more of him with my fingertips. I want to feel those damaged lips on mine, chasing the taste of wine away with my tongue. 

I lean back on my heels instead. “Do you want the mirthroot?”

Azriel screams from his cell, reality chasing away any lingering fantasies about what we can do down here. The bond echoes with his pain as the Healer calls for the Guard to help hold Azriel down so he can work. 

“Go help him,” Cassian says instead. “Please.”

Having them all in one place would make this so much easier, but I doubt we’ll ever be that lucky again. The odds are leaning towards individual matches in the future, I doubt the Emperor will ever let the mistake of letting them save each other happen again. 

Azriel’s screaming is getting more intense by the second and Cassian looks like he might try to stand and go to him if I don’t, so I make quick work of shouldering my way into Azriel’s quickly crowding cell. Two Guards have come to hold him down by the shoulders; his thrashing has knocked off most of the bandages I’d placed last night, blood flowing freely from the tattered membrane. His wings look like an old, tattered piece of cloth.

Between the three males, they’ve managed to get Azriel off the floor and onto the iron bunk welded to the wall, but the movement must have been excruciating because there’s a fresh puddle of vomit on the floor. I have to skirt around it to crouch in front of Az, where his chin sits against the edge of the bunk. 

I take his face in my hands. “Look at me.” His skin is hot to the touch, sweat dripping down his forehead as his body tries to fight off an infection.

He drags his eyes open, scarred hands fumbling to take hold of my wrists. “Make it stop. Make them stop.” He begs.

My heart clenches painfully tight in my chest. “They’re going to help you.”

His grip on my wrists is a vice as he tries to shake his head, the chain around his throat rattling. It has effectively cut him off from his shadows, the little creatures nowhere to be found now. The loss of their ever constant presence must feel like losing a limb. “Don’t let them take my wings!”

The fever’s making him delirious, but his panic is very much a real, thrashing thing down the bond. “They’re not going to take your wings, I promise.”

“I need to get to work-” the Healer starts.

“Shut up,” I hiss. “You didn’t even try to give him something for the pain first!” A bit of my darkness seeps out of my heels, hissing along the floor like their appearance might make up for my mate’s lack of shadows. 

The cell trembles around us, dust raining down from the ceiling. I don’t try to reign it in this time. The Guard will tell the Emperor about this, and I will tell him it’s all part of my plan. 

With some bullying of the guard I get my hands on some hot rocks in order to diffuse some of the mirthroot faster, letting the vapor rise like incense off the edge of the bunk. The smoke clouds the area around Azriel’s head, the high almost immediate. His hazel eyes glaze over, body relaxing as he slumps on the bunk.

I drift my fingers through his hair. “You’re going to be ok.” This is not the time to cry. The amount of things shooting down my bond with all three of them is a lot when they’re in this state, it’s taking everything I have to keep my own emotions in check, to not be swept away in the tidal wave of pain and fear that threatens to drag me under. 

I give myself a little shake. I have to be strong for them. “The Healer will help.”

Azriel groans, scarred hand reaching up to brush absent patterns along my wrist. “Hurts,” he slurs against the effects of the mirthroot.

“I know. It’ll be over soon.” I motion the Healer back over with my chin and the male has the good sense to look a little hesitant in getting so close to me.

I reign my darkness back in, little by little until it’s gone. The Guards share a look and I know this will get back to my Father eventually. I’ll have to be clever in my explanation; better yet, I should save myself the headache and go over to the Palace once I’m done here. It’ll keep me ahead, let me spin the narrative in a way that doesn’t make me look so bad in his eyes.

The Healer starts working and I instinctively intertwine my fingers with my mate, letting him squeeze as hard as he needs as the male starts dripping oils down his raw back. When Azriel whimpers in pain again, I set more mirthroot over the hot rocks. Everyone in the cell’s going to be high as hell by the time it’s all said and done, but it keeps Azriel from screaming, his breathing even as he drifts in and out of consciousness. 

Even as he starts to doze off, he doesn’t let go of my hand, his grip still firm and steady. I use my free hand to trace the grooves and ridges of his scars, the pattern like a map of valleys and hills. I wonder if he can even feel my touch, or if his nerves are permanently fried. I’d never thought to ask.

“Such delicate things, wings,” the Healer muses as he works. “You’d think something meant to carry a body this large would be less fragile.”

I tear my gaze away from Azriel’s hands to glare at him. “You will save them.” There is no room for debate here. 

The Healer rolls his eyes at me. “Sound like your Father.”

“Then you know what’s at stake if you mess this up,” I hiss in return. I won’t let the sting of the insult land. If that’s the monster I have to make myself out to be to ensure they are healed, so be it. There is no depth in Hel I won’t descend to to ensure their survival.

Azriel’s fully dozing now, his breathing even, body relaxed. I genuinely don’t know how he has the strength to still be holding my hand. 

The Guards leave when they see they’re not needed, I can hear them tormenting the other gladiators down the hall. 

The Healer makes slow work, between weaving strands of glittering magic along the frayed ends of Azriel’s wings and applying oils and antiseptics and bandages afterwards. Time becomes a steady unfurling of white bandages and blood. I keep myself busy by combing the knots out of my mate’s hair with my fingers; anything I can to ensure he knows, even in sleep that I’m here. I wish I could do more.

The Healer’s eyes are rimmed with dark circles by the time he’s done, the strain of that much magic clearly taking a toll. 

White bandages cover every inch of Azriel’s wings, and there’s more along his back, sticky from the oils. There’s not enough skin left to be stitched back together, the wounds will have to be cleaned and dressed over and over until they can heal on their own. A thought that makes me shutter. They need to be somewhere clean to avoid infection at all costs. It’ll be months before they’re able to fight again. Months before they’re able to be up and moving at all. And I know that it’s months we don’t have. 

I have to find a way to buy them time.

I toss the Healer the first round of coin. He’ll get the full amount once he’s done with each of them, to ensure he’ll properly comply with my many demands. I’m going to need a lot more to bribe him to do this daily if I can’t find a way to get them back to the River House. 

“This is a whole lot of work for a couple of slaves,” the Healer grumbles. 

It takes everything in me not to blow the roof off the place. 

---

Joining my Father for dinner is surely a mistake, but I don’t see what other choice I have. Besides, it’s not like I can go home. Not without being drugged again. 

The Emperor lounges on plush pillows, propped up by scantly dressed servants and fanned with palm fronds by others. There’s a feast large enough to feed the city spread out before them, barely touched as he focuses all his attention on a plate of roasted chicken and a never ending supply of wine. 

My cousins join him today, on his left, reclining against each other. Brannagh eyes me with enough contempt to remind me that the last we’d spoken directly, I’d accused her of sleeping with Dagdan. The fact that his throat is littered with hickeys does nothing to prove me wrong. 

Amarantha arrives after we’ve started, huffing an excuse about dealing with a prison riot.

The five of us make a sorry excuse for company. Dagdan won’t stop rambling one nonsense story after the other, most of which annoy Amarantha so badly she has no choice but to dispute his claims. There’s little room for the rest of us to get a word in.

I have not missed these. 

The food sits heavy in my stomach; all I can think about is how I had to bribe the Guard to ensure my mates even got a meal, should they wake up to eat it after the amount of mirthroot it took to get them comfortable. Rhys had finished off the bottle of wine before the Healer was done. 

“I tell you the male ripped the beast a part with his bare hands!” Dagdan finishes. I don’t know what the rest of the story was, I’d tuned him out, filling the noise in my skull with my second wine glass of the evening. 

The Emperor seemed surprised by my visit, but he hasn’t said a word about it yet, despite the way those slate gray eyes watch my every move.

“I can assure you, he didn’t,” Amarantha counters. “Leon has got to be the worst Gladiator Beron has ever produced in those grimy little Pits he runs in Autumn.”

“You haven’t been to those Pits in some time,” Dagdan refutes. “They are much better run than they used to be.”

“You sink too much money into false hopes, boy,” the Emperor chastises, but his gaze remains fixed on me when he speaks. 

“None as much as my dear cousin,” Dagdan sneers. 

“I’m sure you’ve nearly drained your purse on those brutes by now,” Brannagh says with a laugh.

Amarantha eyes me curiously. 

“My purse is fine,” I say dismissively, hoping to end this conversation here and now.

“How are your little pets?” Amarantha presses. 

I absently stab at a piece of roasted vegetable. Telling her their actual condition might leave room for her to try and do something to them; lying might send someone down to confirm my story. “Recovering,” I say, trying to find a middle ground between the two. “I’ll be lucky if the Shadowsinger can fly after this.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t cheated,” Father says as one of his serving girls wipes a bit of wine out of his greying beard.

“It’s going to cost me a lot to fix, is all,” I say, using the excuse of biting my food to hide the way my jaw tenses. 

“I heard you were down there with them this morning,” he inquires.

Amarantha places her elbows on the table as she leans forward like she might miss this new bit of gossip.

Beside me, Dagdan frowns about being forgotten so quickly.

“I was.” I take another sip of wine to hide how dry my mouth suddenly feels. “It was fairly easy in the state they were in to convince them I had defied you to see them. I’d say their trust in me is fully cemented. They’ll start telling me things soon enough.”

“I want to know what Rhysand had planned after taking Illyria from me,” the Emperor says. It’s by far the closest he’s ever come to trusting me with political matters. “Surely he couldn’t have intended to push us out of the territory alone. His fighting men are strong, but it’s not enough of an army. He had to have been planning on aid from somewhere.”

I nod as I chew on another bite of food, pretending to think it over.

“His men have revealed nothing,” Amarantha sighs as she stabs at her plate with more force than necessary. “We’ve had to get creative with our methods to get them to talk and even under duress their… loyalty,” she spits out the word like its poison, “has won out.”

My chest constricts. Were the crucifixions not creative enough? Was making them walk here, chained and naked and beaten from Illyria not enough? We were torturing them now too?

“I can always put my talents to use,” Brannagh offers, tapping a manicured nail against her forehead. 

“Maybe they don’t know,” I offer. “Rhysand is secretive, allusive even to me. Maybe he held that card close to the vest for their protection.” I don’t like putting him directly in the line of fire, but I know what he would do if he was here, what he would offer to keep Brannagh’s hands off his men. All of them would offer themselves as a target to keep them safe. I can act for them in this.

“Give me a few more days, let me see what I can get out of him before you resort to that.”

“Awfully protective of these Illyrians, aren’t we?” Amarantha accuses.

“I’m merely thinking of the losses,” I counter. 

What was it my Father had always said? “A slave is more expensive to replace than to keep alive.”

To which the male raises his cup in salute before downing it in one gulp. The wine is quickly refilled.

“For once you were paying attention,” he praises.

The food sits heavier in my stomach. For so long that was all I’d ever wanted, for him to be proud of me, for him to see that I was trying my hardest to be the daughter he needed to me. I’d craved the faintest scrap of his attention for so long it had nearly destroyed me. To hear it now, to see what I would have had to become to earn it…

This whole Empire is a poison. It ruins everything it touches. 

“Brannagh, Dagdan, you may leave us.”

The twins look surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. Surely they thought they were going to be given an opportunity.

“But-”

He waves a hand at them. “We have matters to discuss that don’t concern you. Go. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

Brannagh grits her teeth as she stands, her eyes, the same shade as my Father’s narrowed in on me as if this is my fault. I supposed, in my absence, she’s gotten used to standing in my place, to being recognized. With me here now, there’s not as much room. The admiration of the Empire can only hold so many people. I fear I’ve made a bigger enemy out of her than I meant to.

Dagdan’s mouth opens and closes like he might say something, then thinks better of it. After his drunken outburst yesterday he knows he doesn’t have the sway he needs to be here.

They leave with their arms linked together, like the weight of the dismissal is too much for them to carry alone.

The glare Brannagh throws over her shoulder as the doors start to close tells me I need to be aware of just how many enemies I’m making these days.

“I need to make sure you are prepared for this task you’ve set out to do,” Father says once they’re gone.

My heart stutters in my chest. “What do you mean?”

“This information will not just come to you, if you intend to appeal to this bond they think they have with you and get the information we need, you need to make some… adjustments.”

Amarantha watches me over the rim of her glass.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Torture clearly won’t work,” he explains. “And it would ruin this trust they have in you. You need to be more persuasive in your approach, I think.”

“The faster we have results, the easier to deal with this mess will be,” Amarantha adds.

“And you’re in a… unique position.”

I don’t rub my temples like I want to. “Speak plainly, please.”

“Seduce them.”

I accidentally drop my fork, the clang of it hitting the plate deafening in the wide space.

“It's what they want from you anyway, what a mating bond demands happen. If you can convince them that you’re as desperate to be with them as they are you, they’ll tell you more readily. More secrets have been spilled in bed chambers than in temples.”

“Plenty of sponsors reap the benefits of their champions anyway, it would not be out of the norm,” Amarantha shrugs.

Bile rises in my throat. “Aren’t you still in the process of marrying me off?” 

“Romulus is intrigued by you, but he will not ask for your hand while you are tied to them. You ruined that chance.” He takes another long drink of wine, clearly displeased with that fact. “Tamlin and Eris are still competing, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

I take another long drink of wine. “I’ll need them returned to my care at the River House. Attempting to do anything in the Arena barracks could lend ear to gossip and that could poorly affect a marriage proposal.”

“You can take Rhysand back, not all three of them.”

Any sort of excitement that I’d managed to actually pull this off fades in an instant. 

“They’ve proven that being together is dangerous.”

“They are not fools, they will see through this arrangement,” I try to argue, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.

“You have proven to be equally as unpredictable and I need assurances that you are not playing me just as you are them. I know what a bond is capable of, I have seen plenty of children turn on their parents for a mate. Prove yourself useful with Rhysand and then perhaps I will find a usefulness for the others. Until that time, they stay with the other gladiators.”

“They need a clean environment to heal if you are to keep them as gladiators.”

“This is not a debate. It is a test. You’ve revealed a weakness in yourself. Show me it isn’t one.”

“There are plenty of other ways for us to get results if you’re incapable,” Amarantha says with a shrug. “I don’t personally think you’re capable of separating your feelings on the matter, but I’m eager to sit back and watch it burn.”

My cheeks burn but I bite my tongue.

“I’ll get the results we need when you fail.”

“I won’t fail,” I say through my teeth. 

But it’s certainly going to take a lot more than I’d anticipated to play this Game, and play it correctly. Hell, I still have to find a way to get this to work around Anise! And manage to go back and forth between the House and here to ensure Azriel and Cassian are safe.

I don’t rub the tension headache building in my temples. I don’t let the mask slip. I raise my glass in mock toast to my Father. “Here’s to ensuring the safety of the Empire.” The wine helps the unease lodged in my throat go down a little easier. I’m going to need a lot more before this is done.

--------

Tag List:

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

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@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd, @urfunnyvalentin3, @mack234-blog1, @kissesfromnovalie,

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@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime,

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@marrass, @lia-h-r, @celestialzdiviner, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @tenshis-cake,

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@of-outerspace, @erencvlt, @corvusmorte, @lindsayjoy444, @raccoonworld,

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@byteme05, @art1012, @the-tummo, @kiwi-mothball, @onthewaytotimbuktu,

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@dreamloud4610, @justtryingtosurvive02, @sapphichotmess, @nishinoyastoes, @acourtofladydeath,

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@amelya5567, @cardanenthusiast, @auraofathena, @edance2000, @acourtofbatboydreams,

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@getosimping, @georgiadixon, @throwing-up-butterflies, @marv3lsold13r, @mystirica-18,

//

@lucilia9teen, @elaselat, @deadlydemon, @erin-reads-stuff

Sorry this chapter is so short, I was debating on the direction I was headed, so I just needed to set some things up. As always, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list and thank you all for sticking with me this far! <3

[hailthegodsong]

BETTER

One-shot ~ Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 5.6k +

Summary: When you come down with a sickness at work, Jake picks you up and (mother hens) takes care of you at home. Sick fic comfort!!

A/N: this one shot was requested and I loved writing it so so much! I did also do the temperature reading in fahrenheit because I know most of my readers don't use celcius so theres that. Hopefully this makes you feel better anon!

Content Warnings: illness, cough, fever, sweat, restlessness, nausea, caretaking, so so much fluff it’s rotting my teeth

You’d woken up with a dry mouth and a slight tickle in your throat— nothing serious. Nothing that screamed cancel everything, you’re coming down with something. Just a mild scratchiness that had made you pause while brushing your teeth and frown at your reflection.

Jake noticed. “You okay?” he asked, half through a yawn, sleep still dragging at his voice as he leaned on the bathroom doorway, hair messy and shirt wrinkled from tossing in the night.

You shrugged and spit your toothpaste out before speaking, “Yeah. Just… throat’s kinda weird this morning.”

He tilted his head, arms folding across his chest. “Weird like how?”

You rinsed out your mouth and then smiled at him in the mirror. “Like I shouldn't've let you talk me into sitting with you on the balcony for two hours last night.”

Jake grinned, then stepped behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. He kissed your temple, lips warm and soft. “Worth it, though.”

You leaned into him for a second longer than you meant to, a quiet hum catching in your throat. That dull fatigue from last night was still hanging on. Not quite tired, not quite awake. You figured you just needed caffeine.

“Yeah, worth it. ,” you smiled at his sleepy reflection in the mirror. 

“Let me know if your throat gets worse though, okay?”

You nodded, pulling your hair into a ponytail. “Promise.”

—

It got worse.

By noon, your head felt too heavy for your neck. You’d stared at your screen for twenty minutes before realizing you hadn’t processed a word of the email open in front of you. Your body ached. Cold one second, flushed the next. And despite the hoodie you’d thrown on during your break, you couldn’t stop shivering.

You tried to tough it out. You really did. If you left work early, Jake would fuss, and you’d feel dramatic, and there was a meeting at two that were supposed to take notes for.

But by your lunch break, you began to feel dizzy. And nauseous.

You stood too fast from your chair and the room tilted sideways. You had to grip the edge of the desk to stay upright, teeth clenched together as you tried to breath through the rolling of your stomach. Everything felt just slightly wrong, like your body was a half-second behind your brain. An ache had crawled into your joints and you could feel heat rising under your skin and up your neck. You didn’t want to acknowledge it for what it was— but it was unmistakably a fever.

You didn’t even remember sitting down on the break room couch. You only realised you were curled up there when your phone buzzed in your hand, Jake’s contact photo lighting up your screen.

You squinted against the brightness as another unexpected wave of nausea washed over you.

Attached to your text chain was a blurry photo of a tiny frog sitting on the edge of a sidewalk, back legs stretched out like he was sunbathing. You smiled faintly, chest squeezing at the way Jake always shared the smallest, most random things with you just to feel close during the day.

Before you could respond, another text came through.

Jake: How are you feeling? That throat thing any better?

Your smile faded.

You typed slowly, thumbs heavy.

You: Actually I’m not feeling great. Thinking I might head home from work early

It took all of five seconds for his typing dots to appear.

Jake: Oh no. What’s wrong

You sniffled, trying to sit up straighter on the break room couch. It didn’t help. Your back throbbed and the world still tilted slightly when you moved, like your body wasn’t sure which direction was up anymore.

You began to type your response.

You: Dizzy achy nauseous cold. Might be coming down with something

The phone started ringing before you could even finished reading your own message let alone send it. 

You exhaled and slid your thumb across the screen. “Hi.”

Jake’s voice was deep and laced with panic. “You still at work? I’m coming to pick you up.”

“No, no, it’s fine—” You tried to sit forward again and stopped when your ribs twinged, a deep cough scraping up from your chest. You couldn’t hold it in and it broke through you with a force that made your head throb. It left you breathless and slumped, blinking at nothing.

He didn’t say anything for a second. You could practically hear the way his brow raised as if to say ‘you sure about that?’

“I’m coming to get you,” he said again, firmer now. “You can’t drive if you’re dizzy. And you sound like death. I’ll get Sam to drop me off and I’ll drive your car home.”

You let your eyes close. The fight went out of you in one slow breath. “Okay.”

“Text me when you’re in the lobby, alright? I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Okay,” you murmured, voice cracking. You stood slowly, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, heavy and lagging behind your thoughts

Thankfully, your boss didn’t ask too many questions when you approached her desk, voice scratchy and eyes a little glassy. Maybe you looked as awful as you felt, because the moment you murmured that you weren’t feeling well and might need to head home early, she nodded and said, “Get some rest. Feel better soon.” 

You packed up slowly, hands trembling as you zipped your bag. The room tilted ever so slightly when you stood, like the ground didn’t quite want to stay put beneath you. You pulled your coat tighter around your aching frame, wincing as the zipper caught for a second, then began the sluggish walk to the elevator.

The lobby was quiet this time of day. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning vents and the click of your shoes against the floor. You sank into the small couch near the windows, tucking your arms tightly around your middle as a shiver worked its way up your spine. Your head tipped back against the cushion, eyelids heavy, stomach hollow and churning. The light from outside blurred in your vision, soft and unfocused, as you tried to breathe through the dizzy haze.

Now all you had to do was wait.

God, your skin hurt. That strange, restless ache was everywhere— your knees, your spine, even the muscles in your jaw. Your head was pounding from the inside out, temple throbbing every time you moved your eyes. Your face was hot, but the chill running through your limbs had you tucked into yourself like it was the middle of winter. You kept trying to get warm but couldn’t.

You felt embarrassed for being picked up like this. Too sick to function. Too weak to get yourself home. You hated asking for help.

But you weren’t the one who called— Jake had known. Had sensed that you needed him before you even said the words.

A minute passed. Maybe five.

Then you heard the automatic doors slide open, and through your half-lidded eyes, you saw him.

Jake stepped in with a determined eye, already scanning the lobby. His brows lifted when he spotted you, and the look on his face was something between heartbreak and relief.

“Oh, baby,” he breathed, crouching in front of you.

You blinked at him, dazed. “Hi.”

He reached up and brushed the back of his fingers along your cheek, frowning at how warm you were.

“Shit, honey, you’re really not well,” he muttered.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, which might’ve had more weight if you didn’t sound like you’d been swallowing gravel.

Jake gave you the softest smile. “Sure you are.”

He helped you to your feet slowly, one hand bracing your lower back, the other slipping under your arm. When you wobbled, he pulled you in against him and held you there for a moment.

“Alright,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “Let’s get you home.”

Jake didn’t let you walk more than a few steps on your own.

He guided you out of the building with one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand covering yours where it clutched your coat closed. You leaned into him without thinking . Your legs felt unsteady, and your body was too heavy, your skin prickling with cold despite the fever baking beneath it.

When the wind hit your face outside, you shivered so hard it knocked the breath out of you. Jake stopped instantly.

He looked down at you with that furrowed brow, the one he got when something was wrong and he couldn’t fix it fast enough. Without a word, he shrugged out of his black corduroy jacket— the one he pretended not to know that you often stole off the back of his chair— and wrapped it around your shoulders like a blanket. His hands smoothed it over your arms gently, tucking it in, like you were something fragile.

“Better?” he murmured.

You nodded weakly. “Smells like you.”

He smiled and kissed your forehead. “Lucky for you, I smell amazing.”

Apparently you were too sick to appreciate the joke, as you merely hummed and continued sluggishly walking towards the car parked a few feet away. He helped you into the passenger seat, closing the door carefully once you were in. By the time he got in on the driver’s side, you were already curled up as tightly as the seat belt would allow, trying not to make your shivering too obvious.

Jake didn’t waste a second before the engine started and the heater was blasting within moments.

You leaned toward the vent, clutching his jacket tighter around you like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The warmth stung at first as your skin was so sensitive, but you sighed with relief as it finally started to thaw the chill in your bones.

Jake drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up between you on the console, waiting in case you reached for it. You did.

The heat rose until it was thick and heavy, making your eyelids droop, and Jake pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, visibly sweating but still not turning it down.

“I’m good,” he said quickly, noticing the way you peeked at him. “Don’t worry about me.”

You must’ve drifted off, because when the car stopped, Jake was already leaning over you to unbuckle your seatbelt. You blinked at him, disoriented, your head pounding behind your eyes.

“We’re home,” he said gently. “I’m gonna carry your stuff in. Can you walk if I hold you?”

“Mmhm.”

He helped you inside with slow, steady steps, and you clung to him without shame now. Your body just didn’t have the strength to do anything else.

Once you were inside, he guided you to the edge of the bed and crouched in front of you.

“Okay, don’t move,” he said softly, brushing your knee with his hand. “Let me get your pajamas.”

You watched through heavy eyes as he opened your dresser drawers with an easy familiarity, pulling out your favorite sleep shirt— the worn, oversized one you always wore when you needed comforting. He even found the fuzzy socks with the tiny suns on them that you always kept in the back of your drawer.

He turned down the blankets, fluffed the pillows, and added the heating pad to your side of the bed without a word. The care in every motion made your chest ache.

“Alright,” he said, coming back to you. “Arms up, sweet girl.”

You managed it, and he helped you out of your work clothes with gentle, efficient hands, always keeping you covered, never letting you feel exposed to him or the cold air. He tugged the pajama shirt down over your head and knelt to help you into your socks, smoothing them over your feet like you were the most delicate thing in the world.

Once you were finally bundled under the covers, he sat down on the edge of the bed and ran the backs of his fingers down your flushed cheek. His eyes moved slowly over your face, frowning softly at how pale you looked beneath the flush of your fever.

You leaned into the touch without meaning to.

“You’re still too warm,” he whispered, thumb trailing lightly along your temple. “Way too warm.”

He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the thermometer he’d grabbed earlier— waited for you to open your mouth before slipping it under your tongue. When it beeped, he didn’t hide his reaction.

“102.8,” he said under his breath, and then met your eyes again. “No wonder you feel like hell.”

He reached into the drawer where he knew you kept a small stash of meds— the way he navigated your space made it so clear how often he was here, how well he knew the rhythm of your home. He popped the cap on the bottle of tylenol and shook out two pills, then grabbed the glass of water that had been sitting on the nightstand from this morning.

“Here,” he murmured, sitting you up gently with one arm behind your back. “Take these, sweetheart. We’ve gotta get that fever down.”

You swallowed them obediently, the water barely touching your dry throat.

He eased you back down again, smoothing the blankets around you and tucking them in tight under your arms. You were already drifting, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, but you watched as he looked around the room searching for something.

A second later, he let out a quiet sigh and bent down beside the bed, fishing around beneath it.

When he came back up, he was holding your tiny, raggedy teddy bear you always slept with tucked under your arm. The one Jake always rolled his eyes at. The one he used to grumble about stealing his spot in the crook of your neck.

He tucked it carefully under your arm, smoothing your hand around it like it was the most precious thing in the world— not some beat-up childhood toy. You were barely conscious, but the gesture registered somewhere through the fog.

When he looked back at you, his eyes were soft. Completely gone for you. He leaned over again, kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “Just need some rest.”

His hand lingered, brushing back the damp edges of your hair, feeling along your forehead again, then down the slope of your jaw, over your collarbone, like he couldn’t stop reassuring himself that you were still there, still breathing. Still burning up, but safe.

Finally, he pulled away slowly, like it hurt to leave you even for a second.

“I’m gonna make you something warm, baby,” he said. “Soup or broth or something. You just rest. I’ll come check on you in a few.”

He turned down the light, making the room soft and quiet, and padded barefoot into the hallway, the sound of cabinets opening faintly drifting back as he moved through your kitchen like it belonged to him too.

You didn’t hear the soft clatter of the knife on the cutting board, or the bubbling that began on the stove as Jake stirred together a pot of broth, vegetables, herbs, and a few cloves of garlic he crushed with the flat of his hand. You didn’t notice the way he leaned over the pot, tasting, adding a pinch of turmeric, squeezing half a lemon in like his mom always did when someone had a fever. He kept the burner low and the lid slightly askew, letting the steam fill the kitchen with something rich and healing.

He checked on you every five minutes. Barely got through peeling a carrot without standing at the doorframe to your room, arms crossed, watching the way your chest rose and fell beneath the blankets. You were curled in a loose ball, one leg half-tangled in the sheets, hugging that teddy bear like it was his stand-in.

After a while, he let the soup simmer, set out a bowl, and set it on the counter to cool just enough not to burn your tongue.

You stirred in bed with a faint rustle, a slow groan that carried into the hallway. Jake was already there before your eyes were fully open. He came to your side, crouched down, fingers brushing your forehead again. Still hot, still too hot.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said gently. “You waking up?”

You nodded, but your face scrunched up almost instantly, like the act of opening your eyes had split your skull in two. You groaned again, pressing the heel of your hand to your temple.

“Hurts,” you whispered, barely audible.

Jake leaned in closer, smoothing your hair back. “I know, baby. I know. That fever’s a real nasty one.”

You winced, eyes barely open. “Feels like I got hit by a train. Or… a bus,” you grumbled. “Or both,” you added, groaning dramatically.

You blinked at him, eyelids heavy, throat dry and tight. You didn’t even feel thirsty, but your mouth was like paper, your lips tacky. Still, when Jake brought the glass to your lips, one hand steady at the back of your head, you drank slowly, just to please him.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

His fingers brushed a bit of hair from your cheek, lingering there like he couldn’t help himself. You swore his thumb had memorized the shape of your face by now— always tracing, always checking. Temperature, texture, tension.

“Think you can eat a little?” he asked, nodding to the bowl on the nightstand. Steam still curled lazily from the broth, fragrant and comforting.

You nodded faintly. “Yeah… I think so.”

Jake slipped an arm around your back, gently lifting you upright and propping pillows behind you until you were supported.

“Here.” He settled beside you, balancing the bowl and spoon. “Let’s go slow.”

Your voice was a rough whisper when you looked at the soup and managed, “Thank you.”

Jake’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to thank me. What else can I do, my love? I hate seeing you like this.”

You frowned, scooping up a spoonful. The warmth was good, heaty and comforting.

“Just need you to hold me,” you murmured between sips. Your voice was terrible— hoarse and cracked in the middle. Jake visibly winced at the sound of it, heart twisting.

Something in his face crumpled sweetly, his shoulders dropping as if your words cracked his chest open.

“Oh, my love…” he whispered, already shifting behind you on the bed. “C’mere.”

He shifted carefully, and gathered you into his arms cautiously as not to spill your bowl of soup, letting your weight melt back against his chest as you leaned into him. “Better?” he whispered into your hair.

“Mm,” you hummed sleepily, nodding as you lifted another spoonful.

His hands began to rub slow, soothing circles against your spine as you ate slowly, making your way through the broth.

When you were down to the last bit, Jake reached around, gently took the bowl and spoon from your hands, and set them aside. His arms came back around you at once, pulling you in close.

You sighed, shaky and pained, and leaned back against him, letting your aching body melt into the soft, bare skin of his chest. Your legs curled in beneath the blankets, your forehead resting against his shoulder.

He held you like that, whispering nothing words, just soft sounds and kisses to your temple. He rubbed your arm with the pads of his fingers, soothing your shivers away with the warmth of his body.

And finally, cocooned in his arms, you slipped under again, your last thought the feel of his lips against your burning skin.

You slept almost the entire afternoon. Jake never left the apartment.

He moved quietly through your space, cleaning up dishes from earlier, folding a bit of laundry that had been forgotten in the dryer, and wiping down the counters like he couldn’t sit still. Every few minutes, he checked in on you— just peeking through the door, watching your chest rise and fall beneath the covers, or feeling your forehead to make sure your fever hadn’t climbed any higher.

At one point, he pressed a fresh glass of water onto your nightstand and adjusted the curtains to let in a little golden light, just soft enough to keep the rom warm without hurting your aching eyes when you did wake.

When his stomach started growling, he made himself a quick dinner and sat quietly at the kitchen table, poking at the food like his heart was still in the bedroom beside you.

The apartment was quiet. Just the sound of a clock ticking above the sink, the hum of the refrigerator, and you, sniffling lightly in your sleep from down the hall.

Jake barely touched his plate.

Later, after the soup on the stove was cooled and packed into containers, Jake slipped into the dark of your room again, quiet as ever.

You were still curled in the same spot— tangled around that ridiculous teddy bear, your hair a little damp at the edges from the fever.

Jake sighed. He knelt beside the bed again, reaching out to press the back of his hand to your cheek, then your forehead, then your neck. You were still too warm— not dangerous, not worse, but hot enough to make him frown in the dark.

With a soft breath, he stripped off his shirt and slid in behind you.

You didn’t stir much, but your body instinctively turned into his, seeking the comfort. His arms wrapped around you immediately, hand splaying over your belly as he tucked your head beneath his chin.

He held you close, letting his cooler skin draw some of the heat from yours, wishing he could take more of it from you, just to make you rest easier.

Eventually, his eyes closed. His breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of yours. He drifted off like that, one hand gently tracing shapes against your side.

It was hours later when he woke again.

You were shifting in his arms, restlessly tossing, pulling at the blankets, breathing unevenly. Jake opened his eyes to find you awake, face creased with discomfort, your body radiating heat again like a furnace.

“Hey,” he whispered, instantly more alert. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

You groaned softly, curling tighter. “Everything hurts. Can’t sleep.”

Jake rubbed your back slowly, his other hand finding yours beneath the blanket. “Where?”

“My head. My back. My legs. I can’t get comfortable,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “Feel nauseous again too.”

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Jake sat up and leaned over you, brushing the sweaty hair from your face. He pressed his hand gently to your forehead again, then down along the side of your throat, as if he could ease the ache away with his fingertips alone.

“You’re burning up again,” he said softly. “Hang on.”

He got out of bed, disappearing into the dark for only a moment. You heard the sound of water running, cabinets opening. He returned with a cool, damp cloth in one hand and a pot of pills in the other.

You barely resisted as he dabbed your face and neck with the cool cloth, whispering soft things. They weren’t even words half the time, just the sound of his voice, steady and low. You wondered if he was just that tired that he wasn't making sense, or if his voice intended no more than to be a lullaby meant to soothe.

Jake helped you sit up slowly, tucking pillows around your back, guiding the pills to your lips with a glass of cool water. You grimaced as you swallowed. Your throat was raw, but he praised you like you’d run a marathon.

“There you go, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “Good job. Try to get some more sleep now. I’m right here.”

Jake climbed back into bed beside you, immediately reaching for you, easing you back against his chest tenderly. His palm settled between your shoulder blades, warm and grounding, then began its slow path down your spine. He pressed long, steady strokes, just the right pressure over the muscles you’d told him ached the most.

His touch never left you. Up and down, slow circles at the base of your neck, gentle thumbs pressed beneath your shoulder blades, the kind of love you didn’t have to earn, but was just given, because you needed it, and he wanted to give it to you.

He adjusted the pillows behind you carefully, then tucked your head beneath his chin, pressing the softest kiss to your temple.

You shifted faintly, body heavy, but your fingers curled against his arm like you were trying to stay awake.

Jake caught it. He dipped his head a little, brushing his nose against your hair.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispered. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

You made a tiny sound in reply, but your grip loosened. And just like that, you let go.

You fell asleep in his arms, breath softening against his collarbone, but Jake didn’t stop. Even with your body slack and still, he kept rubbing slow, rhythmic circles along your back, his hand gliding over your spine like a balm, like a promise. He massaged your shoulder where you always carried tension, pressed gently against the sore spots down your sides, careful not to wake you.

He didn't leave, not even for a second. Because if you were hurting, then Jake was staying. Just like he said he would.

– 

Jake eventually passed out, hands still pressed against your back as sleep claimed him. Morning came quickly, and you found yourself stirring in an empty bed.

And you felt... like absolute shit.

But maybe a different kind of shit.

The kind where your head still throbbed and your throat still felt like gravel and your whole body was sore— but you weren’t on fire anymore. Your brain felt foggy but no longer boiling in your skull.

You stirred under the covers and winced immediately at your aching body.

From the doorway of the room, you heard footsteps. Jake was beside you in seconds.

“Goodmorning beautiful,” he whispered, crouching at the side of the bed. “How’re you feeling? You need anything? How's your head?” He was already reaching for your face, pressing his hands against your cheeks to feel your temperature.

You blinked at him blearily. “Jake, I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine, you’re sick,” he corrected. “Fever’s down a little though. You’re not sweating anymore.”

“I feel gross,” you mumbled, voice cracking like dry leaves. “But less… death-y.”

Jake’s eyes softened. “I’ll take that.”

He smoothed your hair back again and tucked the blanket around your shoulders even though you were already half-buried in it.

“Don’t get up. I’ll bring you tea and toast. Then I’ll run a bath if you feel up for it. And I washed all your towels, by the way. The soft one’s on top.”

You blinked again. “You washed my towels?”

“Baby, I washed everything,” he said, giving you a look. “Been housewifing it up in here. I even wiped down your light switches.”

You let out the tiniest laugh and buried your face in the pillow.

“I could look after you sick for the rest of our lives and I’d still think you’re perfect.” Jake leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your hair. “But please don’t. I like you better healthy,” he added.

You gave him a sleepy, crooked smile. “Weirdest love confession I’ve ever received.”

He grinned, but only for a moment— his brows pulled together again as he cupped your cheek, just feeling the temperature under your skin.

“Still too warm,” he said under his breath. “I’ll get the tea. And maybe some fruit. You need some food in your system. Don’t move.”

“It’s not like I’m inclined to run away right now.”

He narrowed his eyes at you playfully, like you might rebel at any second, then stood and kissed your temple, again, before leaving the room. You could hear him in the kitchen within moments— opening drawers, pouring water into the kettle, pacing like you were on the verge of collapse and he had to be ready.

You smiled faintly into the pillow. Your body still ached, and your sinuses were stuffed, and you couldn’t imagine doing anything but staying in bed for another twelve hours.

But you had Jake.

And even if he hovered like a worried grandmother, and whispered about your too-high-fever under his breath like it was haunting him, he was yours.

And he was there.

Jake returned to the bedroom with a fresh mug of tea and a cautious expression. His hair was pulled back messily, like he’d been running his hands through it too many times while pacing the hallway, and he had that boyish furrow in his brow he got when he was trying not to concentrate.

He handed you the mug gently, watching you sip like it might shatter in your hands. “Alright. Be honest with me, how are we feeling?”

You gave a tired shrug. “Still shitty. But less of the delirious kind.”

“That’s not exactly a raving review,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face.

You were about to say something cheeky, but he cut in, already crouching beside the bed, one hand brushing hair from your forehead with exaggerated care.

“I was thinking maybe a bath,” he offered softly. “Something warm, not too hot. Steam might help your sinuses, and your muscles are probably screaming. I put the magnesium salts in already.”

You blinked. “You ran the bath?”

“Well, yeah. I knew if I waited to ask, you’d tell me not to bother,” he said, trying for a light tone, but his eyes were serious. “I’ll come sit with you. Just in case you feel dizzy again.”

“I’ll be fine,” you murmured, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “It’s not like I’m gonna faint in the tub.”

Jake’s lips pressed into a line.

“Let me come with you. I’ll keep you upright and feed you grapes if necessary.”

You smiled faintly, sinking back into the pillows. “Only if you join me.”

That made him pause. “Join you? In the bath?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed again. “I just… I want you close.”

There was a beat of silence, then the soft sound of Jake exhaling through his nose.

“Alright,” he said, already smoothing the blanket down. “But only ‘cause you asked. And also ‘cause I was planning to anyway.”

He helped you up with extreme care, hands steady at your waist, arm around your back, and moving like you were made of glass. You leaned against him as he led you into the bathroom, warm air curling around your legs as you stepped inside.

The tub was full, the water tinted slightly from the salts he must have added, and the lights were just a soft glow, dimmed to a warm hum.

He helped you out of your clothes, whispering little reassurances the whole time, before lowering you slowly into the bath. The moment your body hit the warmth, a full body sigh slipped from your mouth.

“Oh my god,” you breathed. “That’s perfect.”

Jake smiled, then stripped down beside you and climbed in behind you, his chest to your back, thighs bracketing yours beneath the water. The moment he got settled, his hands found your shoulders, thumbs pressing slow, gentle circles into the muscles there, working downward..

You melted into him, your head lolling slightly to the side.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just kissed your damp hair and kept massaging, letting the water do half the work, and his touch do the rest. Every now and then he whispered little murmurs like "You're okay, I've got you,"  though his hands never stilled.

Finally, through the haze of steam and comfort and warmth, you whispered, “I love you.”

Jake’s hands paused. Then moved again, slower, steadier.

You turned your head just enough to glance up at him, eyes heavy but sincere. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Jake’s heart clenched like a fist in his chest. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone, then your temple, then your shoulder, his palms smoothing up and down the skin on your arms.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Every time. Whether you want me to or not.”

You smiled weakly and let your head fall back against his shoulder again. He held you tighter, your back to his chest, arms around your waist, the two of you surrounded by a world slowed down.

You stayed like that until the water began to cool, and even then, Jake didn’t move until you whispered you were ready. He dried you off carefully, like you were something precious, dressed you in your softest pajamas, then helped you back into bed.

He even tucked the infamous teddy bear under your arm again, muttering some dramatic annoyance at the small, ragged thing, before kissing your forehead and climbing into bed behind you.

Wrapped in Jake’s arms, the worst of the aches still lingering but your body finally starting to relax, you let your eyes fall shut. His warmth at your back, the quiet sound of him breathing behind you, made everything begin to feel a little less heavy.

You were still sick, still wiped out, but you didn’t have to do anything else right now. 

Jake adjusted the blanket over your legs, then rested his chin lightly against your shoulder.

After a long pause, he whispered, “I love you.”

You hummed faintly, barely a sound, your eyes already closing.

His hand smoothed over your arm once, slow and careful. “Get some sleep.”

And you did. Tag List: @frogkiszka @hailtheaeon @allof--mylove @scarabsinthestardust @musicislove3389 @lightsofthe-living-gvf

[naught-skull]

The Pack is Growing

Your alpha's adding another bitch to your pack, and you're more than happy to help him break her in

fem werewolf!reader x masc werewolf!oc (x other fem werewolf!ocs)

werewolf smut (specifically shifted wolf x human), rape fantasy, mindbreak, knotting, bondage, heat, breeding, lactation

wordcount: 1,924

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alpha had been thinking about adding a new bitch to the pack for a while now, but it had taken him a while to find the right one. Finally, he had. You'd all heard her crying and struggling as he dragged her into your den and tied her down to the breeding bench. He'd immediately begun breaking her in; the sooner she learned her place the better. You'd listened raptly to the thumping and moaning in the mating room from your place in the nursery, wishing desperately that it was you in there instead of her. You know you'd cried when he first brought you in, but now you couldn't remember why. There was nowhere in the world you'd rather be but here: taking your Alpha's knot, relaxing with the other bitches, or suckling your pups.

You'd had two pups in your first litter, a perfectly manageable number. They slept contentedly against your stomach. There were constant sounds in the den, including the sounds of mating coming from the other room, and they were used to sleeping through it. They were approaching their eighth moon, and you'd begun to feel the stirrings of your first heat since birthing them. You loved them dearly, but not as much as you'd loved carrying them. You could only hope that Alpha would put another litter in you when the time came.

Alpha continued breaking in the new bitch on and off throughout the next few days. It lasted long enough that it became clear she wouldn't be an easily won addition to the pack, but you knew that would only excite Alpha more. He loved a challenge.

Those few days had passed and you were just finishing up suckling your pups. Your heat was coming on with more certainty now, you'd likely be fully in heat by the end of the next day. Alpha came in to check on you, the other bitches, and the pups, as he did a few times a day. You wanted to present to him to let him know how ready you were, but you didn't want to distract him from breaking in your new pack member. You almost managed to restrain yourself, only letting out a small whimper of need.

Even then, he was such an attentive Alpha that he noticed that small slip. He prowled over and pressed his nose against your throat. He was in wolf shape, which was how he preferred to spend most of his time, only shifting to man shape when he needed to. You'd been born human, of course, and were still more comfortable in your original shape, only shifting for pack runs or if Alpha asked you to. It was part of why two pups was the perfect number for you; you could suckle both of them without having to shift.

He sniffed deeply at your neck, tail wagging once in happiness at the smell of your fertility. He took a step back and looked contemplatively at you before beckoning you through your bond. An idea came to you from him wordlessly, in the way that all bond communication was. The idea was if the new bitch saw him mating you, she might warm up to her new spot in the pack quicker. You agreed eagerly. Any time spent on your alpha's knot was pure ecstasy, and you hadn't had nearly enough of it in the long months recovering from your first birth and minding your pups.

One of the other bitches was in the nursery with you. She had a litter of three, just two moons old, and was lounging in wolf shape as they slept. You pushed your and Alpha's plan through the bond to her, and she sent an affirmation back with a mental image of your two pups sleeping next to hers. You picked each one up and settled them next to their half siblings. Alpha made sure to check on every little one, greeting each with a sniff or a lick, tail wagging in happiness at his healthy pups. Once he had assured himself of their comfort and pressed his nose to the other bitch's muzzle in gratitude, he led you out of the nursery.

You followed him over to the mating room and got your first look at the new bitch. She was young, maybe even younger than you'd been when Alpha first brought you in, but old enough that she was strong and ready to carry pups for your pack. Her turning bite on her hip had stopped bleeding, but was still a deep, bruised red. A matching scar on your hip had faded to a light pink and was crossed over with stretch marks. The bite was the first step in the turning process. The next was semen. Alpha mounting each of his new bitches as soon as he brought them in didn't only help teach them about their new place in life, it also served as a critical component of the turning process, and more was always better. The last step was for the new bitch to relax her mental defenses and accept Alpha and the rest of the pack into her mind. As soon as this new bitch accepted her place and forged a mental bond with Alpha and the rest of the pack, the turning process would finish and she'd heal faster. Not only the turning bite, but also the other scratches and bruises that littered her naked body from the past few days of being fucked and knotted.

Her wrists, ankles, and waist were all bruised and inflamed too, under the leather belts that kept her tied to the breeding bench. It was soft leather, but there was only so much friction skin could take. The bench itself was small, but sturdy. Cushioned bars supported her waist and shoulders, with a perpendicular bar supporting her torso, neck, and head. It was designed to leave as much of the body exposed as possible, so Alpha could grab wherever he pleased or wrap his arms or forelegs around whichever bitch he was breeding over it. The established bitches didn't need to be tied to it, but still used it to keep themselves in breeding position toward the end of long and exhausting heats.

You settled on your knees next to her head, and she met your gaze with an exhausted but still defiant stare. You brushed sweaty hair off of her forehead and trailed a gentle finger down her cheek. If there had been a bond between you, you would have pushed reassurances and affection through it. You could still remember the language of men if you thought about it, but it didn't come naturally to you anymore, and using the language of the species she was leaving to bridge your communication gap didn't feel right anyway. Instead, you settled for pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, hoping that your obvious comfort in this room and during the coming events would get the point across.

You lined yourself up next to her so that your entire body was within her line of sight and settled on your hands and knees, hips tilted up and ready. Alpha got to work immediately. Since you weren't quite in heat yet, your body needed some preparation to take him comfortably, so he walked behind you and sniffed briefly at your cunt before his tongue darted out to lick slowly up your labia. You couldn't stop a soft moan at the feeling. He responded by lapping deeper and quicker to wet the lips of your opening before plunging his tongue inside. You jerked back to meet him as he drove his tongue in deep and licked the walls of your pussy. The attention caused your body to slick up naturally as it became hotter and more aroused. Alpha continued on expertly until you were trembling and rocking back against his muzzle.

When he was satisfied at the level of preparation, he withdrew his tongue and you moaned unhappily at the loss despite knowing what was coming next. He lunged forward and wrapped his front paws around your waist. Practice had you pushing back against his weight to keep both of you upright as he settled into position. You felt his teeth and the heat of his breath briefly against your neck and felt the tip of his cock pressing gently against the outside of your cunt, lined up and ready. He sent a pulse of love and happiness through the bond to you before snapping his hips forward and plunging in all at once.

You cried out at the sensation. More as a reflex than anything else. Alpha had done a good job preparing you, so the slight sting of initial penetration faded as your body adjusted. He began snapping his hips against yours. You rocked back to meet each one. A growl rumbled down through his chest into yours. Moans and gasps punched out of you in time with the thrusts. The tip of his cock knocked against the innermost parts of you with each snap forward, and it sent shocks of pleasure up your spine. The heat of arousal roared throughout your entire being, building up and up and ready to peak. He began to move even faster; his nails dug into your hips to pull you back against him so he could rock deeper, harder. You panted and moaned and gave yourself entirely over to him and to your arousal, your mind opening up to his so you could feel the waves of his arousal too and send yours back in return. As your thighs began to shake, it took everything you had to hold the both of you up. He snapped his hips forward and began rutting in quick, short thrusts. You could feel his knot begin to swell and that was all it took to push you over the edge. You screamed and your cunt clenched down around him as you came. The pressure was the signal he needed to begin spilling inside you and his knot swelled up to full size. Teeth pressed sharply against the back of your neck as he came. Reminding you that you were his. Not that you needed the reminder.

Your pussy spasmed around the knot stretching it out as you came down from your orgasm. The shaking in your thighs subsided. Copious seed warmed the inside of you, trapped. You dropped down onto your elbows so Alpha could place his front paws on the floor and stand over you until his knot subsided. He could have turned around, but you preferred this. Preferred the feeling of safety that came from him standing over you, his cock and semen trapped inside.

A sigh had you turning your head to the new bitch. You'd almost forgotten she was there. She was studying the two of you, and her shoulders slumped as some of the fight left her. Her eyes locked onto yours, and you offered her a soft smile of contentment. This was a good life. She'd never be alone again if she just gave in. She blinked slowly at you before turning her gaze to Alpha. A new mind stirred slightly against the edge of yours, and you knew that as soon as Alpha was able to pull out of you he'd mount her and cement her place in the pack. Excitement and happiness filled you at the thought of getting to know her, and getting to watch the pack grow that much stronger.

[icewindandboringhorror]

One of the interesting bits of trying to resume working on the game after so long is looking back at my ancient Draft Placeholder versions of an image from 4 yrs ago trying to remember what the hell I meant back then, to hopefully interpret it into some more final (ish..) form of the same thing .. making slow progress lol

[orcelito]

Despite all odds, I have arrived home safely👍

Turns out that the earlier goop was the better goop. The adderall goop. The adderall has worn off now though. So I am. Very incredibly out of it.

But I am home. And I will take my quick shower. And then I will climb into bed.

I do need to eat. But... later...

[rose-tinted-nostalgia]

I had to tell my manager, borderline in tears, that I had to go home just minutes after clocking into my second shift after finally returning to work this week because my son’s father is so incapable of watching his own children that he had a tantrum until I came home. But I got to dance in the kitchen with my kids while my oldest very proudly made pancakes all by himself, and although I sobbed the entire way home, seeing my children smile at me with that much love almost made me forget it.

[pearl-kite]

goodbye october

[ranoutofficssoiwritemyown]

You decide to sleep on the couch after an argument

love and deepspace

characters: Zayne, Sylus (pt2 here pt3 here)

note: they might be a little mischaracterized so bear with me.

Zayne

Usually, arguments with Zayne don’t get this heated. There was no yelling, not on his part at least, but he could be really cold with his words when he wanted to be. Not that you were any better. Some things you said hurt him to no end. So you came up with a decision - to sleep on a couch tonight. To be honest, it was more because to be petty, than not wanting to spend a night beside him. You gathered your pillow and blanket and got comfortable on the couch, which made Zayne sigh out loud when he entered the room.

“What is this?”

You turned your back to him as an answer. Another sigh comes out of his mouth. He’s exhausted, physically and emotionally, and you acting like a brat doesn’t ease anything at all.

“I know you’re mad, dear but is this necessary?”

No answer.

“Alright”

He left the room and before you could convince yourself that you didn’t care he was back with a blanket of his own and took a seat in an armchair. You turn your head towards him in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“I guess we’re not sleeping in bed tonight”

“I’m not. You can go”

“I believe I didn’t stutter”

You scoffed and turned around again.

“suit yourself”

Minutes pass and sleep doesn’t come to you. Whether it’s because of an uncomfortable couch or an absence of his arms around you is hard to say, but after turning around thousands of times and still not being able to sleep is frustrating.

Finally, Zayne had enough of watching your struggle.

“How about we go to bed?”

“No” came your response after a second of hesitation. With a small amused smile on his face, he hovered over the couch.

“What do you say… I take you to bed and you can curse me out for it tomorrow?”

You shifted a little but didn’t answer, which made his smile widen. He gathered you in his arms and your lack of objection was all he needed to take you to your room and tucking you in bed. Even though you seemed to warm up he didn’t know how far he could push you, so kneeling beside the bed to be on your eye level he started:

“If you still need space I can-”

“Stay”

He smiled at you tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Okay”

He got up and kissed your forehead before slipping in beside you and pulling you closer.

"I'm sorry..." you mutter

"Shh, we'll talk about it tomorrow... but I'm sorry too"

You smile a little. You two will sort this out tomorrow.

Sylus

What Sylus says, goes around. His word is the law. This is what he’s used to. That's how it's always been.

Then you came into his life and even though he’s still in charge of how things go in the N109 zone, you just need to say the word and everything will be how you like it. No questions, no hesitation. He would give you the world if you so much as whispered the need. Whatever you want, whatever you need, he will make it happen.

Unless, when it comes to your safety. Now don’t get me wrong. Sylus knows you can defend yourself and then some. But when it comes to the N109 zone, there are things Sylus knows better than you. Additionally, The fact that you can be reckless in your battles does nothing to help ease his worries.

That was the reason for the heated argument tonight. Sylus with his harsh words and snarky remarks always finds a way to infuriate you. So you two go on and on for half an hour now and none of you seems to back down. You storm off to your room and take your things to get comfortable on the couch. However, on your way out Sylus blocks your way. He raises an eyebrow at the blanket and pillow in your arms.

“Now, what exactly do you think you are doing, sweetie?”

“move”

“I asked you a question”

“I’m not sleeping beside you- Sylus” you exclaim as he hoists you over his shoulder. you punch and scratch his back but to no avail.

“Careful with your claws, kitten”

He drops you on the bed climbing over you.

“Now listen, this is what will happen. You will stop acting like a wild kitten and sleep beside me. I am sorry for hurting you but we will discuss it tomorrow, when we are both a lot calmer. Understood?”

You don’t want to give in so easily. You also don’t want to sleep without him tonight. So you nod avoiding eye contact. He, however, doesn’t accept it and raises your chin with his finger to make you look at him.

“Use your words, sweetie”

“Yes”

“Splendid” He removed himself from you so you could get under the blanket. He laid beside you and pulled you closer so your head was resting on his chest.

"Sy... I'm sorry too"

"So I'm Sy now?"

This man.

"Nevermind, you're still a prick"

You try to remove his arm but he holds you tighter as he laughs.

"Alright, alright. I'm sorry, sweetie"

You felt him kiss the crown of your head as he caressed your shoulder with his thumb. you return to your previous position and listening to his heartbeat, sleep lured you in soon enough.

[not-neverland06]

broken promises

pt two

bodyguard!logan howlett x congressman's daughter!reader

a/n: the fact that he was canonically a bodyguard makes me absolutely insane someone congratulate me, I finally figured out how to make my own dividers Summary: He's learned from past mistakes that no matter how tempting the girl is, it's better not to get involved. He just needs some cash, he doesn't give a fuck how pretty you are. He doesn't care about you. He makes it clear he wants nothing to do with you besides seeing you sign his check. But, is that really all he wants? You're not blind to the way he looks at you. 18+ MDNI Shameless smut at the end, I'm not sorry about it at all.

Logan had gotten used to this. The long drawn-out wait to meet with the man who wanted to hire him. He always arrived right on time, not a moment earlier. They all had the same game they liked to play. 

The secretary would greet him, a pretty girl in her 20s that the men were screwing or trying to screw. Then they would make him sit in the lobby for half an hour. They’d apologize by pushing the blame on someone else, saying a meeting had gone on too long. But there wasn’t a meeting. There never was. 

They liked to make themselves seem more important than they were. It was a power game, an intimidation tactic that he had always scoffed at. He didn’t give a fuck what government ties they had or otherwise. He just wanted his paycheck. 

This one was no different. A congressman who had only recently begun to make waves when he started up an anti-mutant agenda. Ironic that he had specifically requested Logan for the very thing he was trying to eradicate. 

There was a buzz and then the secretary was picking up her phone. She spared Logan a fleeting glance before whispering something into the receiver. She looked over at him and he already knew what she was going to say.  “He’s ready for you now.” 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she gave him a coquettish smile as he made his way towards the large office at the end of the hall. The door was closed when he reached it, three quick knocks and then a quiet Come in. 

The man didn’t even look up to greet him. He continued signing something on his desk. Logan took a seat in one of the chairs, waiting for another few minutes before he was deemed important enough to address. He received a tight smile and narrowed eyes as the man took in the way he was dressed. 

He never dressed up for these things. He’d learned a while ago that a suit wasn’t going to get him any further than his leather jacket was. Might as well be comfortable while talking to these pricks. 

“Had a phone call with an associate of mine. Ran on longer than I meant it to.” Always an excuse, never an apology. 

Logan scoffed and shrugged. “I was fine.”

The man sniffed, “I’m sure. Look, I’ll cut straight to the chase. You come highly recommended by my peers and I need help fast.” Logan nodded, motioning for him to continue. The man’s eyes lingered on his fists for a long while before he finished. “It’s my daughter. Things have been a little rough for her at school, for lack of a better word. Especially since this new campaign started. I just need someone to keep a closer eye on her.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed, “She a party girl or something?” He wasn’t sure he could handle another bratty daddy’s girl again. The last one had nearly made him blow his brains out. They always think flipping their skirts up will let them get away with more and he can’t stand it. 

The man’s face blanched and he shook his head so vigorously that his jowls moved with him. “Oh, no, not at all. But she’s,” he paused and lowered his voice. He leaned in closer to Logan and waited for Logan to do the same. He rolled his eyes but did it anyway. “She’s like you, you know.”

Logan shot him a grin, “You mean a mutant.”

“Lower your voice,” he hissed, face tightening up in anger. “But, yes, a mutant. And I need one to guard her.” Ironic, this man was driving a campaign to make mutants second-class citizens, and his daughter was one. But Logan needed a check, he didn’t give a fuck about the morals of it all. 

“Sounds good to me.”

“Perfect, you can pick her up from school for me.”

You had your earbuds in, head lowered while you made the trek across campus when you noticed him. He was difficult to miss, tall and buff. Very buff, you’re surprised that tank top of his hasn’t ripped every time he flexes. 

Your dad’s newest campaign has you hyper-aware of your surroundings. You can’t afford to let your guard down. Not after the last attack. 

There’s something about this man that tells you he isn’t someone looking to jump you, though. You’re not sure what it is. Every part of him screams danger, but not the type you’re looking out for. The cigar perched between his lips, the glistening muscles you want to bite, he’s trouble. 

When you spot him outside your lecture hall for the third time that day, you finally figure out what’s happening. Your dad had told you he’d hired someone new to watch over you at school. You hadn’t voiced just how against it you were, but you didn’t like the idea. 

You didn’t mind this guy, though. He wasn’t busting into your classes and embarrassing the shit out of you by making everyone empty their pockets like the last guy. He just lingered. You could deal with lingering. 

What you couldn’t deal with was the way he was leaning against his motorcycle, smirking as you slowly approached him. 

“Did my dad hire you?” You call out, tugging your earbuds out. “Who are you?”

He speaks around the cigar like it's second nature. “Your new bodyguard, sweetheart.” You suck in a deep breath when you hear his voice. He’s extremely attractive, you're surprised your dad would risk this. 

One of the other ones had kind of gotten a little obsessed, stalking you even in his off hours. You didn’t think your dad would want another pretty boy around you. Though, you suppose this one isn’t pretty. He’s extremely handsome, ruggedly so, very manly. Jesus, you might end up being the stalker this time. 

His lips curl up like he knows what you’re thinking about. You clear your throat, shifting your backpack higher up your arm. “You planning on taking me home on that?” You ask, pointing at his bike. 

He straightens up and shrugs. “Got a problem with the bike?”

You grin, “Not really,” but your dad will. “No, not at all.”

You walk towards him and he reaches out, grabbing your backpack straps and tugging you towards him. You stumble, hands bracing against his chest so you don’t land flat on your face. “Sorry, kid,” but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He buckles the straps of your backpack together and tightens them, puffing smoke in your face while he does. “Don’t want this flying off.”

“Mhm,” you hum. You’re not paying attention at all. The only thing you care about right now is just how ripped he is under your hands. You’re not sure how long you gawk at him but he seems to be ridiculously amused by it. 

“Ready to go home, or what?” You jump back from him, brushing your hands off on your leggings and clearing your throat. 

“Yes, yeah.” You rip your eyes off his body and instead focus on the bike. “No helmets?” You ask.

“You heal, don’t you?” You nod and he shrugs. “Don’t need them then, do we?”

You can’t help the giddy grin on your face at that. It’s gotten tiring being treated like glass. You’re about to get on the bike when you finally process what he said. “Wait, how do you know I heal?”

He doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, his gaze darts down to his fists. Your eyes widen when you see the metal poking through the skin. Of course, your father would only tell another mutant about his abomination of a daughter. You scoff and roll your eyes. He’s such a fucking hypocrite. 

Logan climbs on the bike and you follow after him. You're hesitant to wrap your arms around his waist but he just reaches behind himself and jerks you forward. 

You suck in a sharp breath, pelvis tight against his ass while he squeezes your hands. “You want to go flying?” You shake your head and he chuckles, starting the bike and driving off without another word. 

Part of you loves the ride home, the other part detests it. For once you get to experience a little freedom. You’re not trapped in a steel box staring at the back of a car seat while the man beside you pretends he doesn’t exist. 

You can feel the wind in your hair, get a taste of real speed, and enjoy a moment uninterrupted by someone’s expectations of you. On the other hand, Logan does not respect speeding laws. And healing abilities or not, you don’t actually want to experience road rash. 

He manages to get you home in one piece, parking the motorcycle in the driveway and waiting for you to get off. But you can’t, your thighs have been clenching the seat so tight you think they might need to scrape you off. 

“Kid?” He mutters. You shake your head against his back, arms still strangling his waist. It was actually kind of fucking terrifying being on one of these things. You can’t tell if you loved or hated it. 

He lets out a rough sigh, forcibly moving your arms and then tugging you off the seat. Your legs are like jello while you try and straighten out. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” He asks. You can’t manage much more than a strangled hum and he laughs. 

You turn to your front door and spot a leering face peering out the window. “Shit,” you huff. Your stepmother sees you spot her and disappears from view. You feel your hopes of ever getting back on that bike go with her. 

“You took her home on your bike!”

“Well-”

You flinch at the volume of your father’s voice. “I don’t give a fuck what your excuse is! I will not have my daughter seen riding that monstrosity! You are not to do this again, do you understand me?”

You don’t know what Logan says, but you’re certain it’s not the submissive Yes, sir your father is looking for. He continues shouting at him for another ten minutes. When you hear the door to his office open you scramble to look like you hadn’t been listening in. 

But you’re a bad actress and if his huff of laughter is anything to go by, Logan knows what you were doing. “Did you know that was going to happen?” He asks, pointing back to your father’s, now closed, study. 

You nod, pursing your lips with an apologetic smile. “If it helps, I was really hoping he wouldn’t do that.”

He shrugs, “I don’t really give a fuck how much he wants to scream at me.” It’s refreshing, to finally have someone in the house who doesn’t kiss your father’s ass. It makes you smile, a real genuine smile for the first time in a while. 

You stand from the chair you’d been sitting in, gesturing further into your home. “Are you hungry? I haven’t eaten all day so I was thinking about making something.”

The smirk drops from his face, expression suddenly serious. It makes you tense up. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’m here to get paid. I don’t want to be your friend, kid.”

You suck in a sharp breath, trying not to let the rejection sting. He’s a professional, it should be a relief after the last one. “Right, yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that.”

He nods, “Right,” tone stiff. You stare at him for another awkwardly long moment before you finally turn on your heel and walk toward the kitchen. You rush there, speedwalking so you don’t have to look at him any longer. 

You open up your fridge, keeping your back to him for as long as humanly possible. You can hear him take a seat at the island, can feel the way his eyes bore into you. It’s a physical thing, his gaze, makes chills scrape their way down your spine. 

You make yourself a sandwich and finally force yourself to turn around. Like you’d expected, he’s already looking at you. Lips ticking up just slightly when you finally get the courage to look up at him. 

Logan feels a little guilty. You weren’t coming onto him earlier, you were being genuine with your kindness. He knows there were no ulterior motives to it and there’s a very slight part of him that feels bad for making you so quiet. “Why’s your dad so pissy about the bike?”

You’re a little startled by the question, after the comment he made you’d thought he wouldn’t want anything to do with you. You swallow down the rest of your bite and cough a little when the bread gets stuck on the roof of your mouth. 

“He doesn’t want me to crash.”

“But you heal,” he points out bluntly and you can’t help but laugh a little. 

“Yeah, that’s the problem. He doesn’t want me to crash and for someone to see that I miraculously healed. Having a freak for a daughter wouldn’t exactly help his campaign, would it?” You can’t even attempt to hide the bitterness in your voice. And you know Logan picks up on it because he doesn’t ask any more questions. 

Your gaze drops to your plate and you finish the rest of your meal in silence. Or, you try to. “Got any plans tonight?”

You chuckle and give him an odd look. “No,” you respond sardonically. “None at all, prepare yourself for a very boring job. I don’t even know why he hired you, I never leave the house unless it's for school.”

“Yeah?” he muses, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested. More like he’s talking just to pass the time. “I heard you’ve been having a hard time at school.”

You suck in a sharp breath, a sudden wave of anger roiling through your gut. The cabinets behind you begin to shake and you wince in embarrassment, tamping down on your powers before you accidentally blow up the kitchen. 

Logan watches the moment with subdued interest like he’s not all that surprised or impressed with the display. “Unless they were a PoliSci nerd, I was a nobody up until last year.” There’s no concealing the hate lurking within your words, “And then my dad took up this whole anti-mutant regime. Well, you can imagine how much the activists love me. I’ve just had a few incidents with some particularly passionate protestors.”

“Do you believe in it?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, you hadn’t expected him to actually continue the conversation. “What do you mean?”

He leans back, arms crossed across his chest in a way that makes his biceps bulge. He shrugs, “The anti-mutant regime, do you agree with it?”

You open your mouth, the perfected script almost rolling off your tongue. But this isn’t some politician's son you’re wooing. You’re not the perfect daughter, you’re in your own home, finally talking to someone else like you. 

“No.” You answer, voice strong in its conviction. “And every time I see one of his PAs running around with their little signs I want to ram the stick up their ass.”

He barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling up in amusement. “I think we might get along, kid.”

You try to ignore the way your cheeks warm at his words. You don’t want to be this affected by him, you’ve barely spoken to him. But this is the first person in a long time that you know with absolute certainty you can be honest with. He doesn’t care about protecting your political image or bowing to your father’s every whim. 

It’s a relief, like a constricting weight being taken off your chest. You give him an easy smile and get up to wash your dishes. His eyes are on you again but they feel less oppressive this time. You’ve already forgotten the rule he’s set in place, you’re not supposed to be friends. 

It’s going to be hard to remember that. 

Your father tightens his grip around your waist until you feel like you might squeal. “Smile, now.” You raise your hand, taking the stairs up the stage and waving out at the crowd that’s formed. It’s hot today, your makeup would be melting off if it weren’t for the artists who put it on for you. 

Always have to look good in front of the camera. All of you. Seeing Logan in a suit was certainly a surprise. You’re almost completely sure that your father had to give him a bonus to even consider wearing it today. 

He looks good, but you honestly prefer him in the normal beater and leather jacket. It’s something so uniquely him. This is just a reminder of your reality, that nothing around you is real. It’s all pretty lies wrapped up in expensive clothes. 

You have to bite your tongue and hold back a grimace when your father begins his speech. “First, we had to let them into our jobs. Now they’re in our schools! Our children aren’t safe, not when they’ve got loaded weapons sitting beside them! Because that’s exactly what they are, weapons of mass destruction that will take apart-”

“Fuck me,” you hiss under your breath. Your cheeks hurt from keeping this smile on your face. You’re struggling not to flinch every time the crowd surges up to agree with him, bigoted shouts making your ears bleed. 

Logan’s brows raise and he gives you a brief glance over his shoulder. Your face pinches in confusion only for a moment before you quickly correct it. Still, you keep your lips nearly completely motionless as you whisper, “Can you hear me?”

You dart your gaze back down to him and catch the barest of nods. Your smile softens, becoming something real if only for a moment. You don’t say anything else, you don’t need to. It’s just a comfort to know someone else is there with you, seeing through the painted faces and plastic smiles. 

There’s movement in the crowd. It cuts your father off midsentence. He peers over the podium, trying to get a better look at what’s happening. You hear someone scream and then the entire crowd is getting knocked to the ground. 

You jump back in shock, everyone on stage still. The security, however, is rushing to get to you and your family. It’s too late, though, there’s a mutant in the crowd and his eyes are set on you. “Fuck you,” he screams out your father's name and lugs something at the stage. 

You hear someone shout your name but it’s too late. Glass shatters against the side of your face. It takes less than a second for the pain to start. You can feel holes being burned through your skin, like living fire melting through your bones and gums. A scream rips out of your throat, your hands coming up to block your face too late. 

“Get her out of here!”

As agonizing as it is, you can already feel your skin working to mend itself. You can practically hear the flesh bonding back together. But the acid is dripping down you. It keeps moving steadily through your clothes and skin, your abilities on overdrive trying to repair the damage. 

You can’t focus on anything except the sensation of being burned alive. Suddenly, there’s an arm being thrown around your shoulder and you’re being lifted off your feet. Your skin scrapes against the rough material of someone’s blazer and it makes you grit your teeth and scream again. 

“I know, hold on kid, it’ll be over in a minute.” Logan rushes you behind the stage, where there are no cameras to watch you heal. You don’t know how your father’s PR team is going to spin this. Everyone saw it, saw the way your flesh bubbled and boiled. There’s no hiding the fact that half your face should be melted off. 

“Car,” you grunt out when he puts you on your feet again. 

His hands are clamped firmly around your shoulders, inspecting you for any further damage. “What?”

“We gotta get to the car,” the words are a struggle to get out. Your lungs constrict painfully in your chest while you force the rest out. “Can’t let them see.”

He looks pissed off that that's what you're worried about and not the fact that you were just attacked. Finally, after a minute of just staring at you, he nods. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and runs with you back to the limo. He throws the door open, pushing you inside and sliding in beside you. 

You take in a deep breath the second you’re no longer in view of the TV cameras. “Fuck,” you gasp out. Your dress is in tatters on your left side and you quickly cover your chest. You pray that you didn’t accidentally flash anything while you were still on stage. Your father would never forgive you for that. 

It’s silent in the car for a moment. You feel something being draped over your shoulder and look over to see Logan passing you his jacket. When he catches your gaze he gently grabs your jaw and titls your face towards his. 

His eyes rove over the left side of your face and he gives you a tight smile. “You’re fine, kid.”

You pull your chin out of his grip and pull his jacket closed around you. “See why my father wanted you around? How would he have ever explained his daughter surviving an acid attack?”

There’s something pinched in his gaze. A deep-seated irritation and something else you’re too tired to identify. He’s looking at you oddly and you wish he wouldn’t. You press your forehead to the cool glass of the window and slump against the car door. 

You don’t know when you fall asleep but by the time you wake up, Logan’s already carrying you up to your room. He sees you shift awake and places you on your feet. You steady yourself against the stair banister and walk the rest of the way to your room, trying to shake off the pain of the day. 

You look back just in time to see Logan at the front door. “Goodnight,” you call down to him. You know he can hear you, but he walks through the door without another word. You bite your lip, ignoring the sinking feeling of your gut. 

You toss your destroyed dress to the floor and turn your TV on. You surf through the channels for a bit before finding a clip of today’s incident. “-apparently part of a protest for mutants against the government. I don’t know Bill, they seem to just be proving everybody’s point. They are unsafe.”

“I agree, my thoughts and prayers go out to…”

You roll your eyes as they say your name. They’re saying it wasn’t acid, instead it’s some sort of chemical compound that causes extreme pain. Even you don’t believe that bullshit. You have a feeling your father is going to be looking for a new PR team tomorrow. 

Your attention is snagged by the replay of the accident. You don’t focus on the acid, you don’t want to. Instead, you see how quickly Logan rushed to your side. He seemed to be right there even as the acid was being thrown. 

Your brows pinch together and you glance at the jacket beside you. He’d forgotten to take it back before he left. You pick it up, eyes skating over the fabric before you find what you’re looking for. There’s a large hole in the right sleeve, acid having burned through it. 

You hadn’t even realized he was in pain. You know he can heal, but it doesn’t get rid of the fluttering feeling in your stomach. You’ve never had someone look after you like that. 

You grin to yourself, tucking the jacket in the back of your closet. You’re sure he wouldn’t want it back and you’re not planning on parting with it anytime soon. 

You’re on house arrest for a week after the acid incident. Which includes no school. Your father has to play into the idea that you’re recovering from the trauma and healing. You don’t know how much longer he’s planning on keeping you locked up but you’re going stir crazy. 

Not only do you not get to go to classes, but Logan isn’t around either. He doesn’t need to be, not when the only place you’re in is your room. He’s not a friend, he’s made that clear, but he’s something. And you are desperately craving that specific something. 

“It was a sickening attack against my daughter that my wife and I are still trying to recover from.” You roll your eyes as you listen to your father spew his bullshit to the interviewer in the next room. 

You’re not allowed to be out and about, of course. You can’t risk someone seeing you. But that doesn’t stop you from lurking. 

“It was an incredibly traumatic experience for her, I’m sure.” You grin to yourself, picking at your nails. You like this one, whoever the reporter is interviewing him. She hasn’t let him catch a break. Especially not when he tries to capitalize on your trauma. Even though he hasn’t checked in once with you. 

“Well,” he splutters for a moment. “Yes, of course,” he tries to sound humble but anyone can tell he’s just covering his ass. “And it just further proves what I’ve always said about mutants. They are animals, they’re not like us.”

You’d think at a certain point you’d go numb to it. You’ve been raised hearing this rhetoric from him all your life. But the sting never eases. That cloying ache in your chest never quite leaves you. Not when you know the only reason he publicly accepts you is for political gains. So everyone can see what a wonderful father he is and vote for him.

You feel sick to your stomach and you don’t think you can listen to much more of this. But right as you’re about to tap out a hand clamps down on your shoulder. You nearly scream but you catch a whiff of the man’s aftershave and your mouth snaps shut. 

You leap out of your chair and whip around, a grin plastered on your face. “Logan, what are you doing here?” You can’t disguise the giddiness in your voice. He might constantly be reminding you that you hold nothing more than a professional relationship, but you don’t give a shit. He’s a constant in your life and that’s rare for you, so you’ll latch onto whatever comfort you can find. 

His gaze briefly darts to the connecting wall to your father’s study and you flush. He’d probably heard all of that. You’ve never had someone see the side of your father that you do. There’s something shamefully embarrassing about it. 

He looks back at you and gives you a sly smirk. “Wanna get out of here?” You’d have to be an idiot to say no.

“Uh,” you can hear the music from where you stand across the street. You shuffle uncertainly on your feet beside Logan, glancing up and down the sidewalk like your father’s going to pop out of an alleyway. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

Logan tugs his cigar out of his mouth. He’s leaned up against a lamppost and he’s watched you struggle for the past ten minutes. “Live a little kid, would ya?”

You look back at the dingy bar and grimace. “Okay, there’s a difference between living a little and having my face blasted on the news. How’s it going to look if I’m photographed at a bar while I’m meant to be healing?”

Logan points with his cigar to the entrance of the bar. “I can promise you, no one in there gives a fuck about who your daddy is.” Comforting, and a little humbling. 

You take in a deep breath and Logan must sense the change in your demeanor. He flicks the cigar to the ground, crushing it with the heel of his boot. He holds his arm out, “Ready, kid?”

You nod, hurrying to his side and slipping under his grasp. He lets his arm hang heavily around your shoulder, hand squeezing your bicep gently to try and quell your nerves. You’d be swooning at the touch if you weren’t about to throw up from anxiety. 

You used to have a life. Until your father had blown it up. You haven’t been around this many people in ages. Well, you haven’t been around people who are just having fun and not sucking up to every politician’s kid they meet. 

The music gets louder as you step over through the threshold of the bar. The soles of your shoes stick to the floor. People laugh loudly all around you, some of them shouting up at TV screens for whatever sport is currently playing. You’re sure half of them don’t even normally watch the game. They just need an excuse to get their wives off their backs. 

The thought brings a small smile to your lips. Logan glances down at you and frowns, “You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes and move out from under his hold. “Yes, Logan. I’m going into a master’s program, my frontal lobe is fully formed.”

He huffs a little at the attitude, cheeks twitching with a suppressed smile. He nods towards the back of the bar, “Find a seat, I’ll get us drinks.” He walks towards the bar without another word and you resent him a little for it. 

Without him beside you, it’s like everything comes crashing down all at once. The songs playing grate on your ears. Every laugh feels like they’re screaming in your face. You’ve never been more in tune with your sense of smell and you hate it. 

Your hands tremble by your sides and you nearly miss the man in front of you spilling his beer down his shirt. It looks completely unnatural, the way it just flips out of his hand. And you know it’s your doing. 

You shove through him and his friends, running to the back and sliding into the first booth you see. You dig your nails into your palms, taking a few deep breaths to try and calm your heart rate down a bit. 

Logan slides into the seat across from you, placing a beer in front of you. It’s barely touched the grimy wood of the table before you tip your head back and drain it. You’ve never been a particular fan of beer or any alcohol for that matter. 

But right now you need a buzz before you accidentally level the whole bar. You slam the bottle back on the table, taking in a deep breath, and sitting back. Logan gives you a hard stare, glancing between you and the empty bottle. 

He clicks his tongue and stands up, “I’ll go get another one.”

You bite your lip and give him a sheepish, “Thank you.”

It doesn’t take long for the buzz to settle in. There’s a slight tingling in your legs and the tips of your fingers. It almost feels like how you get when you’re starting to get aroused. But you don’t know if that’s from the alcohol or the way Logan looks in his slutty little t-shirt. 

Definitely tipsy, you think to yourself, nudging your third beer to the side. 

“Always been a lightweight?” He teases, watching you with amusement in his gaze while he works on what must be his fifth whiskey. 

You shake your head with a soft smile. “No, I used to go out with my friends all the time.” You laugh a little at the memories and lean in a little closer like you’re sharing some horrible secret. Logan rolls his eyes but acquiesces, leaning in to listen to you speak. “We made up alter egos for our drunk selves. Wanna know mine?” You ask, wiggling your eyebrows at him with a stupid grin.

His brows pinch together and he frowns, “I don’t think so.”

You laugh and lean back in your seat. “You’re the worst!” He places his glass down on the table and fixes you with an odd look. You shift around uncomfortably, “What is it?”

“What happened to your friends? Why are you hanging out with me and not them?”

“Oh,” your gaze drops to the table and you suddenly find the stains on it very interesting. It’s practically abstract art. You swallow harshly around the lump in your throat and shrug. “Um, just all the stuff with my dad happened, and,” you shrug, “I don’t know. My life kind of fell apart.”

You try and shake off the funk, bring back the happy-go-lucky feeling you were in only minutes ago. “I had to move out of the dorms and head back home. My friends stopped talking to me. My boyfriend dumped me. It all just kind of blew up.”

Logan frowns and you swear he seems angry on your behalf. It’s a nice feeling, having someone care enough to hold a grudge for you. “You ever tell him how it was all affecting you?”

You snort, “Of course I did. He was overjoyed. He never liked my friends, especially not my boyfriend, they encouraged me to be too independent. He thought I was losing the values he raised me with. He just never cared to learn that I never agreed with them in the first place.”

Logan doesn’t say anything for a while and you let your gaze drift to the karaoke stage. Two women are singing a bad redemption of Led Zeppelin and it makes you smile. You don’t see the way Logan’s eyes linger on the curve of your lips and then drop to your chest. 

You never seem to notice how you make him squirm. There is something so interesting about you. Something so different from the families he worked with before. He doesn’t know if it's the whole mutant thing, if you two are somehow kindred spirits in that regard. He doubts it, he’s never really cared much about that. 

But he knows that there is something magnetic about you. It draws him in and makes him hate his own rules. He promised not to get involved with another client. It always ends messy, most times bloody. 

You turn back to him and smile. Your voice is a low purr as you ask, “You wanna get out of here?”

Of course, he’s never been one to follow the rules. 

“I am so sorry about this. Really.” 

Logan glares down at you while you straighten out his tie. You duck your head so you don’t have to meet his gaze and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

“Forget it, kid.” He says it with a smirk but it doesn’t make you feel any less guilty. 

This will be your first public appearance since the incident. It’s a gala, of course, because your father hates you. He’d demanded you find a date, someone to look pretty on your arm because he doesn’t want you talking while you’re there. You’re meant for pictures and nothing more. 

Considering the fact that no one wants to talk to you on campus, the acid incident not helping at all, you had no luck finding a date. You’d had to beg on hands and knees for days to get Logan to agree. 

You don’t know what it is that finally made him cave but you’re grateful for it. You think your father was expecting you to fail. To come crawling to him and be forced to go with who he wanted you to go with. 

You were not going to spend the whole night listening to some political major try and explain your own father’s campaign to you. You’d rather swallow acid than go through that for another night. Your father, of course, doesn’t know that Logan is taking you. 

You’re planning on ambushing him with it. He can’t do anything about it now. He wants you to have a date for some reason and there’s no way for him to find a backup now. You take a step back from him and turn to look in the mirror. 

Side by side, you do make an incredibly attractive couple. He looks amazing in his suit, his muscles just slightly pushing against the fabric. And as much as he hates the tie and constricting material, he makes it work. 

And you feel pretty for the first time in a long time. You actually got to do your own hair and makeup for once. You’re a lot less heavy-handed than the assistants your father hires. You feel comfortable in your own skin, finally, wearing the deep red dress your stepmother had gotten for you. 

“We look good,” you muse. 

Logan looks down at you and smiles slightly, “You do.”

You give him a confused grin, “I said we.”

He leans down, lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I know what you said, sweetheart.” Your heart nearly beats out of your chest at the proximity. Gooseflesh raises on your arms where he’s touching you and your knee buckles ever so slightly. 

You can perfectly imagine his husky voice whispering something much, much dirtier to you. He pulls back with a slight chuckle and forcefully turns you around. “Come on, kid, we’re gonna be late.”

He nudges you towards your bedroom door and you nod your head mutely. He keeps doing that to you. These little things that could be so easily dismissed as you reading into his actions. But you know, deep down, you’re not reading into anything. 

But you don’t know what to do with this information that he might possibly be into you. Or at the very least, attracted to you. He made it clear early on that he wants nothing but professionalism between the two of you, yet he continually breaks his own rule. 

Your father and stepmother are waiting at the bottom of the stairs for you both. Your stepmother smiles when she sees you but your father’s face screws up in anger. “Are you fucking kidding me? The goddamn bodyguard?”

You shrug and slip past him, already walking to the front door. “A date’s a date.” You pause and grin over at him, “What are you going to do about it?” It’s a taunt, one you don’t give him a chance to respond to. 

You’re already slipping outside and heading to the town car. Something about Logan being with you emboldens you to act in ways you never would. Even when he’s not there, when you’re just having family dinner and your father says something off-putting. You fight back, you don’t let him steamroll you and your opinions. 

You feel better than you have in ages with Logan beside you. Still, the ride there is incredibly awkward. 

The hotel is grand and luxurious. But they all are. You feel guilty complaining about your life when this is your weekend. What do you have to be upset about when you regularly stay in five-star motels and wear designer dresses without glancing at the price tag?

Sometimes you feel guilty around Logan. You wonder if he ever resents you for your privilege. You might be a mutant like him, sure, but you’ve never had to struggle to make ends meet. Or try and scrap together enough money to get your next meal. You’ve never had to worry about where you’re going to sleep next or if you’ll have a roof over your head. 

Your struggles have been so different that you worry if something ever did happen between the two of you, you might not work together. 

But those are spiraling thoughts for another time. Right now, you’re just trying to get through the front door without someone bombarding your father with questions on his stance about whatever. 

When it’s clear that he’s going to be there for a while, he sends you and Logan off to the ballroom on your own. You feel bad for your stepmother, having to stay behind and pretend she’s interested as they bore her with stories that have no real meaning. 

“Poor woman,” you mutter, watching her struggle to keep the smile on her face. 

“You don’t call her mom,” Logan muses. You turn to look at him and he just shrugs. “Just a little weird.”

“Well, she’s not my mom.” His head tilts in confusion and you elaborate. “My bio mom left the second she figured out she gave birth to a mutant. We lie to the public, stepmom’s interfere with the perfect nuclear family ideal my dad’s pushing for.”

“If he cares so much about family then why don’t you have your dad’s last name?” A good question, one you had to field a lot when you first started school. 

You give him a sly grin, “Took my mom's maiden name the second I was eighteen, just to piss him off.” There’s no true reason behind it other than being vindictive and petty. “He’s been trying to get me to change it for years but he can’t force me to. Besides, I like having my name separate from theirs. Lets me pretend I’m not a part of the family. Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice and all, we just never really had the chance to bond.”

Someone passes by you. A couple you know you’re supposed to recognize but you can’t place their names. The man calls out your name, coming toward you with his arms open wide. You can see Logan tense up slightly beside you, bodyguard instincts coming out for a moment. 

You squeeze his hand briefly before stepping forward to hug the man. “So nice to see you, again.” You tell him. He grins and squeezes you a little closer to his chest than necessary. 

Logan clears his throat, glaring at the man’s drifting hands. Before either of you can react, Logan is pulling you back, hand resting lightly over the small of your back. He holds his hand out, forcing the man to shake his hand and take his attention off of you.

You can’t hold back the smile on your lips when you see how much smaller the man is under Logan’s intense stare. You’ve gotten used to the men at these events treating you however they want. They don’t see you as a human, you are your father’s accessory and their toy. You envy Logan for how easily he can dismiss these men, take away their larger-than-life personalities, and reduce them to the sniveling rats they truly are. 

He doesn’t even speak, simply tugs you towards the ballroom and away from the man’s wandering hands. You can’t help the stupid smile on your face while you look at him. He glances out the side of his eye and huffs, “What?” He snaps, tone impatient. 

You shrug and shake your head. “Nothing, you’re just…” You trail off, unsure how to continue. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by telling him how you really feel about him. How deeply you appreciate him, how horribly you desire him. You’re afraid it will all just blow up in your face. That you’ll have truly been reading into everything and gotten his intentions all wrong. After all, he’s made it abundantly clear that there’s meant to be nothing between the two of you except a paycheck. 

You take in a deep breath, smile faltering, “Nothing.” You finally spit out, slipping out of his grasp and walking quicker towards the doors. His hand lingers on your back, fingers trailing slowly down your spine until you’re completely out of his reach. 

The chatter inside gets louder the closer you get to the entrance. You listen to the indiscernible voices, the quartet playing in the corner, and the clink of metal on the glass as they all eat. You straighten out your shoulders and put on your best smile, mentally preparing yourself to keep it stiff on your cheeks for the rest of the night. 

Logan catches up to you, the both of you stopping the second you see the inside of the ballroom. 

People Against Mutants

Evolution or Monstrosities

Parents for the Removal of Mutant Children

Your eyes widen as you take in the banners and signs hanging off the walls. More and more uncreative rhetoric all for the annihilation of mutants. Of people like you and Logan. Your smile drops immediately and you know you should have expected something like this from your father. He’d been refusing to tell you what this gala was for, saying offhandly he was just raising some money. 

You thought it was another charity. Not this. Not people, quite literally, calling for your head. For Logan’s head. You suck in a sharp breath and glance towards the silent man beside you. His jaw is clenched as he takes in all the finely dressed people around you. They’re all laughing and chatting like they’re not actively campaigning for the destruction of children. 

“Bar?” You ask, already walking towards it. 

“Sounds good to me.” His hand is on your back again and you’re grateful for it. The glower on his face, the attitude that screams I don’t belong here keeps people away from you. He shoulders through the men huddling around the bar, forcefully clearing space for the two of you. 

And when they turn around, posturing like they’re going to say something, he only has to look at them for them to retreat with their tails tucked. It’s ridiculously attractive seeing someone command these men so easily. 

“Whiskey,” Logan grumbles, he looks back at you and you slide beside him, leaning your elbows against the cool counter. 

“Just champagne, please,” you tell the bartender. He nods, quickly making your drinks and handing them to you. You turn with the flute in your hand, surveying the room. It feels less like a gala and more like a production of false niceties that will never end and never be genuine. 

“Don’t know how you deal with these fuckers all the time,” Logan mutters, glaring as a man slams into him and keeps walking without apologizing. 

You let out a short huff of laughter, “Honestly,” he glances over at you and you shrug. “I’ve got no fucking clue either.” He scoffs and takes a swig from his glass. But you can’t take your eyes off of him. You feel the words on the tip of your tongue, weighing you down until you feel like you have no choice but to spit them out. 

“You,” his brows quirk up and he glances over at you. You take in a deep breath and start over, nerves making your palms sweaty around the glass. “You make it bearable.”

Logan’s face falls and he sucks in a deep breath. You see the expression on his face, you know what he’s going to tell you. And you hate how apologetic he looks. You especially despise the way he’s making you feel pitied. He’s never done that before and you don’t want him to start now. 

“Don’t,” you tell him before he can say anything. You let out a self-deprecating laugh and place the champagne flute on the bar so you don’t have to look at him. “I know what you’re going to say, alright. So, just, don’t.”

Logan purses his lips and grabs your jaw. You try and jerk your face out of his grasp but he doesn’t let you, he forces you to look at him. He only lets go once you reluctantly make eye contact. You’re surprised by the look on his face. There’s no pity in his gaze like you’d expected. 

This is something else, something darker and more twisted. You can’t put your finger on what exactly you’re seeing but you know it makes your heart race and your thighs clench. “Listen, sweetheart, I-”

“What the hell are you doing?” You jump away from him but Logan just clenches his eyes shut with a short huff of irritated breath. You clear your throat and turn to face your father. He’s glaring between you and Logan, but smiles warmly anytime someone looks your way. “I didn’t bring you here so my contributors could see what a fucking whore you are for the help.”

“Dad!” You exclaim, eyes widening in horror. But Logan doesn’t seem bothered by your father’s words. If anything it seems to incense him, his hand drifting from your jaw to drape itself over the nape of your neck. You try not to show just how much the possessive grip is affecting you but you know they can both tell. 

Your father’s face pinches and he nearly stomps his foot as he looks between you and Logan. He looks like he wants to say something else but your stepmother, thankfully, calls his name. She waves him over towards her and you hold your breath, waiting to see what he’s going to do. 

He takes in short puffs of air, straightening out his suit jacket and glaring at you. “You’re not going to be a fucking wallflower all night, got it?” He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s stomping off. He calls out a warm greeting to someone across the room and you feel like you can finally breathe again. 

You give Logan a tired smile and nod towards the rest of the party. “Time to mingle.”

He laughs, loudly, enough to make people’s heads turn. You can feel your skin heating up from embarrassment and flinch away from the sound. “Sorry, kid, mingling ain’t part of my contract.”

Your jaw drops as you glare at him. “Are you serious?”

He turns back to the bar, flagging down the bartender for a refill. “Deadly,” he tells you firmly, barely looking at you. You roll your eyes and walk away from him, glaring at his back the whole time you do so. 

He thought coming to one of these things, being stuffed in a scratchy suit, would be his worst nightmare. He was proven wrong when he heard them talking to each other. Bitching about golf and their mistresses wanting more attention. Their kids nagging them and their wives being bitches. 

All of it made him want to down a whole bottle of whiskey and then blow his brains out. His worst nightmare turned into ever having to hold a conversation with one of these pricks. 

Then, he turns around, surveying the room for wherever you were lurking. He expects you to be by your father’s side or hiding somewhere in a corner. Instead, you’re standing close -extremely close - to some pretty boy. 

His hand is on your waist and you’re laughing at whatever boring fucking story he’s telling you. Logan tries to pick up on your conversation but there are too many things happening at once already. His senses are on overdrive and he’s already struggling against a migraine. 

He feels something brewing in his gut, something he’s been trying to just shove down for months. He doesn’t know what it is he hates about this picture but it makes him sick to his stomach. He hears something crack and looks down to find the glass of whiskey split on one side. 

“Shit,” he hisses, slamming the glass on the bar behind him. He shakes his hand out and tries to unclench his fists but it’s hard. He couldn’t have possibly been standing here long enough for you to suddenly find the love of your life. Why the fuck are the two of you so close?

This was so unlike you. Rarely did you ever have something good to say about the men you would encounter at these things. He’d heard you bitch about it enough times. Something about this isn’t adding up and he doesn’t know if it’s his own jealousy or intuition. 

Still, he finds himself pushing away from the bar and stalking towards you both. Closer, he can finally see what the problem is. Your hands are on the guy's chest but you aren’t leaning against him, you’re actively trying to push him away. 

It makes Logan’s blood boil, jaw clenching as he tries to keep himself at bay. He didn’t want to cave some kid’s head in in the middle of the gala. But the closer he got the clearer he could hear your hissed warnings to take his hands off of you. 

Logan finally reaches you and the look of sheer relief on your face makes him want to bring the claws out. He’d love to see that smug smirk ripped off his face, but he holds back. If only so he doesn’t traumatize you. 

“Alright, bub, hands off,” he warns. 

“Why don’t you just leave us alone?” He had to give it to the kid, he’s got balls. Rarely did anyone ever buck up to him like this. Normally, he might entertain him a bit, drag this on longer than necessary to get a kick out of it. 

But he still hasn’t taken his hands off of you and Logan’s not interested in fucking around tonight. Without a word, he grabs the kid by the collar of his jacket and tosses him away from you. 

He lands roughly on the floor with a loud gasp and people turn to look. Logan pays no mind to the onlookers. He places his hand on your back and leads you out of the ballroom, unwilling to have eyes on you for the rest of this conversation. 

“Logan,” you start, tone nervous. 

“Don’t,” he snaps. He regrets it immediately from the way you jump in surprise. He lets out a rough sigh, running his hand down his face, and walks through the first door he finds. “I’m sorry, kid, I just-”

“Logan,” you cut him off. The tone of your voice is enough to get him to finally look at you. Your arms are crossed and you’re glaring at him. “Why the fuck did you drag us into a closet?”

His brows furrow in confusion and he glances around, finally realizing what he walked into, “Fuck,” he hisses. He gropes blindly around the room for a light switch. There’s a small click and then an unflattering fluorescent light is shining down on you both. He’s managed to drag you both into a small, incredibly cramped, cleaning closet.  

You’re grimacing as you push a few mops away from your head. You look over at him and something about the look on his face must be funny because you start to laugh. “What were you thinking?”

Your smile makes one curl up on his own lips. He can’t help it, something about you eases a bit of the tightness constantly lurking inside him. “Thought it was one of those stuffy conference rooms.”

You scoff and reach for the handle, “Just a stuffy closest, good going, Logan.” You roll your eyes and tug on the knob. Your brows furrow together as you jiggle the handle every which way, desperately pulling on it. 

“Move over,” Logan mutters, nudging you to the side. He wraps his hand around the handle and yanks on it, expecting the door to swing open. When it doesn’t his face falls. 

“Did you miraculously unlock it, genius?” You demand sarcastically. Logan feels his shoulders tense up, frustration levels steadily rising. He’s already got a shit temper, he doesn’t need you adding to this. 

“No,” he snipes, “but I don’t see you coming up with any wonderful solutions.”

You throw your hands up in the air, wincing when your elbow collides with the shelving unit behind you. “I didn’t drag us into this mess! Why did you even come in here?” You demand and he can see how angry you are. 

It shows in the way you tapped your heeled feet against the floor and glower at him like he’s the bane of your existence. He doesn’t know what happens, what comes over him, or why this is the moment he chooses to break his rule. 

Your back slams into the shelves behind you and you gasp as he surges towards you. His hands come up to cup your cheeks and before you get a chance to question him, his mouth is covering your own. Logan buries his hand in your hair, ruining the perfectly styled curls. You don’t seem to mind much if the way you arch into him is anything to go by. 

His tongue runs across the seam of your lips, tasting the cherry-flavored gloss you’d applied earlier. He wants to devour you. Consume you body and soul, take everything you have to give, and then keep going. He doesn’t want to stop, but he’s not sure he wants the first place you have sex to be in a janitor’s closet. 

He pulls back, tugging you back when you try to chase his lips with your own. “Shouldn’t do this here,” he mutters. He’s struggling to hold back. And when you look up at him, lips swollen from his kiss, and you mutter why, how is he meant to resist?

He tugs you away from the shelves, pushing you against the door so he doesn’t have to see your face twist up in pain every time the corner digs into your lower back. Your hands drop down to his belt, lips desperately carving a path down his neck. 

He’d laugh at your eagerness if he wasn’t just as desperate for you. He reaches for the hem of your dress but it’s one of those floor-length gowns with no slits. He struggled for a minute before getting too impatient and just muttering, “Fuck it.”

You gasp when you feel the metal of his claw against your leg, eyes dropping down to watch as he makes himself a slit. He slices the fabric along your thigh and then just rips it. “Logan,” you hiss as he hikes the silk over your hips. 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” You glare at him, eyes darting between him and his pants before you finally shake your head. He laughs slightly, hand drifting under your dress and reveling in the way you shiver under his touch. “Yeah,” he whispers, “that’s what I thought.”

His fingers move gently along your thighs, easing you into his touch. You let out breathy whimpers, tucking your face in his neck the closer he gets to your core. He lets his hand drift lower, searching out the band of your underwear. 

He’s pleasantly surprised when he’s met with nothing but you dripping for him. “Shit, you’re not wearing any underwear?”

You freeze and keep your face stubbornly buried in his neck. Logan laughs slightly, tugging you back and forcing you to look up at him. You mumble something under your breath. It’s said so quickly he can barely understand you. “What was that?”

“Ugh, god, Logan.” You groan and let your eyes drop down to his shirt, fiddling with the end of his tie. “I was hoping this would happen.”

When he doesn’t say anything your face shifts, worry gnawing away at you. You glance up at him and are surprised by the intensity of his gaze. He’s staring down at you like he wants to eat you whole. His pupils have consumed all the color of his eyes, there’s nothing but want on his face. 

“You wanna know why I agreed to come with you, kid?”

Your mind is completely dulled just by being this close to him. It takes you a moment to process what he’s saying before you nod your head. “Why?”

The look on his face reminds you of a wolf guarding its territory. It’s predatorial, animalistic, it makes you want him even more. “I didn’t want any of these little boys getting a chance to have their hands on you.” His gaze drops down to your lips and he leans in until your breaths are mingling together. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.” He dips his head down and his kiss isn’t as intense as it was the first time. His lips move lazily over your own, tongue stroking against yours like he’s savoring the taste. 

You can taste the whiskey he’d drank earlier, can still smell cigars on his breath. It should be revolting, you’ve never liked kissing smokers. But there is something so intoxicating about him. Everything he does is enchanting to you. 

It’s a naive train of thought but you trust him wholly. He could do whatever he wanted to you and you’d let him willingly. His hands continue their exploration down your body and you can’t help but arch into his touch. His fingers stroke languidly over your center and you moan into his mouth. 

Your lips part with little gasps and your head thunks loudly against the door. Neither of you notice or care, you’ve all but forgotten the gala outside. The government employees and rich socialites that you’re supposed to be entertaining. 

And when he slips a finger inside you, you don’t care who hears you call out his name. The rough pad of his finger creates a feeling you’ve never been able to produce on your own. There’s something so exhilarating about this whole situation. 

Stuck in this tiny closet, no air to breathe but each other’s. No room for anything other than your bodies pressed as closely together as possible. You're completely surrounded by him and you never want to leave. 

“Logan,” you gasp out his name and shove at his shoulders. He momentarily stops his ministrations, giving you a worried look. “Please, I just want you.” You tug at his wrist, hissing when his fingers leave you with a lewd pop. 

He looks hesitant, but you can see the way he’s straining against his boxers. You let your hand trail down his stomach, palming him through the thin fabric. His hips buck into your hands and he lets out the most attractive noise you’ve ever heard. You’ve always liked guys who aren’t afraid to be vocal. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers. He swats your hands to the sides, tugging his boxers down and squeezing your hips hard enough to bruise. “Come on, up.”

You jump and he slings your legs around his waist, lining himself up with your entrance. He drags you slowly down his cock, resting your back against the door and giving a hesitant thrust inside you. 

You can’t help the low groan that leaves your parted lips. It’s like you’re full of nothing but him. You’d been mentally prepared for the stretch he would present, but you probably should have given him more time to warn you up. 

You don’t care though, this is all you’ve been craving for months. To feel nothing, taste nothing but him. You’ve been praying that he feels the same way you do, and if the look on his face is anything to go by, he does. 

He looks completely wrecked, head resting on your shoulder while you both take a breath. It’s overwhelming, this feeling of finally having what you’ve always wanted. Someone you can give yourself to completely and still feel safe with them. 

You drag your hand up his back, burying it in his hair and reveling in how soft it is. You tug him back by the roots, tilting his neck until he’s forced to look at you. Your gaze drops to his reddened lips and you smile at the gloss you’ve smeared across his chin. 

“Come on, Logan, don’t tell me you’re all talk.”

His eyes narrow but you can see the amusement swimming within them. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“Oh, yeah?” You goad, grinding your hips down against his and biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. You’re trying not to make a noise, trying to make sure he doesn’t see just how much he’s affecting you. But you can already feel your orgasm forming, it’s a low tingle in the tips of your toes, a burning hot desire rushing through your thighs as you clench around him. 

“Yeah,” he promises, thrusting sharply into you. This time the moan is forced out of you, your lips parting unbidden as you slump over him, burying your face in his neck. He doesn’t waste any time, using your hips as handles to pump you over his cock like you’re nothing more than a toy. 

The door rattles behind you, each thrust of his hips makes it shake in its frame. His hands fist the back of your dress, grip so tight you think it might tear. You don’t care. He could rip it off of you and you’d walk outside naked right now. 

You don’t care what happens, not when he’s beside you. There’s a feeling of security that comes from being around Logan and you can feel it in this moment. You trust him to take care of you in every way. 

Maybe you shouldn’t. After all, you two haven’t known each other long. But there’s not much you’re worried about when he’s moving steadily inside you. You can taste the desperation you share for each other in each pump of his hips. 

He whispers it into your ear while you claw at his back. The shelves around you shake and you worry you might bring them down if you can’t rope yourself in. But you can feel the wave building in the back of your throat, your vision blurring as you tighten your legs around his waist and begin to match his rhythm. 

“There you go,” he mutters, pinning you to the door and keeping your hips still while he moves inside you. “Come on, I can feel you clenching around me, sweetheart.” He manages to hold you up with one hand, the other diving between your legs to rub tight circles around your bundle of nerves. 

It doesn’t take much longer for your muscles to seize up, back bowing as you clench desperately around him. “Oh, fuck, Logan,” you shout his name, and his hand quickly comes up to smother your cries. He squeezes your cheeks until your eyes snap open and he drags you down to meet his gaze. 

“Don’t want to lose my job, need you to be quiet for me,” he grunts out, his tone breathy and strained. He loses his rhythm, movements speeding up erratically while he lets out low groans and whispers of your name. You almost cum again when he finally finishes inside you. 

Your limbs are twitching in overstimulation by the time his hips still. You feel completely boneless, body slumped lazily in his arms. He wraps both arms around you, squeezing you a little before slowly lifting you off of him. 

It’s a relief of pressure when he pulls out. His cum leaks out of you, dribbling down your thighs and dripping onto the floor of the closest. Your face screws up at the feeling and you internally cringe. No condom was probably a stupid call.

But you don’t really want to think about the repercussions right now. Not when he’s stroking your hair and rubbing a soothing hand down your back, waiting until you can form a coherent sentence before he lets you go. “Alright?” He asks, voice bordering on something smug. 

“Mhm,” you push away from him, legs shaky as you try and straighten out your dress. It’s a loss cause, trying to hide what happened in here at all. You’ve got a tear going up to your hip and you’re pretty sure there are holes in the back. Logan’s tie is gone and you don’t even remember taking that off. His shirt is completely wrinkled and your lip gloss has stained his face. 

You’ve both got horrific sex hair and the room reeks of it. You don’t know how you're going to sneak out of here. You still try and relax your hair, patting down the flyaways while Logan retucks his shirt. 

It’s silent between the two of you, heavy but not awkward. You don’t think either of you knows what to say now that you’ve physically acted on what you want. A sudden thought hits you, makes your heart clench painfully and your tongue ties up in your mouth. 

He’d confirmed that he wanted your body. That he desired you sexually. But you don’t think he actually said anything about a real relationship. There would be problems, of course, your father for one would have a lot to say about it. But you don’t care about that. You don’t care about any of the consequences, you just want to be with him. 

You open your mouth to ask him what he wants when the door swings open. Both you and Logan whip towards it. But where you look like a deer caught in the headlights he looks like the epitome of male pride. 

Especially when he realizes it's your father on the other side. “Dad-” You start, but you have no idea what you could even say. Your dress is in tatters and both you and Logan are still mussed up. There’s no hiding what happened here. 

He doesn’t let you finish, holding up his hand. His voice is eerily calm as he says, “I thought I heard something banging around in here.”

“You did,” Logan scoffs, crossing his arms and glaring at your father. You feel your heart jump to your throat, staring over at him with a horrified look on your face. How could he think that was okay to say? It was so dismissive of what you believed had happened. 

This was more than just a quickie in the dark to you. This meant something, but you’re seriously starting to doubt that it was the same for him as it was for you. And that just makes you feel like the stupid little girl everyone seems to believe you are. 

Your father says your name but you can’t bring yourself to meet his eye. “You’re feeling sick,” he tells you, no room for argument. “Your date had to take you home. It was just too much too soon after the incident at the rally.” When you don’t say anything he shouts out, “Understood?” That makes you jump. 

“Yes,” you clear your throat and face him. “Yes, understood.”

Your father has made his stance on mutants clear. He hates them, despises them to their very being, and wishes he could kill every last one. And as much as you were raised with those ideas, they were never truly turned on you.

But he’s looking at you right now like he wishes you were never born. You feel like shit on his shoe. Something to be hidden away and buried. It makes your shoulders slump like a hundred pounds was just tossed onto your back. 

You try to run past him but he jerks you back, fingers so tight around your bicep you feel the skin tear. You gasp in pain but don’t say anything, too afraid to argue. “Put his jacket on, I won’t have you looking like a whore.” He releases you with a rough shove and storms off. 

You can feel something burning at the back of your eyes. A moment later Logan drops his jacket over your shoulders, pulling you back into his chest and running his hands over your arms. “Come on, kid,” he mutters. There’s something resigned in his voice that makes your heart drop, “Let’s get you home.”

The walk through the lobby feels like you’re walking through a dream. You’re not completely present for it, or the ride home. Your mind and your heart are warring and you feel like you’re going to be torn apart if you keep lingering on what just happened. 

You just can’t understand how you could go from having everything you wanted to feeling like the scum of the earth in less than two minutes. Logan doesn’t speak as he drives you home. His knuckles are turning white around the steering wheel and you’re afraid to even try and start a conversation. 

You don’t want to hear him tell you that he didn’t desire you past your body. You don’t want to discover that you’re just another notch on his belt. He seems to do this a lot, sleep with the girls he guards. The idea of just being another job, another fun night, makes you absolutely disgusted with yourself. 

When he pulls into the driveway of your house you both just sit in the car. Neither of you knows what to say. And the air between you is so thick with tension you feel like you could choke on it. You stare down at your hands, fingers fiddling with the ripped seams of your dress. 

You pick at the threads and feel his stare on you. You can’t do this. You can’t deal with the possibility of rejection. Not after what happened between you and certainly not after what your father said. 

You undo your seat belt and Logan watches as you go through the movements of getting up. His eyes never leave you and it’s like a physical caress, his stare. Normally it would make you warm inside, comforted by his presence. But right now all you can feel is the chill of where his cum has dried between your legs and the icy-hot stab of nausea in your gut. 

You throw the door open and you’re nearly out when he calls out a quiet, “Goodnight.”

You don’t look at him, you can’t. You slam the door shut and walk silently to the front door of your house. You don’t look back, don’t respond, you just slip inside your house and finally let the weight of the night come crashing down on you. 

You don’t cry until you hear him pull out of the driveway. 

Your father and stepmother usually stay at the hotel the night of a gala. Most nights you come home and enjoy the house to yourself for once. Tonight, you’re woken up by the front door slamming so hard your walls shake. 

You can faintly hear your stepmother’s voice trying to console your father. She’s muttering something to him you can’t make out. You shoot out of bed, running to pull some sweatpants on. After you’d cried yourself out you’d taken a shower. 

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw but you swear you can still smell him on you. You rush to your bedroom door, turning the knob quietly and slowly peeking your head outside. Your father’s at the bottom of the stairs, the second he spots your open door he’s screaming your name. 

Your stomach twists painfully and you can feel panic starting to overwhelm you. Your hands shake and your legs are stiff as you slowly step into the hallway. You’re a grown woman. You shouldn’t feel like this because your dad is going to yell at you. 

But he’s been so good at forcing you to rely on him. At forcing you to bend and break to fit his beliefs and mold. You don’t know what to do if you’re not striving for his approval. And right now it’s very clear that he’s never been more disgusted by you. 

If the look on his face isn’t enough to twist the knife deeper, his words are. “I have never,” he screams at you. You take a step back, keeping the stairs between you, refusing to meet him in the middle. “Been more embarrassed to call you my daughter. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me? Do you know how many people saw you being dragged outside like a fucking whore off the corner?”

You clench your eyes shut, turning your face away from him as the shame becomes a physical thing inside you. You can feel it making its way up your throat. Because he’s right. Tonight you were nothing more than a slut without any self-respect. 

But you’re also pissed off. You’re fucking enraged at yourself for being so stupid as to ever believe Logan wanted you for anything more than your body. You're mad at Logan for knowing how you feel about him and taking advantage of it. And you’re so fucking tired of doing everything you can to make your father proud and it never being enough. 

“Have you ever once asked me what I want?” You raise your voice, screaming down at him with a ferocity that surprises even you. His eyes widen, frame trembling with unreleased rage. You plow through, not stopping because you know if you do, you’ll never get this out. “No, you haven’t. Not once. Because you don’t fucking love me! And it has taken me years to accept that, to finally realize that you’re incapable of loving anyone but yourself.”

You gasp, the noise wet and painful as something warm trickles down your cheek. You stare down at him with your eyes wide in realization. “It’s so clear to me now, I feel like an idiot for missing it for so long. You never loved me. You’re incapable of it!” 

You’re embarrassed at the way your voice cracks. As much as you want to pretend you’re stronger than him, not afraid of him. There’s still a little girl inside you who wonders why Daddy doesn’t love you. 

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you want, Dad. I don’t care what you want my life to look like or if I embarrassed you. I’m glad I did, glad someone finally saw a sliver of the truth you try so desperately to hide-”

“Enough!” He shouts and it startles you so bad that you jump back, your abilities reacting and a vase behind you flying off the shelf. You duck as glass shatters across the stairs and floor. You glance at the scene with shocked eyes, looking down at your father to see that he’s not even a little bit surprised. 

Instead, he just looks so deeply disappointed that it makes you shrink into yourself. The anger within you is extinguished in a second. He rubs his face, shaking his head and turning his back on you. “Dad?” You call out, voice trembling. 

“Go to your room,” he tells you quietly. “I don’t want to look at you anymore.” You hover by the top of the stairs for a moment, not quite believing him yet. And when he realizes you're still there, that you’re not taking him seriously, he finally looks at you again. 

“I wish every goddamn day that those doctors had just put you down. I’d rather have a dead daughter than one like you.”

You stand there, stunned, even after the rest of the house has gone to bed. You clean up the pieces of glass while you try and swallow down your tears. Let the sharp edges dig into your skin and tear until you can feel any type of pain besides the one inside you. 

A week of solitary confinement. You’re surprised that you haven’t just been kicked out of college. You’re sure that your father’s many donations to the university are the only thing stopping your professors from dropping you from the class. 

You don’t care if they do or not, though. You never actually care about what you studied. You’d just always hoped that it would be a way for you to escape the tight grip around your neck your dad has on you. 

You’ve figured out that no matter how hard you fight, you’ll never escape him. He hates you and yet, he can’t let you go. You’d laugh if you weren’t busy wallowing in your depression. 

Someone keeps leaving food by your door but you can’t find it in yourself to be hungry. You’ll nibble on something, but you feel like you’re going to throw up when you so much as breathe the wrong way. 

You haven’t heard from Logan since that night. You knew your father would fire him the second he woke up. But you’d held out hope - foolishly - that he might still try and reach out to you. You have this childish image in your head of the prince coming to rescue the princess from the dragon. 

But you’ve been naive your whole life, you don’t want to keep going down this road. You don’t want to keep expecting the best of people and live your life in perpetual disappointment. 

You haven’t seen or spoken to your father since that night. Wordlessly, he’d banned you to your room. No one’s said it, but you know you’re not allowed to come out. You don’t know when he’s going to deem you useful again and drag you back out into the public eye. 

Contrary to his belief, no one had seen you leave that night with Logan. You hadn’t been in any tabloids or shitty news articles. Besides emotional estrangement from your father and losing the only guy you’ve ever really liked, there were no consequences to your whorish behavior - as your father so lovingly puts it. 

You roll over in your bed and picture yourself taking a shower. It feels like such a workout but you can’t stand lying in your sweat and tears for much longer. With a long drawn-out groan, you throw yourself out of bed and enter the bathroom connected to your room. 

You know you’ll feel better afterward, but everything besides sleep sounds like too much work. Still, you force yourself inside and finally clean the grime of laying on your ass for a week off. 

You walk naked through your room, making a beeline for your dresser. You feel a little better after washing yourself off and moisturizing. But not much. Physical health can only do so much for how you feel inside. 

You hope this will blow over soon, you’re not sure how much longer you can take feeling so awful. You hate pitying yourself, and that’s exactly what you’re doing right now. You huff irritatedly, digging around your drawers for your favorite shirt. 

A hand clamps around your mouth, rough and big, yanking you back into a muscled chest and keeping you quiet. You still try and scream, hands clawing at the skin of their hand until you feel blood. 

“Fuck, quit that, would ya?”

Your erratic movements slowly come to a halt. You still feel your heart pounding against your chest, adrenaline warming your blood and making you feel like you're on fire from the inside out. But, you recognize the voice, recognize there’s no danger to the situation. 

That doesn’t make you any less pissed off. When Logan is sure you won’t keep attacking him, he lets you go slowly. You immediately whirl around on him, uncaring that you’re still naked. Energy moves quickly through you, becoming a physical thing under your skin. 

He smiles at you and you push the energy out, throwing him across your room. He flies into your bookshelf, crashing to the ground with a loud slam. “What the fuck are you doing?” You scream at him. 

There’s no one home right now, luckily, or else you both would be screwed. He shakes his head off, brushing pieces of wood out of his hair and slowly getting to his feet. “Well, I was coming to say hi-”

“You say hi by ambushing naked girls?” You interrupt, grabbing the clothes closest to you and pulling them on quickly. 

Logan rolls his neck out and shrugs. “No, that was just a plus,” he gives you that insufferable smirk and you want to scream. 

This is the first time you see him in a week since you had sex together and your father officially disowned you. And this is what he’s leading with? Seriously? “You’re a real fucking prince, Logan.” You shake your head with a scoff and glare at him.

He narrows his eyes, looking to be in disbelief at your attitude. “What happened?” You expect to hear irritation in his tone. Anger that you’re being such a bitch right now. Instead, he sounds concerned, like he can see right through you. 

You hate that. You used to love having someone who could see past all the pretenses and walls, but it just hurts now. “Nothing,” you tell him, unable to hold eye contact any longer. “Look,” you take in a deep breath, and your brows furrow in confusion. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

Logan doesn’t look like he wants to drop the topic just yet but he relents. He nods towards your window and you fix him with an astonished look. “I climbed, I didn’t want your dad to risk seeing me on the security cameras out front.”

You feel suspicion brewing inside you, tone turning defensive. “Look, if you came here because you want to fuck again, I suggest you go find another girl. I’m not interested anymore.”

“Well,” he scoffs, “I find that hard to believe.” How easily he just dismisses your words. Like they hold no real importance. It makes you want to scream. Instead, you just flick your wrist, throwing him into another wall. You don’t know how you’re going to explain these holes in the wall to your father but you don’t really care. 

“Enough,” he snaps, brushing himself off and glaring at you. Your lips curl up in amusement, the first thing you’ve felt besides anger and depression for the last week. “Look, I was coming here to get you the hell out, kid. Clearly, I’m not wanted.”

He walks towards your window, intent on climbing back down the side of your house and leaving. You almost let him, if only to see him scurrying down the wall. Instead, you take a step forward and stop him with a small, “Get me out?”

He sighs, running an aggrieved hand over his face and propping the other on his hip. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Look, I can’t stand the thought of you cooped up in here, isolated from the rest of the world. It’s not fair, I was gonna see if you…” He trails off and roughly swallows. 

Your interest piques. Whatever is this hard for him to get out has to be interesting. “Logan,” you call his name softly. “See if I what?”

He huffs out a rough breath, turning around and staring you down. There’s something in his eyes, something reflected in yours. He’s looking at you the same way you always look at him. “You wanna come with me, kid?”

Well, you’d have to be an idiot to say no. 

You don’t leave a note. You don’t give them any clues or hints as to where you might have gone. They can draw their own conclusions about what happened to you. They can tell the news whatever twisted lies they want. 

You don’t care, that’s not your life anymore. Your life is packed away in a backpack in the back of Logan’s trailer. Your new life is in the passenger seat beside him. You’re equal parts terrified and excited to figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of it. 

a/n: can you tell I know fuck all about politics?

Also, smut, wow, this was hard and rough to write. I don’t know why it’s such a struggle. I just feel guilty writing such dirty words, it’s absolutely diabolical that I have no problem being crazy over a guy whose age gap with me is the same age as my parents, but I can’t write smut.

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp

Logan Taglist:  @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp♡

[inbabylontheywept]

by tradition, the first day of the camp was spent pranking the group next to us. our prank was ziptying the zippers on their sleeping bags together. we figured one of them would sleep with a knife, because we all slept with knives, because we were dangerous maniacs and half the danger of a dangerous maniac is that they tend to think that they are Actually Normal. so. obviously that didn't pan out, and instead they got stuck in their sleeping bags for like half an hour and because their scoutmaster slept in their car and couldn't hear them yelling, they actually only got out when one of them went full caged animal and chewed through the plastic. which meant they had time to make it to the axe throwing station, but they did miss breakfast.

the scale of our victory was impossible to understate. it was an epic prank. unrivaled. the best in years. we knew they were going to retaliate, and we both feared and craved it. maybe i'm still a maniac, but that feels like a common thing, right? do well adjusted people that are not maniacs crave Judgement?

(serious answers only please, from people who would never spoon a knife.)

anyway, the next day we got back to our camp, and the neighors had skipped dinner to just come back and fill all our tents with pinecones. which was like, a decent prank, i guess, but it probably took them an hour to fill all the tents up, and it took us like 15 minutes to tip the tents out, and as a return volley to the ziptie prank it was incredibly underwhelming. we felt a little cheated.

so our scouting group held a council, and we agreed, unanimously, that our prank was 100% better and theirs sucked and that there would be no escalating tensions because we were the clear victors. they'd had their chance to retaliate, and they failed, and so the war was over. that was it.

we agreed on this. we swore. but madness is a relative thing, and in our group of maniacs, we still had J. i have many, many J stories. too many. i biked up to school with him from 4th grade to 8th, and i saw him get hit by cars thrice. he'd just swerve into the road sometimes. one time on a rainy day in 4th grade, a car splashed me, and before i could even consider my response J yelled I GOT THIS and then he blitzed off after the car. i didn't see him the rest of the day. i was so anxious i barely slept that night. i saw him the next morning and he told me that he'd chased the car until it got to a gated community and then he'd climbed over the fence and looked in peoples garages until he found the one with the car, and then he'd ripped the hood ornament off and broke their window. then he gave me a hood ornament to a different brand of car from the one that splashed me and i didnt tell him because i didnt want him missing more school. i want you to mentally adjust your mental model of the things a 9 year old is capable of doing to include chasing a car for five miles, hopping a fence, breaking into a garage, and vandalizing a randos car.

and that's just the tip of my J stories iceberg.

the point of all this is just to say that J was so crazy that he made us knife spooners look like accountanting enthusiasts.

so we agreed the war was done, and we shook on it, and then J, in the name of friendship, in the name of honor, in the name of avenging our pinecone filled tents, snuck over to their camp that evening and fornicated with a watermelon that they'd been saving in their cooler.

i want to emphasize, again, that this was not the consensus of the group. that is not a prank. like i know it seems like we dont know what pranks are because of the whole ziptie thing, but even we knew that fucking someones food is not a prank, it is a crime, and a sin, the kind of weapon that had only been ethically used once in history by Horus in his battle against Set and none of us dumb assholes had owl heads.

so.

the next day went pretty well. we threw some more axes again, which is a valuable and important skill for children to learn i guess, and we learned how to tie knots, which is a skill that turned out to be far sexier than i ever expected, and i learned how to light fires with a magnifying glass, which was great. i'm looking back at this, and i am actually just now beginning to realize that the clear and obvious point of scouting is turning child sociopaths into apex predators.

and then the day ended, and we went back to our camps, except for our leaders, who had a sort of Scout Leader Meeting they were going to have for a few hours at least. it was built into the camp, that day was supposed to be our day to chill as a group, and make peach cobbler, and just be buddies.

except, as it turned out, our neighboring group's alternative to making peach cobbler was eating their watermelon. so at some point they opened their watermelon, and woo boy. oh man. you think catholics hated seedless watermelons? you should see how much mormons hate seeded ones.

so we were chilling by the fire, and then we heard screaming from the camp over, but we didn't pay much mind to that because there are many reasonable explanations for a group of 10ish children to scream simulanteoulsy, such as wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then the screaming got closer, which did not bother us because there were many reasons for a group 10ish children to scream and run towards us, for example, wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then we noticed they had large sticks on them, which we figured were perhaps being used to drive away the wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then they arrived and they started beating the shit out of us, abundantly, in arizona.

so we ran into the woods.

now, at this point, we had no idea what was up. we knew that the camp next to us was out for blood, which was crazy, because we'd actually locked them in fartproof bags for 30 minutes and they'd barely done anything back, and were trying to figure out what could possibly have happened that could drive them to Terrible Violence when we realized that J was cackling like a witch that had learned how to order children off of ebay.

so we politely asked J what the hell he had done, and he politely explained that had "done" their watermelon, and we politely beat him with large sticks because life is nothing but endless cycles of violence.

we were still being chased by the other camp btw. so it was them, chasing us, chasing J, and then they got tired and went back to their camp, and we chased J a little longer because we were mad we'd all been walloped with sticks, and J did not care because he was a supernatural entity whose only weaknesses were Needles and Fire, and then we got tired and went back and J kept running, and we just kind of figured he would come back eventually.

he did not.

we went back to our tents, and we waited, and J did not come back. we stayed up all night, peering into the forest, worrying. our leader came back, and we did our best to hide our battlewounds, and he either genuinely did not notice or simply accepted this as part of Boyhood. then he went to bed, and we waited, and waited, and waited. And Waited. and did not sleep.

eventually, we convened again, and we agreed that if J was not back by after breakfast, we would have to tell the scoutleader about what exactly had transpired. and we really did not want to do that, because it would have meant that everyone would have gotten in a very large amount of trouble.

morning came around, and J still was not back. we went to breakfast, and we ate very, very slowly. we were afraid the other camp was going to continue their war with us, but they actually looked fairly frightened. one of them actually came to us and asked for a truce, and we agreed because we truly felt bad for them. like, yes, they did beat us with sticks, but J fucked their watermelon. we werent complicit in the watermelonfuckening but they didnt know that, and it was definitely the kind of crime that left one outside the bounds of the social contract.

and then when we could eat no more bits, when breakfast was almost done, right when i was getting pushed to go and tell the scoutleader that we needed to find J, he arrived. he was sleep deprived, and noticeably scraped and bloody, and tied to his belt was a blood squirrel tail.

and i asked him, J, where did you get that? and he said, don't worry man, it was already dead, which did not answer by question and gave me several more.

the camp ended that day, and the other groups avoided us like the plague, and it was not until some weeks later that we were able to piece together what happened.

J, in his sojourn through the forest, managed to find (or, possibly, make) a dead squirrel. he then cut off the tail to keep on his belt, because he was a weird little freak like that. he also took the dead squirrel, and he skinned it, then he tied it to a little crucifix made of wood, and he left it in the other scouting group's camp. which is why they were so scared of us.

it was such an unhinged thing to do it actually sobered us up for a while. scouting became a scary thing for us. we'd found something dark and primal there, in the place where no adult could see, and our appreciation of J as a wild ride kind of changed into seeing him as something truly dangerous. we had a sense wherever he went, something terrible would follow, and the only way to escape it was to not be there when it arrived. and so piece by piece, the scout group dissolved. it wasnt until he moved out of that ward that the rest of us started daring to go back to scouts.

and for the final epilogue of the tale:

i have a little brother who was friends with a younger cousin of J's, and the two would go to parties together in highschool. and sometimes J, who was in his early 20's at that point, would show up at the parties, and it was unsettling in such a way that it just became a known risk at parties with the cousin. and at one party, they were playing truth or dare, and J wasn't even in the room, but someone asked him the Truth of how he always knew how to find the cousin, and J said the cousin's mom had mentioned she was worried about him and the parties so he'd put a tracker in his car. and when he saw that the cousin was out of the house on weekends, he'd made a visit by, just to make sure he was safe.

then he left. and every single person at that party went over that poor kid's car. they searched the wheel-wells, checked underneath it, the works, until they found the tracker. then because they were clever, they didnt break it, or throw it away, or anything that would've given away what they'd done. they just gave the tracker to the cousin, who put it in his glovebox. and on schooldays, he'd take it with him, so J could see him in the parking lot. and on weekends, he could leave it in the garage, so he could go to parties with out Hell coming with him. because everyone that met J - every single person - knew that the only way to be safe from him was to be far, far away.

[p1astr81]

sidelines - op81

In which: Oscar sits on the sidelines and watches as you cycle through terrible dates until he’s had enough and can’t stand by any longer.

pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Warnings: implied smut but no actual smut (it does get a bit heated though), bit of angst if you could call it that

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

You’d rather be anywhere else.

The guy in front of you continued to talk about himself. You were only half-listening, giving uninterested hums every now and then. Given that he still hasn’t noticed, it was safe to say this was yet another shitty date.

It became a shitty date pretty quick, actually. Only about ten minutes after you sat down, you realized it was another waste of a Friday night. He hasn’t asked you a single question in the hour you’ve been sitting at the restaurant,

Most of the time, your mind had been on Oscar.

The McLaren driver lived next door to you. He introduced himself a year ago when he moved in. Ever since, you’ve clicked. He became your best friend very quickly.

In anticipation that you would come back with another date night horror story, he planned a movie night to make you feel better.

“…and I’ve been getting into formula one.”

This time, your hum was very much interested. You sat up. “Really? Isn’t it such an interesting sport?” You sat forward in attention.

“It’s crazy how their engines only last five races.” He commented.

You cocked your head to the side. “Hm? They last more than that. At least 6. 5 would be like if someone didn’t take care of their engine.” You laughed to lessen the blow of the correction.

He laughed to mock you.

“No. They only last five races. Trust me, hon.”

۶ৎ

Oscar jumped when you entered his apartment, slamming the door. He’d accidentally fallen asleep waiting for you.

“Oh my god! I cant do it anymore! Oscar-“ you stopped short, witnessing his messy hair and tired eyes. “I’m sorry. You were sleeping.” You frowned, pointing out the obvious.

Oscar smiled, scooting over to make room for you and he patted the couch next to him. “Doesn’t matter. I wanna hear about this tragic date.” He joked.

He knew you came straight from it. You were still in your little black dress, but your heels were given up in favor of more comfortable sandals which you kicked off at the door.

You took up his offer, lying with your head in his lap. “So fucking stupid, guys are.” You huffed, then made contact with Oscar’s amused and pitying eyes. “Not you. You’re an exception.” You smiled.

“So what was it this time?” His hand found your arm, his thumb gliding over the sleeves of your dress.

“He just talked about himself the entire fucking time. He didn’t even ask me a single question about me. It was all about him.” You seethed. “Oh! And he tried to correct me about how long your car’s engine lasts.” You laughed bitterly at the memory. “Self-centered dick, honestly.” You muttered, playing with the ring on your index finger.

Oscar squeezed your arm. “I’m sorry this one didn’t work out either.” He said with full sincerity. Though he didn’t really mean it. Of course, he was sorry that she had to endure such shitty men, but he wasn’t sorry that she hadn’t found one she liked.

It meant she was still single. Still available for whenever Oscar got the balls to make a move.

A couple months ago, he asked Lando how to make a move. He laughed when Oscar told him that it was his next door neighbor that he was eyeing. Knowing you weren’t even close to being considered a celebrity—you were an event planner—Lando said simply, “You’re a Formula one driver. If that doesn’t win her over, I don’t know what will.”

Even so, you were you. Not to mention that he was terrified of becoming another one of your horror stories.

A frown played on your lips. “I think I should just give up.” You mumbled.

“Hey,” Oscar started, lifting your chin, causing you to look up at him. “Don’t say that. The perfect guy is out there somewhere.”

You scowled. “I think it’s your fault.” You accused.

He blinked. “Why do you say that?”

You sat up and stared at him with wild eyes. “‘Cause you’re perfect. You listen. You ask me about my life and not just talk about yourself. You’re so fucking sweet and kind and funny and it’s so infuriating because I’m forever comparing people to you now, and if you didn’t introduce yourself when you moved in then it wouldn’t be such a problem. Then I could settle for some duche just for the sake of dating someone.” You rambled, crazed gestures with your hands. You nearly hit him in the head at one point.

And after all that, all Oscar could offer was a very confused, “sorry,” because he couldn’t stop thinking about how you described him.

Sweet, kind, funny. You compared other guys to him.

He confessed this to Lando the next time they saw each other.

“Mate! Make your move already! She so obviously likes you!” The curly haired brit exclaimed.

But Oscar still wasn’t sure. “I don’t think so. I think she meant it in a friendly way.”

“Oscar, she is literally using you to set the bar for her dates. I don’t know how much more obvious this can get.” He replied, a thick layer of annoyance to his voice.

Oscar sighed, self doubt creeping through. “But she-“

Lando groaned. “Oh my god, if you don’t make your move, you’re going to lose her anyway.”

۶ৎ

You’re going to lose her.

Lando’s words rung through Oscar’s ears.

He was sat on the couch with your body pressed up against his side and your head on his shoulder. He observed your relaxed face, unaware that you could see it in your peripheral vision.

Inclining your head to look at him, you raised a brow. “Everything okay?” Your soft voice, so concerned.

It brought a small, warm smile to his face. “Mhm.” He hummed, nodding.

A smile creeped up on your own lips. “Okay.” Your hand snaked down his arm, lacing your fingers together. The warmth of his hand, just slightly bigger than your own, brought comfort. “If you’re sure.” You turned to face the television once more.

The silence was only short before Oscar spoke up. “When’s your next date?” He paused, continuing when you looked up at him once more, a spark of hope in your eyes that he didn’t pick up on in the dim lighting of the room. “Just so I can stock up on ice cream.” His words, unknowingly, blew out the spark.

“I don’t know.” A deep sigh. “I know I’ve said it before, but I really think I’m giving up this time.”

Oscar said nothing. He’d wanted to tell you that was a great idea, but perhaps it wasn’t right.

“Can I use your shower?” You asked.

Oscar blinked, thrown off by the change of topic. He knew you liked his shower better than your own. His had an upgraded shower head. “Yeah. That’s fine. Do you want to borrow some clothes or-“

“Yeah sure.” You smiled. “Your hoodies are more comfortable anyway.” You commented as he walked away.

While you showered, Oscar remained on the couch, unable to tune out your humming to a song stuck in your head. Not that he minded. It was quite a comforting sound, but he felt a bit creepy listening to you shower.

When you returned to the living room about twenty minutes later, Oscar was thankful the room was near pitch black. His face was on fire seeing you in his hoodie, and it only got worse when you cuddled back up next to him.

And something else popped up, too.

Eyes squeezed shut, he tried his best to will it away, thinking about anything else. That was impossible when he could feel your hot breath on his neck, and when his nose was being invaded by the sweet scent of your shampoo—because he made sure it was always available to you whenever you felt like stealing his shower.

Christ, he was going insane. He couldn’t even tell you what the movie was about if you asked him.

He could only pray you wouldn’t notice.

And you didn’t, because you’d fallen asleep in his arms, and he hadn’t noticed until an hour later until the movie’s credits began to roll.

He shook your shoulder. “Hey, movie is over. You wanna stay here? Or go back to your own? Whatever you want is fine for me?”

You stretched and groaned. “Should probably go back.” You mumbled and stood. You stretched once more to wake yourself up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You gave him a tired smile that softened his heart.

“Yeah.”

You got two steps before your movements were inhibited.

A hand around your waist, yanking you backwards. And then a pair of soft, warm lips on yours.

Taken by surprise, you hummed against his lips. Oscar being Oscar, took it the wrong way.

He pulled away, started stumbling over his words, backed up, stared at the floor in shame. “I’m- I’m so sorry. I should have-“

“I’m shocked it took you that long.” You scoffed, pulling him back into you and kissing him hard. All that built up tension bursted open, shifting the atmosphere in a complete 180.

His arm snaked around your back and pulled you flush with his chest. You gasped when you felt his semi-hard pushing against your leg.

The both of you tumbled down onto the couch with you landing on top, Oscar’s hands landing on your waist. Oscar groaned when your clothed core brushed the tent in his pants.

You whispered out a curse.

Oscar took control, gripping your hips and forcing you to brush against his growing tent once more.

“If I knew you wanted me this bad, I would’ve done something about it sooner.” You panted into his mouth. “Get me out of these clothes already.” You kissed him again, addicted to the taste of his lips.

He pulled back. “This isn’t…“ he panted, unable to catch his breath. “This isn’t why I kissed you.”

“Oh I know,” you groaned, diving back in for another taste of his lips. “Makes you ten times hotter.” He swallowed your confession as you spoke it into his mouth.

He was losing it under you as you ground against him, fully clothed like two horny teenagers. His brain was going foggy, every thought of his centered around you.

Well, except for one. “Lando won’t believe it.” He muttered.

You stopped your ministrations, pulling back to stare at his blissed-out face. And you hadn’t even properly touched him. “Oscar.” Your voice demanded his focus.

He tried his best to focus on your face. He really did. But pleasure was overtaking his brain and his eyes were glossed over.

“Awe.” You clicked your tongue. “I was going to make fun of you for thinking about a man right now, but it seems not much thinking it going on in that pretty head of yours at all.” You teased while placing kisses all over his face and neck, running your hands along his chest underneath his shirt.

“Please.” He whispered.

Usually, Oscar wasn’t one to take on the submissive role. But boy was he down bad for you.

He felt your breathy chuckle against his neck and he gripped onto your hips harder. “Since you asked so nicely,” you tore off his shirt, ogling at his toned chest. “Fucking hell you’re fit.”

The compliment brought out his confidence and a sneaky grin. He didn’t even ask you before looping his hands around your knees and picking you up.

“Let’s take this somewhere more proper, yeah?” You melted under his husky, needy voice.

۶ৎ

“Oscah! You finally grew some balls!?” Lando greeted. Oscar and yourself were trying to kill time by hanging around the hospitality.

You furrowed your brows, looking between your best friend boyfriend and his teammate.

“And I suppose you’re going to take credit for it, too?” Oscar said, unenthused.

“Oh hell yeah.” Lando laughed. “If I remember, I’m the one who told you to go for it.” He pulled a chair up and sat with you guys.

It finally clicked. “Oh, that’s what you meant by ‘Lando won’t believe it’.”

Lando stared before filling in the context on his own. He turned to Oscar. “Mate.” He said, a tone that told him to be serious.

Now red in the face, Oscar took your hand. “Seems we have somewhere to be right now.” He dismissed, but Lando’s laughter followed you out of the hospitality.

[plethorawrites]

(I got this idea when my friend complained about me laying horizontal over them when we had to share a bed)

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Imagining Jason Todd with a restless sleeper. This man was in a literal coffin, he may have been a bit of a restless sleeper as a kid, but since then, he sleeps like a log.

The way he lays down is the way he wakes up, aside from the tossing when he has a nightmare. Still, those usually just paralyze him not make him thrash.

So, when you sleep over the first few nights and he starts sharing a bed with you, he's not only not used to having part of his space taken, he's also not used to getting kicked. Not only did you kick, you tossed and turned and sometimes wound up laying horizontal on the bed with your legs over his stomach.

And at first, it was kind of funny to him, the different positions you'd find yourself in. But after a while of you interrupting the few hours of sleep he was actually able to get, he got a bit tired of it. You were always flipping over, and once your pillow got slammed into his face for the third time that night, he'd had enough.

Sighing in frustration, he reached out, trying to get you to stop flailing. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you a bit closer, which your subconscious resisted at first since it wouldn't allow you to thrash the way you wanted to, but eventually you relaxed against him.

For a moment, at least.

Then your legs started kicking him. Entangling your legs with his, he kept them pinned down so they wouldn't kick and took a moment to push all the hair out of your face so you could breath and not suffocate in your own locks. His grip tightened again, when he felt you start to squirm a bit in his arms, trying to turn over the way you did at least every hour.

He was strong, but you were persistent and he wouldn't risk hurting you, so his grip loosened to let you turn. You rolled more into him, burying your face into his neck and he relaxed against you propping his chin on top of your head and closing his eyes as you finally settled down.

He feared, because it was still early in the relationship, that you might not be comfortable with him holding you the way he had been, but when he woke up you were still in his arms. He stayed there another half hour until you woke up, looking up at him with groggy eyes and tangled hair.

"How'd you sleep?" He murmured, studying your face like he'd been doing the past half hour, now focusing on your eyes.

You inhaled deeply and exhaled in content, nuzzling closer to him. "Good," you mumbled, closing your eyes again. "Really good."

And over the next few nights that you stayed with him, you realized the reason you were always so tired, despite getting eight or nine of sleep, was because of how damn restless they always were. Suddenly, with him holding you so tight you couldn't even think of trashing in your sleep, you suddenly started waking up feeling rested. Sleeping better in his arms than you had in your entire life.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FOURTEEN

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: angst; mentions of panic attacks and anxiety.

The party was in full swing, you were mid-conversation with Sarah, a half-empty champagne flute in her hand, an amused expression on her face as she listened to your rundown of some ridiculous thing Cleo had done earlier. Across from you, Cleo herself was grinning, nodding, because she already knew the punchline.

You gestured with your glass of water, “I don’t think you can classify a boat as ‘commandeered’ if you return it two hours later with a note.”

“It was in the spirit of the sea,” Cleo countered, “Besides, I left it better than I found it.”

John B chuckled beside her, shaking his head as he took a sip from his glass. “Yeah, I don’t think the yacht's owner saw it that way.”

Sarah smirked, “How did you even get past the security?”

Cleo shrugged. “Caribbean charm.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. The banter, felt like home, nights like these were fleeting, precious, something to hold onto for as long as you could.

Your hand absentmindedly pressed against your dress, where the smallest swell of your stomach remained unnoticed. It was still early enough that no one had outright asked, though you caught the occasional double take from someone who knew you well enough to suspect. Sarah noticed, of course, squeezing your wrist lightly.

“You okay?”

You nodded, “Yeah, just tired.”

She let it go, turning back to the others as Cleo launched into a new story about an argument she’d had with a dockhand last week.

The night carried on, you had just started to relax, but you felt it before you saw him lie always. A ghost passing through the room, a presence you were attuned to even when you didn’t want to be.

Rafe.

He hadn’t seen you yet, standing just on the other side of the crowd, back partially turned as he spoke to someone you didn’t recognize.

He looked... different. Not in a dramatic way—his hair was still neatly styled, despite being so short, his suit tailored perfectly to him—you couldn’t pinpoint what is was. You’d seen him not that long ago anyways.

Sarah must have followed your gaze because she exhaled sharply.

“I didn’t think he was coming.”

“Me neither.”

John B had stiffened beside Sarah, his eyes tracking Rafe, waiting for something to happen. Cleo glanced between you, trying to gauge the situation.

“I’ll go say something,” Sarah started, but you stopped her with a light touch to her arm.

“No,” you said quickly. “Let him be.”

She hesitated, then nodded, though you could tell she was still uneasy.

Rafe still hadn’t noticed you, which you weren’t sure if you were relieved about or not. Instead, he was talking to someone older, maybe a family friend, nodding along politely.

There was a restlessness in him that you recognized all too well even from afar. As if he felt you looking, his gaze flicked up and you never looked away so fast in your life.

Cleo let out a low whistle. “That wasn’t dramatic at all.”

You ignored them, your focus jumping back to Rafe, who thankfully, had already turned back to his conversation. Your hands felt clammy as you curled your fingers into your palm. Should you talk to him? Tell him you had another ultrasound this week?

That would be stupid, you’d be opening a locked door and watch everything you’d built to keep yourself okay collapse. You forced yourself to take a sip of water, just to do something with your hands.

“You sure you’re okay?” Sarah asked again, quieter this time.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

The thing about Rafe was, he had a way of getting under your skin without even trying. Even after everything, even after you told yourself you were done with the version of him that kept breaking things—you still felt that pull.

You didn’t get much time to dwell on it, though.

Ten minutes later, you were mid-conversation with Sarah again when Pope shoved through the crowd, looking half-panicked, his chest rising and falling from the running he was doing.

“It’s Rafe.”

Your stomach dropped.

Automatically, your brain filled in the blanks. Drunk, high, spiraling, maybe all three, of course he was about to ruin the night. You didn’t need details, you knew exactly how this would go. He seemed fine just ten minutes ago, but you knew how quickly he could go from zero to a hundred.

That’s what he did, wasn’t it? Made messes, pushed the self-destruct button and let the rest of you deal with the fallout. And on tonight of all nights? At this gala? Honoring the research your sister had worked her ass off for—had fought for.

Yeah. You weren’t doing this.

You remembered the pattern too well, how bad it used to be, back when he was eighteen, running on coke and manic energy, eyes blown wide, jaw grinding, always one wrong word away from swinging on some innocent bystander. 

Ward had died, the coke had been gone by then. The pills too. But the drinking got worse, sneakier, slower. He wasn’t throwing punches so much, but a couple of drinks turned into a bottle turned into blackouts, turned into calls you didn’t want to answer because you already knew what you’d hear on the other end.

Sarah was already stepping forward, but you grabbed her arm before she could go too far.

“No,” you said, shaking your head.

She turned, blinking at you. “What?”

“What do you think you’re gonna do? Talk him down? Fix it? It’s the same shit every time.”

You knew exactly how this would go. Rafe fucks up, one of you swoops in, and for what? So he could apologize and then do it again next week? You weren’t signing up for that.

“It’s different.”

You scoffed. “How?”

“Wheezie told me he’s been sober. Going to therapy.” She hesitated, then added, “Even though he won’t tell any of us.”

Sober? Therapy? No, that didn’t track.

That wasn’t Rafe, at least not the one from the past two years.

Rafe didn’t go to therapy, he didn’t believe in therapy. He called therapy bullshit when Ward died while throwing back tequila and insisting he was fine, okay? 

Rafe didn’t change, not for you, his sisters, or anyone.

You could recall the last time you let yourself believe in him, that quick period after Ward died when he seemed like he was getting better. He wasn’t using, wasn’t picking fights, even talked about leaving the island, and getting a fresh start.

Except, he couldn’t. He never could.

You had no idea what to say, because none of this made sense, it didn’t fit with the version of him that lived in your head nowadays—he was reckless, self-destructive, incapable of being anything else.

“Since when?” you finally forced out, your voice disbelieving.

Sarah gave you a look, “Since he found out.”

You wanted to call bullshit, that he wasn’t capable of change or being the person he was trying to convince you he wasn't anymore. If it was true—if he really had been trying, if he was sober, if he was sitting in a therapist’s office and talking about anything—then what did that mean?

Sarah must’ve seen the hesitation on your face, because before you could say anything, she squeezed your arm.

“You should stay.”

She still wanted to believe he was salvageable, you wished you could believe it too.Your stomach flipped, not sure if it was the baby or the nerves.

“What?”

“Stay,” she repeated, “I don’t know what he’s gonna be like right now, and I don’t want you stressing yourself out.”

By stressing she meant, the constant war in your head between missing him and wanting to forget he ever existed. You weren’t sure which side was winning tonight.

Still, something about the way she said it made you defensive.

“Sarah, I’m not gonna—”

“It’s not just about you anymore,” she cut in. Her eyes dropped—for a second—to the still-small bump beneath your dress, the one people still missed even if they looked up closely.

You clenched your jaw, instead of being grateful, you should’ve let her go and not think twice. Too bad you already knew you weren’t going to listen. Your swollen feet were already itching to move, body and mind at war with each other. 

You should stay.

But you didn’t.

Sarah was halfway across the room when you exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down your face, and turned to follow.

Or at least, you would have, if Pope hadn’t stepped into your path.

Your head snapped up. “Move.”

Pope didn’t budge. His brows were furrowed, the way they always were when he was trying to decide if he should talk you out of something, you could tell he was about to try his best.

“You’re freaking out,” he said, voice calm, “Sarah’s got this. Just let her—”

If you could just turn it off—flip a switch and erase every part of you that still cared, you would. God, you would. You still remembered the boy he used to be, who swore up and down he’d never be like his father, even as he went down the same road.

“How did he look?” you cut in.

He hesitated.

“Pope.”

Then, honestly, he admitted, “I could hear his breathing from the other side of the balcony.”

Your stomach twisted. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You weren’t sure if you could stomach knowing he was having a panic attack, needing to see which version of him was waiting for you tonight. But Pope had grown to know you well enough to see that war playing out on your face, and he sighed, bracing his hands on your shoulders.

“I get it, okay?” he said. “Whatever’s happening with him, it’s not your problem anymore.”

Not your problem anymore. Your eyes were still locked on the exit Sarah had disappeared through.

You remembered last week, how your breath had been coming in short gasps, too ragged when you saw Topper standing there, how you’d let your rage and panic mix so quickly inside you that you weren’t sure which one would win. You remembered your hands had shook like leafs from restraining yourself to do some real physical damage, two seconds away from tearing into him, from saying something you couldn’t take back—and then, Rafe had been there.

He didn’t yell, or fight, just put a hand on your skin, he spoke quietly, called your name so softly that it cut through the bloodbath in your head. And when you’d finally snapped out of it shoved him off and been mean and cruel and cold—he still stayed until your breathing was normal again.

You think that’s why you were already moving now.

You wanted to believe it, that he was trying, that here was something still there to save, that you weren’t an idiot for still feeling so much.

Rafe had been yours once and you weren’t sure you could ever be the kind of person who stayed behind while he hurt, even if he hurt you for so long. Stupid. Stupid.

You were going to regret this, you already knew that.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt, huffed out an exhale through your nose, annoyed at yourself.

When you finally found them, Rafe was sitting on the ground, his back against the railing, head tipped back against it, trying to focus on breathing. His eyes were shut tight, brows drawn together in pain, chest rising and falling too shallow.

Sarah was crouched next to him, a bottle of water in one hand, a small packet of sugar in the other, rubbing slow circles on his back, murmuring something that you couldn’t hear.

It was like being yanked back in time, to the night you found him outside Tannyhill, after the funeral, hands gripping his hair so tight it looked like he wanted to rip it out. His mom had been gone for two days by then, but he was still shaking.

You remembered how helpless fourteen year old you felt.

She turned her head at the sound of your footsteps, and the second she saw you, you knew she disapproved. But she didn’t say anything, just pressed her lips together, passed you the bottle of water as she stood, understanding you were going to do this your way no matter what she said.

You took her place without a word, sliding down onto the floor beside him, setting the water down at your feet before you could talk yourself out of it. Y

ou were just as weak as you’d always been when it came to him.

After years, of fighting, of hurting you in ways you never thought he would—you were back here. You hated that it felt familiar, it felt safe, even now.

Rafe was still breathing too fast, lost in his head—until the second your palm pressed against his back. You think his body recognized you before his mind did, then almost immediately, the tension in his shoulders dropped. His breath hitched, then stuttered, then—very slowly, he exhaled.

He knew your touch, your skin, your hands—better than he knew panic, better than he knew hurting. A choked, broken sound—loud enough that you heard it, felt it under your palm, the way his shoulders shook, his whole body seemed to curl in on itself, making himself smaller. You moved closer, pressing your side against his while your hand slid from his back to his shoulder, then up to the back of his neck.

His head tipped forward slightly, forehead brushing your shoulder. You felt the way his jaw moved under your palm, the war he was fighting just to breathe.

“Hey,” you murmured.

His breath stuttered again, but his body still melted against yours, fingers twitching against his knee, then curled into his palm.

You hadn’t seen him like this since his mom, not even when Ward died, when everything went to shit. That scared you more than anything.

“Breathe,” you whispered, because you didn’t know what else to say.

He wasn’t good at talking when it mattered, bu his body always told the truth. Despite everything, this was still second nature, your body angling toward his without thinking, your fingers sliding against his jaw the way he always liked.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, more red than blue.

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, his voice—hoarse— “You’re here.”

It wasn’t a question, more of a disbelieving, almost broken fact, you shouldn’t have, and maybe last month you would’ve never given it a second thought. 

Your fingers pressed against the back of his neck, “Yeah.”

Rafe exhaled through his nose, the answer knocking the air out of him. His hand tightened in your dress, making sure you were real, his voice was quieter when he spoke again.

 “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You inhaled, because it felt like an entirely different kind of confession, even if he told you he was still in love with you just days ago. You turned your head, let your forehead press against his temple, instinct, muscle memory.

Call it what you want.

“I’ve seen you like this before.”

Seen him worse, even, but before, he had been yours, you could have held him without hesitation, whispered things into his skin. His breath ghosted against your shoulder, uneven, and you hated that you knew the sound so well, that your body still reacted to it, that the part of you that should have been hardened against this—against him—was the softest part of all.

You shouldn’t have come. Should’ve let Sarah handle it, and reminded yourself of all the ways he had failed you. 

His fingers curled even tighter in your dress, desperate, knowing this moment was borrowed, you weren’t supposed to be here.

You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing you had an answer.

“Breathe,” you reminded him again, unsure if you were saying it for him or for yourself at this point.

He let out something close to a laugh, “T-that’s the problem.”

You understood what he meant.

“Did you drink?” you asked quietly, not accusing, just needing the truth.

He shook his head against you.

“No. I wanted to. I almost— I was halfway to the bar, and then I saw you and I couldn’t breathe.”

That, more than anything, broke something open in your chest. He didn’t spiral because of you, stopped because of you.

“I shouldn’t be—” His voice cracked, so quiet you barely heard it. He swallowed hard, shaking his head, “Shouldn’t be doing this.”

Your brows knit together. “Rafe.”

His throat bobbed. “It’s your night.”

You should’ve expected that, where his mind would go—he was always his own worst enemy, the first to punish himself before anyone else could.

His breath stuttered eyes squeezed shut again, “I—I didn’t mean to ruin it,” he rasped, “I was fine, I swear I was fine, and then—” He broke off, chest rising and falling too fast again, shaking his head.

“You didn’t ruin the night.”

His laugh was bitter. “Don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I’m not.”

He shook his head again.

“You should be in there.” His voice was worn, “Celebrating with them, not—” A sharp inhale. “Not sitting on the fucking floor d-dealing with this.”

There it was. Then—so soft, so broken, you almost missed it.

“You should be thinking about the baby.”

You gave him a look, small, wry. “Too late.”

If he only knew that stress was the last thing that could hurt you or the baby inside you. If he understood what was happening inside your body, what you were carrying, would he still be worried about ruining your night?

Without thinking, you grabbed his hand, and guided it to your stomach. His whole body went still, eyes dropping to where his palm was pressed flat against your stomach, fingers twitching against the fabric. It was small but it was real, you knew he could feel it once his breathing slowed.

“You’re not ruining anything,” you reassured him again, even as something in your chest twisted violently. “And if you think you are, then you can make it up to me by breathing properly, okay?”

His throat bobbed, you could feel him trying, his body painfully, forcing itself to calm, his palm still warm against your stomach.

A tired laugh escaped him, humorless.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I swear to God, I’m trying.”

“I know.”

You reached up, and wiped the corner of his eye with your thumb, just like you used to.He did something that made your brows pull together, blue eyes flickered up, unfocused but searching, and then—

“Four things,” he nodded to himself.

You frowned. “What?”

His gaze darted around the balcony. “Uh… the railing. The—the lights.” Then, quietly, “You. Three things I can hear,” he went on, eyes shutting for a moment as he listened. “The music inside. The ocean.” Another pause. “You breathing.”

It was the way he said it—flat, automatic, exactly you used to recite it when your therapist had made you do the same exercise in every appointment. Your stomach twisted violently, because there was no way Rafe knew this offhand, you’d never done it in his presence.

No way he just stumbled onto it by accident. Which meant—he was indeeed, in therapy. The boy who’d been taught to despise any help from outsiders, was in therapy. 

Your fingers squeezed against his skin, for the first time in a long, long time, you didn’t see the Rafe who hurt you, who destroyed himself, who burned everything he touched.

You forced yourself to swallow. “Two things you can feel.”

“The floor,” he said first, a little strained. Then his gaze moved to where his hand was still fisted in the fabric at your waist. His voice dropped even lower. “You.”

A slow exhale left his lips, and his fingers relaxed a little.

“One thing you can control.”

His throat bobbed. His lips parted like he was going to answer, but no words came. You squeezed the back of his neck, “Rafe.”

His breath hitched, but then—shakily— “Myself.”

“Do you want me to call a driver?”

“Why?” His voice was raw in a way you hadn’t heard in years.

“So you can go home.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I—”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Please,” Rafe’s voice cracked. “Don’t go yet.”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt, your eyes closed, tears burning without falling. Where even was home for him now? Tannyhill was just walls and memories of ghosts who didn’t love him enough to stay. You hated that you still felt him, your heart still recognized his even after he’d shattered it.

“Sorry.”

The words were right there, behind your teeth, pressing against your tongue, desperate to be spoken.

It’s a boy.

You could see it so clearly—the way Rafe’s breath would catch, his entire body would go stiff. You knew what that meant to him.

A son.

You already knew where his mind would go, straight to Ward, to every cruel word, the gruesome lessons, every scar that wasn’t visible but still sat deep in his bones. The nights spent trying to be better only to end up like him, the last name that never felt like it belonged to him.

Did he deserve to know? No. You shouldn’t tell him. But you also knew it would pull him out of his head in a way nothing else could, the panic, the guilt, it would all be replaced by that.

The realization, the responsibility. Would it make you weak if you gave him something he didn’t deserve? The truth sat bitter on your tongue, not sure which part of it was worse, carrying a baby who might not make it or that, before the anemia—before the doctors and the blood tests and the warnings—you weren’t keeping it.

He doesn’t know that.

You thought about how much it would hurt—him, everything—if the baby didn’t make it. You still weren’t sure if you wanted this, but Rafe—he would. You couldn’t tell him, he wasn’t ready. You weren’t ready.

If you gave him another piece of this—it would be over. His mind worked differently from everyone else, he latched onto things, onto people, building his whole world around the things he was scared of losing.

A baby boy? He’d never let go, he’d obsess, he’d tie himself in knots over the idea of raising a son—his son—without turning into Ward. He’d convince himself he wasn’t good enough, that he’d fuck it up before he even got the chance to try. He’d make it about you, the baby, being better for someone else. And if he was gonna get better—if he was gonna change, you needed it to be for him, not for a baby, not for you, like you wished he would months ago.

You pressed your fingers against his hand, still resting against your stomach, feeling his breath hitch in his throat. 

“I’m gonna call a car, okay?”

His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed with red, searching your face like he was trying to make sense of what was happening, of why you were here, why you hadn’t left yet.

"Y-You don’t have to do this.”

Sit here? Hold him together? Pretend like this wasn’t killing you, too?

“I mean it,” he rasped. “I don’t—I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

Apologies didn’t fix things, but maybe trying did. This version of Rafe, scared and vulnerable and not pretending to be anything else—was the closest thing to trying you were ever going to get.

You nodded, fingers slipping from his skin, from his everything, because you had to.

"Are you gonna be okay alone?"

A slight nod. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled, “Jus’ need a minute.”

He didn’t look fine, but you couldn’t be around him for any longer without losing your composure. You forced yourself to step away, heels carrying you inside, toward the crowd. You found Sarah near the edge of the room, eyes scanning the area for you before landing on your face.

She took one look at you and her brow furrowed.

“Hey,” she started, walking toward you, “What happened?”

She could always tell when things were off with you, but it was different tonight

“He’s... still not okay,” you confessed,“I don’t think he should be alone.”

Her chocolate brown eyes softened, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, but it felt shaky at best. “I’m fine. I just— I don’t want him to go home alone. Not like this.”

You hated asking her this, their sibling relationship was strained, at best. Years of resentment and old wounds that never quite healed. 

“Can you drive home with him?” you asked, hating the desperation. “Please. He’s too... out of it. I can’t let him go with some random driver.”

“I’ll drive him.”

You gave a grateful nod, knowing it wasn’t easy for either of you to be around Rafe when he was like this. She knew better than anyone what he could do to a person, take up all the space in your chest even when you swore there was nothing left of him in you.

“Thank you.”

“He’s still my big brother.”

The stupid pregnancy hormones made everything intense, and right then, you had to fight the tears growing in your eyes.

This wasn’t the moment for that. 

Something about the way she said it—you knew what it meant.

No matter how fucked up everything had become between them, she still saw him for who he once was—her big brother. You remembered the little sister who had once looked up to him, who had wanted to believe he could be the brother she’d always needed. 

As Sarah walked away, your body tensed again as you pressed your fingers against your eyes, scolding yourself for being so weak. You had come too far—pregnant, sure, but with so many other things to focus on. 

You turned away from the crowd, not wanting to stay here anymore, in this place—you didn’t belong here anymore.

The night wasn’t supposed to end like this.

It was stupid of you—thinking you could step into this world again, even for one night, and not have him be a part of it somehow. 

You needed to stop, he wasn’t your responsibility or your problem.

You checked your phone, pulling up the car service app, but your fingers hesitated over the screen. The sound of tires crunching against gravel pulled you from your thoughts.

A sleek, dark car rolled to a stop a few feet away, the headlights casting shadows across the pavement.

Sarah must’ve called ahead.

The driver stepped out, moving to open the back door for you. You slid inside, the leather seats cool against your skin as you pulled the door shut. You should’ve felt relieved, getting away, creating space, but all you felt was exhausted.

You held a hand against your stomach, a part of him and a part of you. Your eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion pulling at you, but then—

"Two at least."

You could hear her voice so clearly, your sister had always known what she wanted.

"Four?" You had laughed, sprawled out beside her on the sun-warmed dock, bare feet dipping into the water. "Why not just one?"

"Because," she had said, as if it was obvious, "babies need a sibling. Like us. You wouldn’t survive without me."

You had rolled your eyes, but she had only grinned. "And a shit ton of cousins, too. Big family, holidays packed, the works."

It had felt like a given—that you’d grow up, build something ike that, the two of you would always be around to make it happen.

Now, she was gone. They all were, while you turned into someone else. Someone who wasn’t sure who she was anymore, or what she wanted, or what she could even have.

"You know what Mom used to say?" your sister had murmured once, curled up beside you on the couch, your childhood home quiet around you.

"What?"

"That being sisters means never being alone in the world."She had nudged your arm, smiling. "Even when I’m pissing you off, you know I’d do anything for you. No one else gets to mess with you. That’s my job."

You had laughed then, shoving at her playfully. "I know."

You needed to stop thinking about it, about him.

You shouldn’t have been out there with him in the first place, letting him touch you, reaching for him like it was instinct, allowing yourself get pulled under by the sound of his voice, the way he said your name, the way he—

You inhaled sharply, blinking up at the ceiling of the car. You didn’t owe him anything, you repeated it in your head over and over, hoping that it would start to feel true again.

The car slowed to a stop in front of your place, and you let out a breath before stepping out. Inside, the house was quiet, you hadn’t been spending much time here, you’d forgotten the last time you slept here, you'd been crashing at the pogues for way too long.

You slipped off your heels, letting them drop onto the floor as you stepped further into the space. It still didn’t feel like home, not really.

But then again, nowhere did after you crossed that invisible line back at the party. Being done with Rafe had never been as easy as walking away when you had a whole history tangled up in his, when there was a part of him growing inside you.

You had no idea what the fuck you were supposed to do about that. 

The sound of your phone buzzing on the coffee table made you jump. You reached for it, expecting Sarah, maybe, or one of the pogues checking in.

Rafe: Thank you.

What were you supposed to say? You’re welcome? Take care of yourself? Don’t make me regret this? You locked the phone without replying and set it face down.

You’d unblocked his number last week.

Not because you wanted to talk or because you’d forgiven him, mainly because on those lonely nights—lying in bed, hands shaking, every part of you fighting not to call him—you couldn’t stand the thought of him not being able to pick up if you ever did.

You told yourself it was about control, keeping the upper hand, proving that you could still have him at arm’s length. 

Rafe: Are you home? I need to see you. Please.

Short, desperate, please. That word—please—it wasn’t something Rafe used carelessly. Or something you were used to hearing from him without a fight, not without blood or breaking or both. But lately you’d been hearing it every time your paths crossed.

You shouldn’t even have him unblocked. 

You blamed those nights spent curled up on your side, fighting off sleep because it always came with dreams of him, had a you breaking down every rule you swore you’d follow.

Truth was, you just didn’t want to feel that kind of alone.

You stood up, phone abandoned, and padded into the bathroom, stripping off the dress, wiping off the makeup, avoiding the mirror.

You knew what you looked like: a girl who still hadn’t figured out how to stay away from the one person she swore she was done with.

You crawled into bed, cold sheets wrapping around you, and curled onto your side. The tears were quiet at first, only slipping down your cheek, collecting at the corner of your jaw, soaking into the pillow, then your chest started to shake, you buried your face in the blanket and let it happen.

What else could you do?

You turned onto your back, eyes blurry as they stared up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above you. You reached for your phone again, not to text him, but just to look, his name still sat there at the top of your messages, unread.

I need to see you. Please.

You tossed it down on the bed like it was poison burning through your skin if you let it linger in your palm for one more second. But your eyes flicked back toward it. Still lit up, waiting.

You shouldn’t text back, you shouldn’t.

You were weak tonight, and lonely, missing him in a way that had nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with how it used to be, how he used to hold you, touch you, kiss you.

You pulled your knees to your chest and rested your forehead on them, trying to remember all the reasons you’d built this wall in the first place. You missed all of him, even the parts that broke you.

You picked the phone up again before you could talk yourself out of it. Typed out a reply, deleted it, typed it again. You hated how fast your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, how easy it still was, how your body wanted to pull toward him like gravity.

Yeah. I'm home.

You didn’t send it, only stared at it, fighting yourself, hating how badly you wanted the door to open, feel his presence in your space again. The cursor blinked, against every instinct, every promise you made to yourself—you closed your eyes.

Counted to three.

You hit send.

[luveline]

Something for hotch? Maybe where reader gets hurt/a concussion on a case and goes to the hospital but refuses to tell him she went until someone else mentions it?? <3 you dont have to do it if you have something similar but i love your writing!

ty for requesting!! <3 —Hotch will look after you, even when you don’t tell him you need him. fem, 1.7k

cw reader has a concussion

Hotch rubs his face when he knows nobody’s watching. Hand over his eyes, thumb and forefinger working against a brewing migraine. It eases a little of the tension there, but he can’t do it like you can. There’s something in your hands that makes him want to call them lovely hands, such a quaint word. You rub the space between his brows with your thumb until his aching is gone or replaced. Fondness with its own heartbeat wakes whenever you’re near. 

You’re not near. His head hurts. He wants a cup of coffee and a shower and to call Jack. The cases are never over when they’re over, is the thing, and he can’t keep track of everything. He has to answer questions and patch holes now, before the work follows him home to take up space on his desk. 

He talks to police officers, chiefs, victims families and firemen and Penelope, too, anybody who needs to ask him a question. He tells Emily to go back to the hotel because she’s exhausted, and warns Spencer that staying too long will give him another headache. He’s surprised half an hour later when Morgan grabs him by the arm. Hotch assumed he went with Spencer. 

“Hotch, what are you still doing here?” 

Hotch gives him a strange look. It’s not as though Morgan hasn’t seen Hotch clean up a mess before. “Sorry?” 

“I thought you’d be with Y/N.” 

He tries very hard to look casual. The team are often better at pretending they haven’t noticed you and Hotch slowly moving together. “She went home.” 

“No she didn’t, they took her in an ambulance. She’s at the hospital, nobody told you that?” 

Hotch knows Morgan can finish up for him. He doesn’t even say where he’s going or what there is left to do, Morgan is more than capable of handling the unit, and he’s a phone call away. Hotch rushes for an agent with a car and tells them where he needs to go as he punches your speed dial into his phone. Number three, after Penelope and Jess. 

You don’t answer, it makes him feel sick. He calls again and JJ picks up. Blessed, amazing JJ. 

“Hi Hotch.” 

“Is she there? Can I speak to her?” 

“She went in for an MRI a half hour ago.”

“JJ, what happened? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” 

“She said she told you.” A dry laugh from down the phone. “You’d think I’d learn not to trust her. I love her, but she’s a liar.” 

Hotch could say the same thing. “JJ, what happened? What’s wrong with her?” 

“I think she’s embarrassed. When everybody was coming back out, someone stepped on the back of her leg and she slipped down the stairs.” 

“Who stepped on her?” Hotch asks. 

JJ laughs. Hotch wonders if they’re too far into working together to scold her for unprofessionalism, but then he remembers the Unit would fall apart without her and holds his tongue. He’d fall apart without you, maybe, and he could stand to be a little more defensive. 

He’s out of the car and into the hospital in record time. He follows the signs to the Emergency Room, gives your name at the desk, and doesn’t have to flash his badge to get told what room they’ve put you in. He would’ve, and he would’ve threatened legal action. He’s no saint. He’ll abuse the system (in innocuous ways only, of course) if it means he gets to see you. 

You’re in a bed but sitting on the side of it rather than laying down. JJ sits in the chair beside you, two contrasting expressions on your faces. You’re smiling. JJ bites her lip. 

She turns to Hotch with relief. “Hey, look,” she says gently. 

“You took a long time to get here. Was it the moon?” 

Hotch understands quite quickly. “Sorry. Nobody told me you got hurt. What happened to the moon, honey?” 

You give him a vacant look. Turning back to JJ, your hands vying for her arm, you hold her to your stomach gently and squeeze your eyes closed. “The light.” 

Hotch turns to the wall, looking for the light switch. It’s hidden behind other concerning tech, so he’s careful about what he presses. You sigh and draw his attention, wiggling back on the bed to almost fall off the other side. 

“Maybe she thought she told me,” he suggests, not scolding JJ, but unhappy nonetheless. You clearly aren’t in a state to make decisions for yourself. 

JJ rubs your arm. “She got worse after we got here. That’s why they sent for her MRI so quickly. She’s on and off with it, incoherent and normal again.”   

Hotch knows she’s concerned for you, but he can read her restless leg; she hasn’t talked to Will or heard about Henry in hours. “Go back to the hotel, JJ. I have her.” 

JJ gives you a hug, to your confusion, and bypasses him fast. He can hear her phone ringing before the doors shut from her departure. 

He admires her loyalty, he just wishes she’d called him two hours ago. 

You rub your eyes, the loose sleeves of your hospital gown shifting against the loose knot behind your neck, and he genuinely despises the idea that you’d been here, hurt, without him. “Can I tie your gown again?” he asks. 

You nod into your rubbing. 

“I turned the lights off. It shouldn’t be so bright in here anymore.” He rounds the bed to your back, where a great deal of skin is showing. He smiles though he shouldn’t. You poor girl. “You’re a little… stark.” 

“I’m trying to think of some fruit and milk,” you tell him. 

“Do you need help?” 

“Not for the fruit.” 

“But for the milk,” he surmises, bringing the ties of your gown as close as he can without strangling you and tying them in a neat bow. 

“I don’t think that’s what I meant to say.” 

He puts his hand on your shoulder, his thumb to bare skin. “That’s okay, honey, you’re having a little trouble now, but it’ll go away soon. If there were something wrong, the doctor would be here.” 

“You could be a doctor.” 

“I couldn’t. I don’t know anything about medicine.” 

“A very nice doctor. Big hands.” You breathe out loudly, more animated than he’s ever heard you. “Whoo, I’m cold. I think they made me naked.” 

“How about I tuck you in, would you like that?” he asks, leaning over you in hopes of you turning your head. 

You stare up at him. “You want to?” 

“I’d love to. I want you to be comfortable.” 

“My boyfriend might not like it.” 

Hotch tries not to sulk at another horrible symptom. You aren’t only incoherent, but amnesiac. And you’ve forgotten who he is, in a way. At least you’ve remembered you have a boyfriend. He hopes it’s him. 

“No? Why wouldn’t he like it, honey? I’m just trying to take care of you.” 

You visibly fluster. “You’re calling me honey like he does, and he won’t like it ‘cos he takes care of me. He loves to go to places but he doesn’t know where he’s going.” 

That second half is gibberish, he’s sure. Hotch puts his hands carefully under your armpits and manoeuvres you back toward the top of the elevated hospital bed.

You put your hand to your tummy as you lean back, and hiss as your head touches the pillows. “Ow.” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. 

“Don’t tell Aaron I got hurt.” 

“Why not?” 

“I fell down the stairs. He’s never fallen down the stairs.” 

“I have, actually. Twice. And it doesn’t matter how you get hurt, I want to know you’re alright, so I need you to tell me.” 

He pulls the sheets up to your legs and over your lap. Tucks them tightly behind your back, hands lingering on your hips. He watches you look at him, your cloudy gaze tracking over his eyes, his nose, and his lips. “Aaron?” you ask eventually, lifting your chin. 

“Yes?” 

You breathe out an unmissable sigh of relief. “You didn’t come with me.” 

“I didn’t know you were hurt.” He squeezes your hip softly. “You didn’t tell me. But it’s not your fault, is it? You got hurt.” His voice falls into silk. “Is that warm enough?” 

“I’m glad you’re here. I need you to get my shoes.” 

“No shoes. Can I have a hug?” 

“Why?” 

“Just to hug you,” he says softly. “It might make you feel better.” 

You raise your hands clumsily like your fingers are full of sand, forcing him to see his arms under them and behind your back. Your cheeks align, his rough with stubble, yours warm with the heat of a flush, perhaps from the injury. Your hands flop down onto his back as he rubs two separate, loving paths on the gown and your skin. 

Thank god she’s okay, he thinks. 

“Am I stuck like this?” you ask. 

“Are you worried?” He taps your back. “I doubt it. We might have to stay here for a while, but it’s okay. Feeling better is the priority.” 

“I’d like to go back.” 

“Home?” 

“For breakfast.” 

“Are you hungry? I can find you something to eat.” 

“What?” you ask. 

You sound so genuinely confused that Hotch laughs into your shoulder, before giving the fabric a soft kiss. “It doesn’t matter. I’m gonna bring that chair over and sit with you, okay? We’ll wait for the doctor together.” 

He sits with you for hours, talks to doctors and nurses alike as they come to check your vitals and explain your scans. Your confusion doesn’t lessen until the night time, and even then you act oddly, bringing his hand to your mouth to kiss strange parts of his fingers. The skin shy of his nail. The underside of a knuckle, the curve under the meat of his thumb. 

[moonstruckme]

Hi lovely. I just had the scariest night last night and it ended with me in the ER for almost 7 hours. Basically I let a UTI go on too long and it traveled to my kidneys. But I was in the bathroom about to shower and I got super sick and dizzy and lightheaded, my hands and feet were tingling to the point of pain, I was DRENCHED in sweat. It was so so scary. I ended up passing out on the toilet (so embarrassing). I had to get my mom to come in and she took me to the ER and it was very rough there too because I was so dehydrated they couldn’t get a vein to give me fluids. So 6 times they tried, digging in my arm and all that before they finally got one. Later it ended up bursting which hurt a fuck ton. But all in all I feel like absolute shit.

If you can, could you write an EMT!marauders fic where something like that happens? Just the scary stuff in the beginning or whatever tickles your fancy. If not, no worries. I will just be reading and rereading all my faves of yours for the next few days while I try to get better 🥲

That sounds so awful, I'm sorry that happened to you!! Hope you're feeling much better by now lovely <3

cw: nonsexual nudity, dizziness, nausea, one sexual joke at the end

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 965 words

A knock on the bathroom door rouses you. Steam heavies the air, the porcelain of the bathtub slippery underneath your backside. You feel sick. 

“Hey.” It’s James’ voice, light as though he’s not really concerned. “Alright in there?” 

You look down blearily. A bottle of shampoo rests against your hip. You must have knocked it from the lip of the tub when you passed out, and James must have heard the sound. When did you pass out? For how long?

“James?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I need…can you come in here?” 

You hear the door open. Half the steam seems sucked from the room, cool air coming in. “Everything okay?” James asks. 

He tries to open the shower curtain, but you’re lying half on top of it and it doesn’t make it far. You lift up on one side to free it. Your entire body trembles with the effort. 

“Hey.” James definitely sounds concerned now, kneeling at your side. He puts a hand under your neck. “What happened? Did you fall?” 

“I don’t feel well.” 

“I can see that, sweetheart.” He shouts for the other boys. “Does anything hurt? Did you fall over?” 

“No,” you say. Footsteps sound outside, nearing you. “No, I sat down. But I think I passed out.” 

James frowns, taking your wrist to get your pulse. “What do you mean when you say you aren’t feeling well?” 

You don’t get a chance to answer before Sirius is pulling the curtain open further. “Baby, what the fuck?” He crouches beside James. It’s now that you realize how painfully naked you are, lying limply on the floor of the tub with hot water from the showerhead beating down on your lower half. “Did you slip?” 

“She passed out,” James answers for you, brows set in concentration as he feels your pulse. “But she sat down first.” 

“Oh, good girl.” 

Remus shuts off the water. You feel its absence immediately, your body at once lighter and colder. 

“Can I have a towel?” you ask. 

Sirius blinks as though he’s only just realizing your nakedness as well. He stands. “Right, I’ve got it.” 

“Why do you think you passed out?” Remus asks you. 

“I don’t know.” You want to give him a better answer, but it’s all you have. “I just got really lightheaded. I still feel sick.” 

“Sick like you’re going to throw up?” James presses. He lets go of your wrist, giving Remus a look you can’t interpret. 

“Yeah.” 

Sirius tsks, returning with a stack of towels and a fluffy robe. “Okay, well don’t worry too much about that. If you throw up you throw up, we just want to know what’s made you sick in the first place.” 

Between all three of them, they haul you out of the tub. The option of you trying to climb out on your own doesn’t seem to cross anyone’s mind. You land in Sirius’ lap, where you’re hastily wrapped in one towel and your hair in another, James drying your arms and legs with a third. 

“What else are you feeling?” Remus asks you. When you hesitate, “Anything at all, it could help us to know.” 

You try to take stock of yourself, shivering a bit as you do. 

“Cold?” Sirius deduces.

You hum. “And my stomach hurts.” 

He frowns. His hand covers your stomach over the towel protectively. “Yeah? Where does it hurt?” 

“Sort of…” You shift a bit, trying to show him. “On the side.” 

Sirius finds the spot like he knows just where you mean. “Around here?” 

“Yeah.” Panic makes your voice tight. “Don’t touch it, please.” 

“Okay. I won’t, sweetheart.” He moves hand away from your side, kissing your temple. “Have you noticed yourself feeling like you need to pee more often lately?” 

You give him a funny look. “I have a UTI, but this doesn’t feel like the same thing.” 

Remus groans. “Dove, really? You knew?” 

“I knew I had a UTI,” you say, confused. Wary, without really knowing why. “It’s not…this feels different.” 

“Why wouldn’t you treat it?” 

“I was going to.” 

“But when you wait like this and don’t tell us, you—” 

“Alright, alright,” James says in a peacemaking tone. He rubs the towel down your calf. “I think she’s got it, love. She’s clearly not enjoying this.” 

Remus closes his eyes, sighing. When he looks at you again, it’s with a softer gaze. “If you don’t treat a UTI,” he says patiently, “it can cause a kidney infection. I think that’s what you’re dealing with now, love.” 

“Oh.” Your voice smalls. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, that’s okay.” Sirius kisses your face again, his hold tightening when another shiver passes through you. “Why’re you apologizing to us, huh? You’re the one dealing with it. Passing out in showers and the like.” 

“I know you didn’t want this,” Remus promises you, his expression gentler now. James begins encouraging your arm into your robe. “We’ll get you to A&E, and they’ll give you antibiotics to take care of this, alright?” 

“Okay,” you say meekly. 

Slowly, they get you dried up, clothed, and upright. Sirius teases you about the dangers of not peeing after sex. Remus makes worried faces whenever your expression changes and offers to bring a bag along on the drive in case you’re sick. When you try to walk out of the bathroom and wobble, James is quick with an arm around your back. 

“C’mere, lovie.” He lifts you up into his arms. Clearly he’s trying to be gentle, but you moan anyway, pressing your forehead to his shoulder against a bout of dizziness. 

“Oh, I know,” Sirius coos. “You’re alright, baby. We’ll get you feeling better soon.” 

“I’m never letting any of you put it in me again,” you joke weakly. 

To your surprise, it’s Remus who laughs the loudest.