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incognit0slut · 1 month ago

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Lesson learned

PART 3 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Unit Chief!Spencer x BAU!Reader Your boss decides to teach you a lesson when you question the motivations behind a certain case.

Content: (18+) 6k, breath play, fingering, a little case description, BDSM discussion, softdom Spence but borderlines to dom because hello this is breath play and reader being judgy judgy but don’t worry he’s here to teach you a lesson or two a/n: The initial plan was to make him a hard dom but breathplay is already overwhelming so I decided to go the educational route. I am, by all means, not as smart as him, so there might be some inaccuracy

You would think that after joining the BAU for two years, you’d start to understand the twisted logic of a criminal’s mind. But you don’t. Not really. You’ve dissected motives, uncovered patterns, and profiled suspects more times than you can count, and yet this case makes no sense.

Your eyes go over the photographs pinned to the board again. And again. And again. It’s become almost a ritual now, like maybe if you look at it just one more time, the pieces might finally fall into place. But all you find staring back at you are three victims with the same marks on their necks. There was clearly a sign of struggle, but not one of fear. Not one that fits any pattern you know.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “The profile suggests the victims knew their attacker, but this doesn’t look like anything close to rage. Or brutality.”

Spencer shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he leans closer to the board. “It might not have been an act of violence,” he observes thoughtfully. “Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

You furrow your brow. “If it wasn’t violent, then what was it?”

“The bruising pattern is too symmetrical, and there’s no sign of panic or defensive wounds on their hands. I think there’s a chance the victims might have willingly participated.”

“Willingly?” Your eyes snap at him. “What do you mean, ‘willingly participated’? No one willingly gets strangled.”

He meets your eyes for a second before looking back at the board. “I know it sounds unlikely,” he admits, “but not impossible. See how the bruises are evenly spaced? They wrap around in perfect circles. The pressure is distributed just enough to leave a mark but not to crush the windpipe.“

“Spencer, that’s exactly what happened. The windpipe was crushed.”

“Yes, but not immediately. That’s the point.” He turns towards you again. “The intention wasn’t to kill them outright. The unsub wanted to bring them to the point of unconsciousness but not over it. At least, not at first. He was counting on their trust before pushing it too far.”

You let out a huff. “That’s insane.”

“It might seem that way to you, but it’s not unheard of. Sexual asphyxiation is a consensual act for some people. The lack of oxygen when someone’s airflow is restricted can trigger a euphoric sensation which intensifies pleasure."

You stare at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “So, you're saying they get off on... not breathing?”

“More like they find excitement in giving up that control."

You cross your arms and study him, tilting your head with a skeptical frown. “How do you even know this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I read,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have a book on sexual asphyxiation?”

“It’s more comprehensive than that. The book covers a wide range of kinks, fetishes, and other forms of sexual exploration which are considered extreme by societal standards.”

"You’re telling me you read up on BDSM practices in your spare time?”

"I think of it as research,” he replies. “It’s part of understanding human behavior. You can’t afford to be ignorant about the complexities of people's desires."

"Huh." Your eyes travel back to the images again. "You know, I still don't understand. I mean, willingly letting someone cut off your breath? That’s not just trust that’s… I don’t know, crazy?”

His eyes narrow towards you as if he's carefully considering how much to say.

“It's not crazy,” he insists carefully. “For people who engage in it, it’s not only about losing control. It’s about reaching a heightened state of awareness, finding excitement in walking that line.”

"But what if that line gets crossed? What then? How could anyone think that sounds… fun?”

“Well, have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not!” you reply quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Why would I?”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” he counters, his tone calm but pointed, like he’s presenting a fact rather than an opinion. “You can’t really understand the mindset until you’ve experienced it. It’s not something you can fully grasp from the outside.”

"I don’t think I could ever trust someone enough to do that to me."

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to trust.”

You scoff. “What? Are you offering?”

You laugh at your own joke, and you expected him to do the same. Or perhaps a quick “Of course not”, even some rambling about how he didn’t mean it that way. But when all you’re met with is silence, your laughter dies down, and your eyes dart back to him.

Spencer’s not looking at you, his eyes are fixed on the photographs pinned to the board. He’s studying the bruises, the faces, the details like he always does, but there’s a stillness in his expression, a tension in the set of his jaw that makes you think he’s considering something else entirely. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s really thinking about the victims or the case at all.

Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. He is your boss, after all, and even though there isn’t exactly a strict superior-subordinate dynamic between the two of you—he’s always been more of a peer than an authority figure—you wonder if maybe this time you crossed a line.

Spencer’s eyes remain on the photos for a long, agonizing second, and you think maybe he’s not going to respond at all. But then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at you, and the room suddenly feels impossibly small.

“If I were to offer,” he says quietly, “Would you take it?”

His words knock the breath from your lungs, and all you can do is stare back at him. You don’t know what to make of the question. Was it a dare? A test? Or perhaps something more?

There’s a part of you that wants to laugh it off. The conversation was absurd to begin with, so brushing it away like it’s nothing would feel like the safest option. The easy way out. But there’s another part—one you don’t want to acknowledge—that can’t help but wonder what it would mean to say yes.

What if you did? you ponder.

What would it feel like to trust someone like that?

What would it feel like to trust him?

But before you can reply, the door to the meeting room creaks open, the noise echoing through the dimly lit space of the police precinct. A uniformed officer pokes his head inside.

“Dr. Reid, we found a new lead on the vehicle.”

Spencer’s eyes stay locked on yours for just a beat longer as your heart hammers in your chest. Then, without a word, he nods to the officer, and any trace of whatever passed between you dissolves like it never happened at all.

The next few days turn into a blur. The lead on the unsub’s vehicle takes you across town, a chase that ends with the suspect cornered in an abandoned old house. It’s almost anticlimactic how quickly it all happens—sirens blaring, doors kicked in, and in less than an hour, the unsub is in handcuffs. The case is finally closed, and it’s the kind of victory that usually brings a sigh of relief.

But today, you can’t find that peace.

Back at the precinct, the rest of the team has already moved on to debriefing. You’re left cleaning up the mess of photographs and notes scattered across the table. But your movements are slow, distracted, your fingers fumbling over the papers. There’s a prickling awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you know exactly why.

It’s because Spencer is watching you. You don’t even need to look to feel the weight of his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes track your movements.

You pause, photos in hand, and finally address him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. He stops just short of arm’s length.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day?”

You feel a rush of embarrassment, and the awkwardness of the moment makes you shift uncomfortably. Clearing your throat, you turn your attention back to the table, hastily grabbing a stack of photographs and shuffling them into a folder.

“We didn’t discuss anything,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “It was just a joke.”

“Was it? You don’t joke about things like that unless you’ve thought about them at least a little.”

You let out a dry laugh, keeping your eyes firmly on the table. “I wasn’t being serious. We were in the middle of a case, and we were all exhausted. I just said whatever came to mind.”

Spencer tilts his head, the way he does when he’s analyzing something, his eyes flickering over your face as though he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and takes another step forward. “But the offer wasn’t a joke, and you didn’t say no.”

Your fingers freeze over the photographs, the papers crinkling under your touch.

“I didn’t say yes either.”

You mentally wince at how weak that sounds, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself. You slowly look up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you find are those intense brown eyes staring back at you.

It unnerves you how calm he is, how easily he’s holding this conversation when your mind is spinning in a million directions.

“You do realize what you’re offering?” you start to press, feeling the need to put it out in the open. “What this means?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “I do.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you might be taking this too lightly."

“I’m not taking it lightly. I’m acknowledging that there’s more to it than what you’re seeing on the surface.”

“And what makes you think I want to see beyond the surface?”

He leans in closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but not enough to cross any boundaries. “I’m offering a perspective, not forcing you to accept it. Understanding doesn’t always come from reading about something. It comes from experience.”

You can’t quite decide if his words make sense or if they’re completely absurd. It’s like he’s challenging your logic, your assumptions, but at the same time, there’s a strange clarity to what he’s saying.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Because he’s your boss? Because someone in his position always tries to make sense of everything for everyone else?

“Because shaming people for their interests, for something they might find pleasure in… it isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.”

Now that was something you didn’t expect him to say.

“I wasn’t shaming,” you protest quickly, the words coming out defensive even to your own ears. “I was just…”

“Curious,” he finishes for you. “And curiosity isn’t a flaw. Neither is wanting to understand, and if you’re willing to explore that curiosity, then I’d rather you experience it in a way that’s safe. That you know is controlled.”

“So what?” you snap back. “You want to prove me wrong? Show me I’ve been looking at this the wrong way?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s gentle, almost thoughtful, as if he’s carefully weighing each word. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to teach you.”

You blink at him. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, the words tangled somewhere between shock and disbelief. It takes a few seconds until you manage to find your voice.

“You… want to teach me?”

“A lesson, if you will,” he explains, and the way he says it—so calm, so certain—makes your heart stutter. “Not to prove you wrong, but to help you understand. You have your perceptions about… control and trust. I think the only way to really understand is to experience it yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, what to do, and all that comes out is a shaky, barely-there laugh.

“A lesson,” you repeat, trying to make sense of the concept.

He nods, and there’s no pressure in his voice, just an offer. Simple and clear. “But only if it’s what you want.”

You aren’t sure what to feel, much less what to say, and the uncertainty must show on your face. Sensing your hesitation, Spencer takes a step back, giving you space.

“It’s a lot to consider, and I’m not expecting an answer now. But the offer still stands… whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he gives you one last smile and turns away, leaving you alone with your conflicted thoughts.

You’re pacing in your hotel room, your footsteps muffled by the worn carpet as you make the same path back and forth over and over again. Every time you try to sit down, your leg bounces with restless energy, so you’re back up again, moving without purpose but unable to stop.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. The case, the pressure, the weirdness of being in a small-town motel with creaky walls and awful lighting. But you know better. You know exactly what’s got your mind spinning and your stomach doing flips.

Spencer. And his damn offer.

You scoff to yourself, trying to laugh it off like you always do, but the joke doesn’t land when it’s just you, alone with your thoughts. And, really, what’s the harm in admitting the truth—to yourself, at least? That maybe the whole concept doesn’t seem as insane as it did a few days ago. That maybe you’ve found yourself wondering what it would feel like to trust someone that much.

You stop pacing, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. There it is, that nagging curiosity, that flicker of intrigue that Spencer saw before you even knew it was there. You let out a sigh, the weight of the realization hitting you.

God help you, but you’re actually curious.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

You slip into your shoes and take a deep breath before stepping into the hallway. The motel’s quiet, most of the rooms dark as you walk past, and for a moment you hesitate, wondering if this is a mistake. The team’s staying one more night here, the last bit of downtime before flying back tomorrow. A chance to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline of the case. Yet here you are, anything but relaxed, heading out because you can’t stand one more second of pacing back and forth.

Your footsteps come to a stop outside Spencer’s room, and you stare at the numbers on the plaque for a moment. You could turn around right now. You could pretend you didn’t walk all the way down the corridor with his words echoing in your head. But as much as you try to convince yourself that walking away is the logical choice, your hand moves on its own, and you knock.

Spencer doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. Without waiting for an invitation, you push past him, barging into the room before you change your mind.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some ground rules,” you blurt out, the words rushing out all at once. “I don’t know what you think this is going to be like, but I need control over some things. Non-negotiable.”

He closes the door with a soft click. “Of course,” he responds calmly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“First,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m in control of when this starts and when it stops. If I say no, then we stop. Immediately. No questions, no convincing, none of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second, I need to know exactly what we’re doing. No surprises. You explain everything to me before we do anything.”

He quickly nods.

“And third… this doesn’t leave this room. We don’t talk about it to anyone else. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

He takes a step forward towards you. “This stays between us.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline settling into a nervous, thrumming pulse beneath your skin. “Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, trying to process the reality of what you’ve just laid out. “Those are my rules.”

Spencer takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faintest trace of him. A mix of something clean and warm, like soap and worn cotton, an understated scent that’s distinctly him.

“Then those are the rules we follow,” he reassures you. “Your terms. Your pace.”

“Thank you.”

He nods his head again. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

There is, actually. There’s a question that’s been hovering in the back of your mind. It feels awkward to say out loud, but the uncertainty gnaws at you, and finally, you force the words out.

“Are we… are we going to have sex?”

He holds your gaze. “Do you want to have sex?”

You go quiet again, letting the silence settle around you as you think about what you want, what you came here for. You slowly shake your head. “No,” you reply. “No, I don’t.”

“Then we won’t. There’s more to explore in this than just sex.”

“Right, that’s—good.” You clear your throat. “I have… one more question.”

He gestures for you to continue.

“You’re not going to fire me for this, are you?”

His soft chuckle fills your ear, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile tonight. “No,” he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not going to fire you. Whatever happens between us won’t affect your work, I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a little of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Okay, so… now what?”

“Now,” he says gently, “We take it slow.“

He guides you toward the edge of the bed, and you find yourself moving automatically, sitting down on the mattress. The bed creaks slightly as he settles beside you.

“If we’re going to do this,” he starts, turning slightly to face you. “I want you to be comfortable. And that means talking. You can start by telling me what you’re thinking. ”

“That’s… it? We’re just going to talk?”

Spencer’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “If that’s what you want. There’s no pressure to do anything else.”

The idea of just talking feels safe, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity that you can’t quite shake. You shift on the bed.

“What if I want to do something more?”

Spencer’s eyes search yours, and he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t do anything that could make the moment feel rushed. “If you want to, then we can. Something simple to start.”

Your fingers trace the fabric of the bedspread. “Like what?”

“Something small. It could be as simple as letting me guide your breathing. A way to practice trust without anything overwhelming.”

You swallow, the idea feeling both intimidating and oddly… reassuring. There’s comfort in the way he talks about it, the lack of pressure, and the way he makes it feel like there’s nothing to fear.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Let’s try that.”

He moves a little closer to you. “We’ll take it slow,” he promises. “Try to focus on your breathing and follow my lead.”

You close your eyes, feeling your breath shallow and quick, your heart racing as you try to find a steady rhythm.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly. You inhale deeply, feeling the air fill your lungs, and when you open your eyes for a moment, you find his face inches from yours.

“Good. Now let it out… slowly.”

You follow his lead, exhaling, and you can’t help but notice he’s mirroring your breathing—his chest rising and falling in time with yours. It’s oddly comforting, and a little unnerving, like he's syncing with the rhythm of your pulse.

“Again,” he guides. “Deep breath in… hold for a count of three… then let it go.”

You do as he says, feeling your nerves steady slightly with each breath. In, hold, out.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer. His lips are so close that you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “I’m going to ask you something, but I need you to know you can say no. At any point.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Can I touch you?” he asks gently, his words so soft they almost melt into the air around you. “Just on your shoulder, or your hand. I want to see how you feel about being touched while you focus on your breathing.”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, but you manage another nod. His hand moves carefully to rest on your shoulder, but even with the light pressure, you feel your body stiffen. Spencer notices immediately.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder.

You let out a small laugh, one that comes out more like a nervous exhale than anything close to amusement. “It’s kind of hard not to be,” you admit. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay. It’s completely normal to feel nervous.” He pauses for a second before continuing, his tone thoughtful, like he’s considering what might actually help. "There are a few things that can help when you’re feeling this way. One of them is focusing on your breathing, which we’re already doing. But there’s also physical touch."

"Physical touch?”

"Kissing, for example," he explains, “can actually help regulate your nervous system. It releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol levels. Basically, it signals your body to relax."

Your eyes fall on his lips. "Really?"

A flicker of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but it’s only helpful if it’s something you feel comfortable with.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like to try?”

You meet his gaze again and, before you can overthink it, find yourself nodding, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “Yeah… okay. We can try.”

Before you even finish the sentence, Spencer leans in, his lips brushing yours with the kind of gentleness that catches you off guard. It's soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, and you can feel the slight hesitation in his movements as if he’s making sure you’re comfortable. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, and for a second, you wonder if this is how he kisses—gentle, thoughtful, deliberate.

But as the kiss deepens, you feel the warmth of him pulling you in. Your heart’s doing this erratic thing where it skips every other beat, and your mind’s racing to catch up with what your body’s already starting to enjoy. And sure, maybe the science behind this kiss makes sense after all, because there’s a part of you that’s actually relaxing, even with the buzz of nerves still humming beneath the surface.

Then he pulls back, just enough for your lips to barely part, his breath warm against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

It takes three heartbeats to find your voice. “Uh... yeah, good,” you manage, a little breathless, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You pause, thinking it over, and despite the swarm of nerves in your chest, curiosity wins out again. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. The moment you do, Spencer leans in again, and this time his kiss is deeper, more intent. The softness is still there, but there’s a quiet intensity in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand lightly cups the back of your neck.

Then his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, and a ripple of goosebumps spreads across your skin. You part your lips for him, and the sensation of his tongue slipping past m has you gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

Just when you think you’re getting used to it, his hand shifts, sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your neck. Not tight, not restricting—just enough to make you aware of it. The warmth of his palm against your throat sends a jolt of something sharp right through you. He seems to notice instantly, and without pulling his hand away, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you okay?” His thumb gently strokes the side of your neck. “I don’t want to push you, if it’s too much—”

But before he can finish, you shake your head quickly, surprising even yourself with how fast the words leave your mouth. “No, I… trust you.”

His eyes soften at your words, and his grip on your neck stays gentle, almost protective. “Would it be okay if I touched you more?”

Your pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingers, a rhythm you’re sure he can feel, as if your heart is answering for you. “…yes.”

“Do you want to lie down? Would that be more comfortable?”

You feel the heat travel along your veins. “I think… that would be good.”

Spencer nods as he helps you shift back onto the pillow. He stays close but doesn’t crowd you, his hand returning to rest lightly on your neck, that same soft pressure that keeps your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Remember, focus on your breathing,” he reminds you. “The way your body responds is tied to how much you let yourself feel. Trust that.”

His other hand begins to move. His hand trails up toward your shoulder, then lightly brushes over your breast. It’s barely a touch at first, like he’s testing the boundaries, waiting for your body to tell him how far to go. Your breath catches for a second, but when you don’t tense up, he takes that as a sign to continue.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper, your voice a little breathless than you expected. And, God, you mean it. It’s more than okay—it’s… unexpectedly good in a way that feels almost too intimate to think about.

His hand moves lower now, tracing a path down your side, before sliding gently across your leg. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel his fingers brush against the inside of your thigh.

“How about this?”

You nod, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Spencer’s lips curls into the faintest smile. His hand inches higher, moving up your thigh with excruciating slowness until his fingers finally reach the heat between your legs.

Oh. Oh.

Your hips instinctively tilt toward him, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The heat pooling low in your belly intensifies as his fingers press lightly against you.

“Still with me?”

You nod, but internally, your mind is spinning. He begins to move in slow, circular motions, his fingers dragging against the fabric in a way that makes you bite back a moan. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and you can feel your arousal sticking uncomfortably to your panties. It doesn’t shock you—you know understand how being touched like this will make you wet—but what surprises you is how much more intense it feels when his grip around your neck tightens.

Your breath hitches, and before you can stop yourself, a moan escapes your lips.

He pauses for a moment, his grip relaxing just enough for you to catch your breath. “I want you to feel the difference,” he explains. “The pressure changes everything. It makes you more aware of every sensation, more focused on how your body responds. But if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

You nod, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “I’m good.”

His thumb traces the outline of your jaw. “Do you want me to continue?”

“…yeah.”

His hand travels towards your hips, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. “Should we get rid of these?”

You don’t have to think about it for long. The answer is already there.

“You can take them off.”

Spencer’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants before tugging it down. But as the fabric pools around your ankles, you hesitate for a second before your hand instinctively reaches for your shirt. You fumble with the hem, glancing at him as you pull it halfway up, your breath coming out in a small, awkward laugh.

“I mean, it’d feel weird to be naked from the waist down and still… you know, fully dressed on top.”

His eyes linger on you, and his reaction is subtly amusing. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Without thinking too much about it, you tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows, quickly joined by your panties, and before you know it, you’re lying naked on your boss’s bed.

Or, technically, the bed he’s been sleeping on these past couple of days.

Spencer’s eyes move over you slowly, lingering on the curve of your perky breasts, your smooth skin, and the unmistakable wetness between your thighs. His gaze is careful, appreciative but never lingering too long in one place, like he’s taking you in while still giving you space to breathe.

“You’re so pretty.”

Pretty? The word feels almost quaint given the situation, but the way he says it makes it feel like it’s more than that. Like he’s seeing all of you, the parts you don’t often reveal, and he still thinks you’re beautiful.

And somehow, that simple compliment leaves you more exposed than the fact that you’re lying naked in front of him.

“I can’t believe we're doing this,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His hand brushes along your arm. “You don’t have to overthink it. You’re in control here. We can stop whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He tilts your head with his hand. “Is this okay so far?”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay.”

His other hand lands on your knee. “Can you spread your legs for me?”

You feel the nerves buzzing beneath your skin, but there’s also a warmth, a curiosity, a pull toward him. You inhale deeply, letting the breath steady your nerves, and then, without letting your mind spiral any further, you slowly part your legs.

His palm glides along your inner thigh, and then he touches you again, only this time, there’s no barrier between you. You can feel the rough pad of his fingertips as they gently caress your folds that it pulls a sharp breath from your lips.

“Does this feel good?”

You nod. It’s more than just good—it’s everything. The way he’s paying attention to every inch of your body is overwhelming in the best way. His fingers trace a slow path along your skin, finally pausing as they brush against you between your folds. Without hesitation, Spencer slides a finger inside you. The sudden stretch pulls a gasp from your lips.

The slick wetness between your thighs coats his fingers almost instantly, and you feel yourself responding to him, opening up in ways you didn’t even know you could. He studies the way his finger moves in and out of your cunt, and the more he touches you, the more your hips begin to move on their own.

He takes your response as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to wrap my hand around your neck again," he tells you, without waiting for more than a slight nod of your head, his fingers curl around your throat.

"The pressure here," he begins, his thumb lightly pressing at the side of your neck. "Isn't just about cutting off your air, it also means restricting blood flow to your brain.”

He pushes another finger inside you, and the increased fullness draws a sharp intake of breath from you.

“By limiting the blood flow like this,” he continues, applying a bit more pressure around your throat. "It triggers your body to release adrenaline and dopamine. That rush you’re feeling? It’s your body chasing euphoria."

Euphoria. You never really thought about it like this before, how something so controlled could unlock a part of your body that felt so overwhelming. The feeling isn’t just pleasure, it’s a raw intensity that borders on something deeper as your cunt clenches around him. Your breath stutters, caught in a sharp contrast between the slow burn in your throat and the urgent heat flaring between your legs.

He’s unraveling you, pulling you apart thread by thread, yet leaving you desperate for the moment he puts you back together again.

You need more.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs soothingly. The words send a new wave of heat rushing through your body. Your hips move restlessly, and you can hear the soft whine escaping your throat, growing louder with each thrust.

Spencer notices immediately, his fingers slowing just for a moment. “Too much?”

You quickly shake your head, almost frantic, the last thing you want is for him to stop. The moment you do, his grip on your throat tightens slightly and your eyes flutter closed as a wave of euphoria washes over you. Head falling back against the pillows, your vision starts to blur. You feel the air restrict in your throat.

“I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes lightly against your neck. “The more you control your breathing, the better it’ll feel.”

That word alone almost undoes you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be soft and soothing, but instead, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you. Your chest rises and falls as you do exactly what he says, because apparently, being called sweetheart with his fingers wrapped around your neck makes you want to obey him, more than you’d care to admit.

"That’s it, keep focusing on your breathing."

You force your eyes open, but everything feels hazy, unfocused. You’re not sure if it's from the lack of air or the way he’s looking at you, but you can feel yourself losing control. Your eyes flutter half-closed again, lips parting in a breathless moan, and before you realize it, your tongue slips out, barely grazing your lower lip.

Spencer knows you’re close. His thumb presses just a little harder against your throat, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough for your inner walls to grip his fingers tightly.

“I know, I know, I've got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let go whenever you’re ready."

You can’t decide if the sound of his voice is making it easier or harder to hold on. There’s a brief moment where you think you might hold it together, but then your body betrays you. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your throat, and all the control you had slips away in an instant. It’s as if your brain is giving in to exactly what he said it would—a surge of chemicals that makes your limbs feel heavy and light all at once.

Your orgasm slams right into you, the most intense thing you’ve ever felt. It floods your senses so completely that your lungs struggle to catch up. The tremors rack your body, and it’s only when your legs give a final, uncontrollable shake that he finally releases your neck, allowing the air to rush back into your lungs in a dizzying, breathless moment of relief.

Before you can fully recover, his lips are on yours in an instant. He moves against your neck, kissing the very spot where his hand had held you. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

When you manage to catch your breath and blink through the lingering haze, he lies down on the bed and pulls you into his arms. It takes a whole minute before your breathing fully steadies, his hand stroking your hair the entire time.

“How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to make of it all, so you laugh breathlessly instead, the only response you can muster.

“Like I’m about to pass out.”

“What?” He looks at you in alarm. “You are?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… it was really intense.” But the worry doesn’t completely leave his face, so you try again, placing your hand on his chest. “Good intense. I’m okay, I promise.”

He lets out a slow breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So I take it you liked it?”

A flush of embarrassment washes over you, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you nod. “Yeah… I did,” you admit, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “Go ahead, you can gloat. Tell me I was wrong.”

Instead of taking the bait, he gently traces his fingers along your neck. “It was never about proving you wrong. The judgment you made that day, about not getting why someone would like this… it’s hard to fully grasp until you feel it yourself.”

“I wasn’t judging,” you murmur, feeling a need to defend yourself.

“Maybe not intentionally,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to BDSM, there’s a lot of misunderstanding or assumptions people make from the outside, it’s really more than just control or pain. There’s trust, communication, boundaries. And I think, in a way, that’s what happened tonight. You trusted me enough to let go.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing what he’s saying. “Are you suggesting I could be into all of this?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies carefully. “But I think it’s possible that there’s more to it than you realize. You trusted me tonight, and that’s the most important part. That’s where it all starts.”

You chew on his words for a second. It’s not something you’d ever considered before, but now that he’s brought it up, you can’t deny that the thought has sparked something.

“So you think I might want to explore this further?”

His lips curl into a soft smile. “It’s not about what I think. It’s about what you want. If you’re curious, then we can explore it together.” He leans in slightly. “Is that you want?”

The spark you felt moments ago? It flickers stronger now. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying, but with him, it feels… possible. Safe, even.

You feel a tightness in your chest.

“I think… maybe, yeah.”

His smile deepens just a fraction. “We’ll take our time,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing lightly over your throat. “We can talk about this when we get back. You need to rest for now.”

You shift closer to him, feeling the rustle of his clothes against your bare skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His chin lands on top of your head. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”

What a dangerous offer, you think as you sink further into his arms. But not as dangerous as the way your heart flutters at the thought.

#kinktober 2024 #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid fanfiction

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chaptersleftunwritten · 3 months ago

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Beauty is a beast that roars

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Blurb: You quietly long for Eddie’s attention, and when things with Chrissy start to look serious you resort to desperate attempts for him to look at you the way he looks at her.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, hurt (no comfort), Eddie is kinda a dick, obsession, hurtful notes being passed, mentions of bulimia/eating disorder, mild stalking, low talk about self image, societal pressure to look a certain way, mental health struggles, characters are 20+ and in a college setting!

divider by @reveriesources

It started as a slow burn inside of your chest. You blamed it on the stress of finals but the more you saw them together, the more that burn worsened into a blaze; scorching your heart and tarring it black.

You didn’t think it possible to be obsessed with someone that you didn’t love- but you worshipped the very ground that Chrissy Cunningham walked on. At times, you thought she was able to read your mind. The way she effortlessly flicks her natural glowing golden hair over her shoulder as she laughs, looking like she was sculpted by Aphrodite herself- or how she presses her perfect rosy lips in peppery and sweet kisses to Eddie’s cheek. She had him wrapped around her skilful fingers. You couldn’t stand it.

It twisted your insides into a rope like knot- so tight and big and uncomfortable. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think straight when you looked at her. At them. Your brain harbouring thoughts of envy, rotting from the inside out with lightless horrid concepts.

You couldn’t help but follow study Chrissy. Her signature blue eyeshadow that adorns her gorgeous blue eyes, her tiny upturned nose, her well proportioned features- her body. You had never repeated this information to anyone before, not even Eddie, because not only would it expose your research into Chrissy, but because you definitely weren’t ever supposed to find out.

You had walked in on her one day in the bathroom. She was hunched over in a stall, her white sneakers peeking out from beneath the cubicle door. She was vomiting. Harshly.

At first you thought she may just be sick, and she was, but it was a different conversation. You entertained that thought until you walked in a second and third time to her in the exact same position- her fatigued body draped over the toilet bowl. You understood how she maintained her physique. It broke your heart; momentarily.

What broke your heart more was that Eddie evidentially had no idea. You knew, deep down, Chrissy was just like you. A sad, broken girl. But she was better at hiding it. The Duchess of disguise. The Queen of your psyche. Your admiration of her was unhealthy, you knew that much. You just couldn’t stop. You needed Eddie to look at you the way he looks at her.

So you cut your hair into a fringe, and you change your clothes. You find your own signature colour of eyeshadow and you even purchase a few skater skirts. Sports had never really interested you until now; now you were trying out for the cheerleading team. And with being Chrissy’s friend- of course she gave you direct entry.

Because despite her beauty, Chrissy was also kind. Which made the knot in your stomach grow firmer, imbedding itself within you permanently.

“Hey, Eddie!” You make sure your voice is dripping with the sweetest form of honey as you bat your mascara thick eyelashes at him. He glances at you from his magazine, quirking a brow at your chirpy energy.

“Hello… What’s up?” He asks, his words clipped as his eyes focus back on the flimsy book he holds sturdily in his hands. God… his hands. The rings that compliment his slender fingers and the bracelets that dress his wrist. You couldn’t get enough of it- of him.

It was impossible for you to hold his attention for more than a few seconds, and you had bound into the library full of hope and partial confidence today. You had pieced together one of your best outfit. A denim jacket draped over your shoulders, a white tank top (with no bra) and a cute skirt in your favourite colour which also matched your eyeshadow. Your hair was in a voluminous pony tail, held up by a great big scrunchie and your eyes were bright with popping colour. Your cheeks were dusted with blush and your nails painted perfectly; with the help of your mother.

You couldn’t think of a reason why Eddie wouldn’t look at you. You looked totally bitchin’!

“Uhm…” you stutter, your small confidence wavering at his lack of interest, “We haven’t really hung out in a while… I thought maybe we could? If you like!” There is a festering in the pit of your stomach, a panic that grows with every anticipating second, “We don’t really hang out anymore... just us, I mean.” You add, hoping further context will make you sound a little less desperate.

You and Eddie used to hang out every day. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the whole group. But lately… things have changed. And you know the reason why.

Eddie acknowledged you with a hum, finally placing his magazine down and narrowing in on your appearance. You thought you wanted him to look at you, but the intense confusion on his face made you long for the earth to gape open beneath you and swallow you whole.

“Looks like ya did a deep dive through Chrissy’s wardrobe.” His chuckle makes your ears heat and your face flush as his fingertips pluck at the sheer scrunchie wrapped in your hair. You can’t tell if he is joking or not— but to you, it’s a compliment nonetheless.

After a moment of pause and total excitement you gather your composure quickly and cough a meek reply, “I’m trying something new.”

You’re trying to be someone new.

“Hmm,” He examines you further, “I dunno,” Eddie scratches at his chin, his once soft and playful features now express something more distasteful, “I personally prefer your old style— this seems… out of character.” There was a lilt to his deep voice, which made him sound interrogative.

“You.. you do?” You curse inwardly at the stutter in your airy voice. To say his words shocked you was an understatement. They had your jaw hanging loose and your eyes opened broadly. Had you gotten it all wrong? Were you really just as pretty before all of this? Or was he teasing you… was he trying to make you feel better? Was this his attempt at telling you that you look like an utter clown in comparison to Chrissy?

You’d never know… because you would never ever ask him such things.

You think back to a note that got passed to you in class not too long ago- you weren’t sure of the culprit (you suspected Jason) — it read along the lines of,

‘Apply all the makeup you want, but at the end of the day it’s just lipstick on a pig.’

Were you a pig? Was this all just a feeble and comical attempt at beauty? To be desired. To be wanted. It’s all you longed for. It’s all you dreamed of.

You wanted Eddie to see you. To want you. And at this rate, you were losing all hope.

“Yeah,” alongside a small laugh he also flashes you a toothy smile, a mocking smile— and you clamp your jaw closed to stop yourself from shaking out a sob, “Listen, you’re free to chill here with me if you want but— hey!”

You couldn’t take it. The embarrassment. The knife twisting in your chest and puncturing your heart. You flee from the table abruptly before Eddie even has a chance to say anything more to you.

What was wrong with you? You wanted his attention, you wanted him alone and when you got it you despised the humorous way he gazed at you. You didn’t want to be entertaining or funny— you wanted to be loved.

Loved by him.

To please him.

To make him proud…

On exiting the library you pass Chrissy who was entering through the heavy fire doors, clearly she is on her way to meet Eddie. It was uncanny, almost like looking into a mirror.

The blonde spares you a small smile but not without a worried and intrigued glance at your attire before she is muttering a quick ‘Hello’ which you don’t even bother to return. You are too focused on your pursuit to the bathroom where you can hide yourself in an empty stall and cry without judgement. The only issue? You didn’t bring any makeup wipes for the mascara that has plagued your face in splotches and streaks of black tears.

Your eyes sting furiously and your bottom lip quivers outwith your control. It’s hard to believe that you have allowed yourself to stoop this low, crying shamelessly on campus in front of your peers. Their sympathetic eyes and taunting grins don’t go unnoticed by you as you finally make it to the bathroom, bursting into the void room like a bat out of Hell. Slamming the cubicle door closed and sitting on the toilet bowl where you start to question reality.

What are you doing?

You despise the fact that you know, no matter what, no matter how stupid you look- how ridiculous your clothes are and your sorry attempts at looking pretty, you would continue to do it. Even if people stared, gawked, whistled, laughed… you would continue on this descent into madness. The chase of perfection. The downward spiral of your mind had only just begun and you had a far distance yet to fall.

Whilst classes had finished for a long weekend and everyone was outdoors enjoying what was left of the sun before Fall crept its way in, you were sat in front of your bathroom mirror.

Pulling, pinching, tweezing, twisting, sucking, shaving, grabbing and crying.

God, you couldn’t stop crying.

You couldn’t remember a time when you didn’t cry.

To you, winter was already here. You were chilled to the bone, hollow in your chest. Insides were sunken. You felt vacant of any joy.

“Honey!!” Your mother yells suddenly from the bottom of the staircase, her voice is cloud like and warm, “Someone is here to see you!” There is a mutter of something inaudible, “Chrissy!” She confirms snippily and your face drops heavily into a worried frown.

“I’m in the shower!!” You shriek back dishonestly and you are reminded that you have a heart as it shudders inside of your chest. You aren’t ready to see her— you don’t have a lick of makeup on, your hair isn’t done and you are still wrapped up in your bath towel.

Your first thought is how do you get rid of her? How do you lie your way out of this?

You couldn’t.

“Okay, she’ll be waiting down here for you then…” Your mother’s voice dies out and you can hear her offering Chrissy something to drink and eat; which Chrissy declines.

You move around your bedroom agilely, hustling to get as presentable as you possibly could to face the girl waiting downstairs for you. It doesn’t quite register that Chrissy is sitting with your mother, chatting and possibly gossiping. All you care about is getting some makeup slapped on your face and some nice clothes hugging your body.

Your hair can be brushed, but you don’t have time to style it— that’ll have to come later. After multiple a few sprays of your favourite perfume that smells like vanilla and a tinge of cedar wood you feel ready enough to leave your sanctuary.

Nearly tripping over your entire wardrobe that covers your bedroom floor you fly toward the door handle, bracing yourself at the top of the staircase before you descend.

Time to meet your maker.

Your intense gaze flicks hurriedly between your mother and Chrissy as they both stand to meet you as you enter into the lounge room. Chrissy’s hair is twirled and curled to perfection and a short pink summer dress embraces her small frame. On her feet is a pair of red Mary Jane heels and you catch a peek at the silver jewellery strung around her neck and her wrists.

“Hi,” you say, feeling like it is the first breath you take since entering the room.

Chrissy bounds over to you, stringing her arms around your shoulders and pulling you in for a quick but sweet hug, “Hi!” She giggles in a sing song tone before pulling away, “You smell amazing by the way! You’ll have to let me know what that is later!” Her fingers linger on the exposed skin of your bicep and you cringe away from her touch.

“Thanks,” Your mother has long left the room and you walk a few paces away from Chrissy.

“We were heading to the movies, you wanna join? It’s meant to be such a warm night tonight!” To your disadvantage Chrissy follows behind you closely, closing the distance you were trying to create between the both of you, “The whole group will be there! Plus, it’s a thriller which I know you love.” She winks at you and you hate that you can feel your lips curving up into a minuscule smile.

“I dunno, Chris.” Your hand palms at the back of your neck, you feel hot with discomfort and to be quite frank all you want to do is lay in bed and mope.

“Please!” She clasps her hands together, inching closer to you— if that were even possible, “I’ll even buy your ticket!” Her pillowy bottom lip pouts out slightly, “I just wanna hang out with you, it’s been so long.”

And she was right. It had been a long time. You had been so swept up in this horrible pursuit of yours that you forgot you were actually friends with Chrissy. Long before you even knew of Eddie’s existence.

A defeated sigh leaves through your nostrils and you raise your shoulders to your ears, “Fine.” You smile, a smile that feels the most genuine it has in weeks.

Chrissy squeals with excitement, jumping up and down on the spot before taking your hand into hers. Interlocking your fingers so she can make sure you don’t make a run for it, “Let’s go, tiger!”

You all find your seats quickly, settling into them with your snacks and beverages. You partially regret not getting a drink but you decide that you’ll be able to soldier through. It’s what you do.

It was no surprise to you that Eddie was there too, but you couldn’t help but panic at the sight of him waiting for you and Chrissy to arrive at the theatre. His tatted arms crossed comfortably over his chest and a love filled smile teasing at his lips as Chrissy trotted over to him, practically jumping into his arms for a hug.

You fell behind them, ensuring you left as much distance as you possibly could. The sight of Eddie alone was enough to send you tumbling into a frenzy of inky feelings.

You could smell Eddie’s cheap cologne mixed with a hint of powerful weed and for a moment it clouds your senses. Taking hold of everything you knew— past, present, future. You couldn’t think about any of it, not with his scent engulfing your nostrils like second hand smoke.

Once the group had settled into the dimly lit theatre you sink into your seat behind Eddie and Chrissy, your shoulders slumping as you wish for the seat to turn into some sort of magical trap door that will transport you to another universe. But of course, you could never be so lucky.

The movie begins with a deafening introduction and you wince at the sound, your finger tips brushing over your ears gently to make sure that they hadn’t been blown off of the side of your head.

Steve occupies the seat next to you, and Robin is next to him with Vickie. You had grown to quite enjoy Vickie’s company. You loved how happy Robin got when she was in touchable reach… you pined for a connection like that.

Normally, you would be in your element as you watched a thriller movie, but something in front of you proved to be far more interesting.

Eddie and Chrissy were whispering sweet nothing into one another’s ear, Chrissy giggling and blushing at whatever it was that Eddie had said— probably something dirty and ridiculous.

And you could handle that. You could endure that.

But what you couldn’t take was watching as their tongues battled it out in a sloppy and erotic kiss. Chrissy had asked you to come and see this film— was it all a rouse just so she could show you who Eddie truly belongs too? So she could dismiss your attempts and break your heart further?

Unbeknownst to you, Steve had clocked the expression on your face. Tears glossing over your eyes, your front teeth gnawing on your bottom lip to try and contain whatever this was that you were feeling— but most importantly, he noticed the newfound stiffness in your body. He could feel you going rigid next to him.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice is low and kind and you should have paid more attention to his attentiveness but you don’t.

“I need to use the bathroom.” Is all you reply before lugging all of your stuff loosely and lazily into your arms and bolting for the theatre isle, but not without earning a few confused looks from Robin.

You bypass the restrooms, your eyes focused on the colossal glass doors which would separate you from Eddie and Chrissy officially.

The humid air hits your skin in an agonising envelop of warmth and you pull your sleeve over the palm of your hand to rub against your soaked cheeks.

Your chest feels heavy with every shaking intake of breath that you manage to pull into your lungs. You are heaving, gasping for air as you sob into the thick material of your sweater.

The sound of passing cars hits your ears and you slightly angle yourself away from the access road connecting the theatre to other public establishments. The images of Chrissy tongue down Eddie’s throat plays over and over in your mind— you don’t even know what the film was about because you were so hyper focused on them.

Your skin feels as though it doesn’t fit right over your skeleton and you grab at the material of your skirt, fisting the fabric as you try to ground your raging emotions.

You catch a whiff of theatre food and it causes bile to raise up the back of your throat, vomit threatening to project from your mouth.

People pass you by, their out of context conversations entering one of your ears and leaving the other. You felt so overstimulated— so riddled with anxiety that your brain hadn’t had space to even register Steve’s hand on your shoulder.

But when you do, you flinch away from him, taken aback by the horror stricken look on his soft features, “Hey… what’s going on?” His voice is low, a whisper as he tries to contain the situation between the two of you. Not wanting whatever this is to spill into the public.

You shake your head, your strong walls flagging up, “Nothing,” you dismiss him, “That movie was just… really scary..” you lie through your teeth and your watery eyes betray your words as tears continue to stream down your flushed skin.

“Bullshit.” He spits, his eyes turning to slits as he inches in closer to you, “Tell me what’s wrong right now.” His thick eyebrows have furrowed deeply on his forehead and you continue to deny him of any information.

“Steve— I’m fine! That movie was scary, I’m scared! That’s all… and.. and I needed some fresh air.” You shrug your shoulders, hoping that the messy headed man would leave it at that but he replies to your dishonesty with a discontent shake of his head.

“You’re fucking lying. Why are you lying to me?” He is so close to you now that you can feel his breath fanning onto your face, “We’re friends, right?” He cocks his head slightly to the right, his eyes becoming a bit more gentle, “Right?”

“Yes!” You respond instantly, “Of course we are friends-“

“Then tell me what’s going on! What is all of this about!” He gestures to your face, but his eyes scan across your body as well. He wants to know the whole truth, and you aren’t going to give it to him.

“I just told you!” You try not to yell, and thankfully your despair is doing a good job at strangling your voice, “I needed air—“ Steve cuts you off.

“Stop it. Stop it now.” He takes a hold of your arm, hurrying you away from the movie theatre entrance, “Just tell me. Whatever it is, I can help! I can help, okay? There’s nothing too big.” You stare into his honey suckle eyes, seeing your owe reflection staring back at you. It causes your stomach to flip with disgust.

“Why can’t you just let this go? I’m fine, Steve! I’m fucking fine! I just wanted air because I felt sick and you’re causing a scene!” You’re yelling now, your once sadness provoked tears turning to anger.

“I’m causing the scene? You’re the one lying to me and busting my balls! I just want to help you!” He takes a frustrated hand through his hair.

“I don’t need your help! I don’t need anyone, I’m fine on my own. I can take care of myself— you don’t get it! You’ll never get it, Harrington!” You jab at his chest, your body shaking with adrenaline.

“Harrington? Wow, okay. Something is definitely bothering you because you only ever call me that when you are really fucking pissed and I know I haven’t angered you this much so just tell me.” He circles you like a shark in murky water and you flee from him, needing some breathing space.

“Tell me!” He demands, charging after you.

You swing around to face him, your entire body feeling as though it’s going to combust.

“You wanna know, Steve? You really wanna fucking know?!” You march toward him, stopping a few paces away from his large frame.

“I’m in love with Eddie!” Your voice is an unattractive squeak, “Is that what you want to know, Steve? Are you fucking happy now?” You’re trembling now— a mix of rage, melancholy and dread.

“I am in love with someone who will never love me back. I… I have tried so hard to win him over.” You pluck at your t-shirt, scoffing at the silliness of it all, “I tried to change everything about me. I tried to be the one he would want but he doesn’t want me. He’ll never fucking want me, Steve.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, a form of defensiveness, “I’ll always be second best— no.” A moment of ugly realisation hits you, “I’m not even on his list. I’m not even a back up option to him. I’m a nobody. I can’t compete— I can’t compare.”

You’re a mess now. Smudged eyeliner. Smeared lipstick. You are a museum of failed art.

“I am in love with Eddie Munson and he doesn’t even know who I am.”

You try to lessen the blow of your own words with a tight lipped teary smile and a shrug of your shoulders… but whatever was left of your bruised heart was now torn to shreds. Unfixable. Unlovable.

“No one wants me.”

Through your distorted vision you hadn’t even noticed the tears pricking at Steve’s own eyes as he watched you fall to pieces in front of him.

Gently he brings you to lay flat against his chest, one of his hands rest tenderly against your hair whilst the other it draped over your shoulders.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds you silently and allows you to sob into his broad chest— your makeup destroying his pristine white shirt.

A few moments of the embrace pass and that’s when you hear a muted voice from behind Steve’s large frame. A voice you had hoped to not hear— a voice that belonged to someone you had prayed would never ever hear you confess what you just had. A voice that was laced with what you could only pinpoint as malice and repulsion.

Eddie.

“What.. the fuck?”

And as Steve’s body tensed against yours, you blinked away the last of your tears and accepted your fate.

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers

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kisakis-boyfriend · 25 days ago

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More Private Affairs

Author's Note: Caelus, my love, my light, my beloved trailblazer 💛 I ship these two so hard. You can't tell me that there isn't chemistry between them. The game literally begins with Dan Heng nearly kissing him… c'mon now.

Pairings: Caelus x Dan Heng x male reader

Warnings: Male!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!characters, rimming, blowjob, aftercare

There are practically sparkles in Caelus' eyes as the trailblazer stands there motionless. His lips are parted in shock, and the only sounds that escape are tiny gasps and his breath hitching when he watches you thrust into Dan Heng sharply.

“Do you want to join?”

Caelus' eyes flick to your face, then back to Dan Heng's ass. “Uh-huh…” he nods. His eyes remain glued to his friend's perfectly round ass, and it looks even cuter pressed against your pelvis, slightly wet from your previous round.

“Then get down here for me.” you instruct.

The trailblazer sits on his knees, swallowing nervously. His golden eyes gaze up at you, searching for guidance.

You pet his hair gently. “Good. Come a little closer, you'll need to be quick once I pull out.”

Once you… pull out?

Before he has time to think about it further, your cock slides out of Dan Heng, leaving a string of cum still connecting your tip with his hole. Caelus hesitates—staring at his friend's leaking hole in total shock.

You push his head forward, holding him there until he finally understands his task. The trailblazer parts his lips, lapping at Dan Heng's messy hole as your load seeps out and slides into his mouth.

Being the helpful man that you are, you spread your friend's cheeks a little to help Caelus really get in there. Glancing between the trailblazer's legs, you notice his hardened member as it forms a glaring tent in his pants. His arousal is surely heightened due to his (not subtle at all…) crush on his dark haired friend.

“My, you're a hungry boy, aren't you?” Caelus whines at your teasing tone. Though he doesn't protest when your fingers comb through his hair.

After a minute, he pulls away to take a breath, and you take the opportunity to turn his head towards you.

Your friend now finds himself inches away from your length, and his cheeks darken once again. He looks at you with puppy dog eyes, glancing at your dick as if he's asking for confirmation. You need only nod at your friend for him to lick his lips then grab your cock with a trembling hand.

The heat from his mouth feels amazing surrounding your length — it draws you further in, causing your friend to gag as you push in a little too much at once. You decide to let him go at his own pace then.

It doesn't take long for Caelus to find a steady flow—bobbing his head as if he's a cock sucking expert. With one hand busy holding onto the back of Caelus' silver locks, you decide to spoil Dan Heng, sliding a finger into his hole with your free hand.

Both men moan in sync, each one enjoying the pleasure coursing through their veins. Caelus' dick is straining against his pants even more now, pushing shiny precum through the fabric.

The sight of your good friend palming himself while he sucks you off rewires your brain—definitely an image you won't soon forget. His cheeks struggle to contain your girth, and when he starts going faster, grunting with every bob of his head, it causes you to cum suddenly–

White hot pleasure fills your body and mind — numbing everything else as your only thought is filling the hole that your dick is buried in.

When you come back to your senses, you look down to find Caelus dazed while your cock throbs in his throat. And, in your lust-focused haze, you realize you'd shoved three fingers inside Dan Heng's cunt. His legs are shaking so much, and it's an obvious struggle for him to keep himself on his feet as he leans his forehead against the wall.

With everyone spent, you say you should all call it here. You pull out of both men, wrapping an arm around Dan Heng's waist again so he doesn't fall. After a second of regaining your bearings, you help Caelus stand, and then carry Dan Heng over to his bed.

Dan Heng's chest rises and falls as he lies on top of his blanket—the first to drift off while yourself and the trailblazer sit next to him and talk before you take your well deserved nap.

You absentmindedly play with Dan Heng's fingers, tracing shapes on the back of his hand too, while you praise your silver haired friend for being so obedient for you. His cheeks flush just as much as before, telling you to 'cut it out' with a sheepish smile.

Exhaustion creeps in — the two of you gradually take your place on both sides of Dan Heng, and soon enough, you're all snoring in a snuggle pile.

If you've learned one thing today, it's that having both of your friends together like this is better than any heaven in existence.

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moonlight-prose · 3 months ago

Text

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 02. LOST IN TIME AND SPACE

a/n: logan angst with this fic is all i've been thinking about. mainly because he's the kind of man to swallow all of his feelings until it eventually kills him. so that's super fun to work with. and that scenario is basically this entire chapter. so please root for him, but also know he's not even close to dealing with his trauma. also the x-men timeline remains convoluted as fuck, so if the past of the logan who died doesn't make sense it is what it is. this is fanfic and we're all here to fuck him.

summary: the past is a thing he couldn't ignore. yet he still tried. and when the opportunity to spend a day with you utterly alone arises, he realizes that perhaps he doesn't want to forget about what brought him here.

word count: 6.6k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, angsty as fuck, some fluff, grieving a past he can never have back, logan goes through it, kissing, he's horny, me slightly abusing my literature degree, heartache, panic attacks.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

Logan never liked when the city fell silent. He hated the city in general. It unnerved him; scratched angrily against his chest until he couldn't find the peace he strived for. The city at night was filled with small noises—bangs in the distance, shouts of drunks wasted in the streets, and people finally turning in for the night.

They reminded him of the wars, the echoey expanse of nothing. Where every sound set his teeth on edge.

The cheap leather fabric of the couch stuck to his skin as he turned. He shoved his body into a standing position—his hands curling into fists. His skin remained sticky with a thin layer of sweat which only served to incense him further. Given the apartment's shitty air system, he'd be struggling through this for most of the summer. A fact he tried his best to ignore in the hopes that the fall weather would reveal itself sooner.

With a groan, he stripped himself of the thin tank top that clung to his skin. It didn't help to ease the humidity that hung in the air. It barely helped to cool off his body. But he'd take what he could get when what he could get was so little.

Wade's snoring echoed through the thin walls as he stood there, his body begging for a bit of sleep. Even if his mind refused to shut off. Images of you played through his head on a loop. The past was shadowed in pain, memories dipped in a venom he once wished would kill him eventually. Yet seeing you yesterday—a version that remained untouched by the depravity of what already happened—launched him back into a time that never seemed to be very far behind.

"You weren't there! And they needed you."

Silver ebbed from his knuckles as he faced the window—eyes shut and chest heaving. There was no question the sweat came from the humidity in the air. The cold chill along his spine however stemmed from you.

"You're not the Wolverine Logan. You're just a disappointment."

He fought the snarl that worked its way up his throat. A heavy pounding began to form at the front of his head. A drum he couldn't escape.

"Live with that."

If he opened his eyes. If he refused to give the memories even an inch of space in his mind. He'd have caught you standing there rummaging in the kitchen. A mug of tea forgotten on the counter the second you caught a glimpse of him getting up from the couch. You tugged at your sleep shorts as you stumbled towards the window—eyes heavy with sleep that simply wouldn't come.

Most nights it was easy. Long days at work left you utterly exhausted. To a point where staying awake felt odd and incomplete.

Tonight felt like hell.

No matter how many times you tossed and turned, you couldn't get the thoughts to settle. And all of them seemed to filter their way back to the man who currently faced you—his eyes shut and fists adorned with silver claws that slowly slid their way to freedom. You nearly dropped your kettle when he tore off his shirt, revealing sweat slicked skin lit up by the streetlights outside.

If you were braver you'd ask him to come over, join you in a sleepless night. But he had yet to see you standing there and you weren't one to draw attention to yourself.

So you stood and watched as he fought with whatever must have woken him up so late in the night. You witnessed his battle and wished you could be the one helping him. Maybe then he'd finally fall asleep soundlessly. His mind clear—body free of phantom aches from injuries that still haunted him. He may heal incredibly fast, but the mind...that took far too long to piece itself back together.

Before you could turn away, back to your now cold mug of tea, his eyes opened. Fixating immediately on your form in the window.

Few people in his life were able to calm the thunderous storms he weathered in his own mind. Jean and Charles did what they could. They brought back what he once thought was lost forever. Even you attempted to ease him from what he lived through—what he endured.

But that seemed to be the one thing your variant self was unable to comprehend.

He didn't need someone to fix him. He wanted someone to see him. To understand that there was no cure for a person this broken, no easy way out when things got this bad. He stood before you as a man riddled with far too much—scars that you'd never be able to see—yet he could see no hesitation in your eyes.

Something pulled at his stomach at the sight of you in small shorts and a tank top. Your skin exposed to the city as you watched him carefully. You analyzed him in a way that didn't make him want to put up a facade. And he found he liked it when you looked at him like this; with a burning need to know more clear in your gaze.

Your eyes trailed up his stomach, lingering on the hair that dipped down into his sweats. He wanted you to be here. Or him to be there. The location didn't matter as long as he could reach out and touch you—feel the warmth of your skin beneath his palm.

Minutes passed before your gaze found his face and Logan felt an itch in his body at the notion that you were fascinated by him. That even in a different universe with completely different memories, you couldn't help but be drawn to the man he was.

The horror of destroying another version of you should have made him want to turn away from the window.

Then you smiled.

A slow sleepy grin that lit up your face. You probably didn't think anything of it—simply a small offer of kindness in your shared sleepless night. Logan however swallowed it down as if you'd given him the best tasting whiskey on this planet. His chest tightened, head dazed as you stood there looking with enough reverence to kill him.

If only he could see the way your insides melted at the sight of him smiling back. The thoughts of lust and like racing through your mind the longer you stood there.

Eventually the sun would come up, you'd be called to work, and this would become a brief passing memory you'd both hold onto down the road.

Until that moment though you remained in this spot. Fighting the drowsiness for a chance to watch him a bit longer. To trace your eyes along his body and soak in the expressions that played across his weary face.

You could feel the prick of sleep in your eyes, your body dizzy as it begged for you to finally give in and crawl back into bed. Yet how could you leave him there? How could you walk away?

He seemed to catch the way you bit back a yawn and chuckled. Pressing his hand to the warm window, he nodded at you. To anyone else on the street it might look nonsensical—comical even. To you his message was loud and clear: Go to bed and I'll be here in the morning. I promise.

Reluctance yanked at your heart when he nodded again, his hand falling back to his side. Yet no matter how hard you tried to keep yourself awake—if only to steal another second of his gaze on your body—you knew it was futile. Fighting sleep never went well in the morning when coffee was your only salvation. With another smile, you waved slightly—pressing your hand to the window briefly as if to respond to his silence with some of your own.

Sleep well. I'll find you in the morning. I promise.

Logan woke up to the blaring horn of a taxi right outside. The shout of a man bounced off the buildings, cussing about traffic and for someone to get the fuck out of his way. He groaned, turning to his side in the hopes of catching another thirty minutes. But the city was alive and thrumming with its own heart beat.

To others the echo might have been familiar—peaceful.

To Logan it was like nails being dragged along a chalkboard.

"I fuckin' hate this city," he growled, getting to his feet and snatching his tank top from where he'd left it last night.

Surprisingly the apartment rang out with a sound he had yet to experience in this place. Silence. He peeked in the bedrooms briefly, expecting to find Wade still passed out. An empty room was all that greeted him—the fucking stuffed unicorn propped up perfectly on a surprisingly made bed. There was only one reason Wade tidied up his room.

Vanessa.

She was coming by here or Wade was going with her. Either way Logan didn't want to be around to hear what came next. He'd been privy to one too many nights of Wade reconciling his differences with Vanessa and all of them ended with Logan's head beneath a pillow. That or he snuck out to wander the city at night until he finally returned to a quiet apartment.

For a brief moment he wondered if he could find you at your place; his eyes settled on the view of your window across the one way street. The lights looked off, the living room empty. And he craved to know where in this city you disappeared to during the day. Where did you work?

Would you mind if he visited you there? If he took some time to hear your voice, see your smile.

He grabbed the shitty coffee bag that was tossed on the counter. No doubt due to Wade making some this morning. The machine was old, nearly broken, but it would make do for the time being. A neon yellow sticky note was stuck to the top—the scrawl of Wade's handwriting familiar.

Good morning peanut! Coffee is hot like you. Don't call me. Don't beep me. Because you don't need to reach me today. If you do, I'm at Ness's scoring for tens all across the board. I'm talking the head—

Logan groaned, crumpling the note and tossing it on the counter. Knowing information that Wade would probably tell him anyways wasn't how he wanted to start his afternoon. The cabinet creaked as he opened it, the plain blue mug he claimed as his sat in the front.

Another yellow sticky attached to it.

OF CHAMPIONS. I knew you wouldn't finish reading the note you gorgeous Canadian/Australian bastard.

P.S. Sweet angel's number. I was told to give it to you.

P.P.S. GET. SOME. (For the both of us.)

A crude drawing of Deadpool fucking the air was scribbled in the corner. The details were far too graphic for him to look at longer than a few seconds. Logan would have tossed the entire mug in the trash, but your number enticed him to stick it to the fridge as he made coffee strong enough to make the hair stand up on his arms. He glanced at it every few minutes, tracing the numbers as he considered what this meant.

Was this you telling him in simple terms that you wanted to get to know him? That his past and whatever he buried was something you wanted to learn.

His gaze burned a hole into the yellow paper as he drank his coffee, his mind racing at the possibility of speaking to you today. Some cash was stowed in the trunk Laura dragged from the previous Logan's home. Her claim was that he deserved to have it. Since he might have understood what it meant more than she did.

From what he could tell this universe's Logan was saving up for something—the wad of cash in the bottom of the trunk remained enough for him to get by until he found a stable place to set up a home. Somewhere near the mansion that still existed. He wasn't prepared to be a part of that life again just yet, but that remained the only spot that felt like home to him.

Even in a different universe.

Snatching the note off the fridge he grabbed his flannel, boots, and enough cash to last through the day. He had no location in mind. But knowing you wanted to spend time with him became the motivator he needed to actually leave the apartment.

The city was bursting with life—sounds filling the air as if it would replace the oxygen they consumed. He did what he could to ignore it. Slipping past people with ease, his eyes fixed on the small store that sat on the corner. He debated on ordering from the cafe across the street, wondering if you liked the place. If you came here for coffee and breakfast on days off.

He made a note to ask.

Thankfully the shop wasn't crowded with people—a shitty pop song blasted over the speakers. One he knew Wade would play to piss off your next door neighbors. Whether or not you actually liked Wade's music taste never crossed his mind. Or did you go along with it? Willing to do what it took to make them suffer.

"Just this," he grunted, tossing enough cash down to cover the bill and then some.

The burner phone was small in his palm as he yanked it out of the box and flipped it on. He didn't bother with getting an actual phone. What the fuck did he need that for? But this...he could do to make you entering his life a bit easier.

Every part of him screamed to push you away—make you hate him—but for the first time in his life, Logan didn't listen.

The shop door swung shut behind him as he dug out the sticky note, punching your number in carefully to not miss a single digit. Somehow in the midst of chaos, he was able to shut off the city noise when the phone began to ring. Half of him expected you not to answer. It was the middle of the day, you were at work, and this was probably more a hindrance than anything else.

Your voice filtering through the small speaker put his worries at ease within seconds.

"Hello?"

His heart jumped as he exhaled. "I hear you gave Wade directions this morning."

"Logan?" you asked, voice louder than before. The echo of someone shushing you came through, making him smile.

"Hey Honey."

A shaky breath left your lips. Logan felt his stomach clench at the realization you liked when he called you that.

"I didn't know you had a phone," you replied, much softer than before. "Wade told me you were too old for technology."

"Don't listen to anything that mouth tells you."

You laughed, breathy and cute, and he bit back a groan at the sound. "I'm glad he was wrong."

"He normally is."

"Where are you today?" Shuffling and a door shutting caught his attention as your voice rose in volume again.

A horn went off beside him, piercing his hearing. "Standin' on the street."

"Near our places?"

Oh he liked the sound of that. "Mhm." Another soft breath reached his ears; he felt his body go warm. "Where are you today honey?"

"Work." If he could see through the call, he'd catch you smiling. How your teeth dug into your bottom lip to stop the embarrassing giggle that nearly spilled free. "Do you...um...do you want to see it?"

The words slammed into his chest like a truck. The innuendo nearly enough to make him drop to one knee here in the middle of the street. And suddenly Wade's note came back to his mind. The crude drawing flaring to life as he pictured you saying those exact words in an entirely different situation. If he was a better man his jeans wouldn't have tightened. If he was a better man he'd have ignored it altogether.

Logan wished he was a better man. You longed for him not to be.

He cleared his throat, his grip tightening around the phone. "Where?"

"New York Public Library."

Vaguely the directions came back to him from decades past. He wondered if the building sat in the same spot on this universe as his own. In a rush of words, you gave him some instruction. He agreed to be there as soon as he could.

"See you soon Logan." The excitement wasn't hard to pick from your voice. That still didn't stop him from trying.

"Wait–"

"Yes?"

He turned. "Rosemary's? You like their coffee?"

Another laugh escaped you in a breath and Logan felt the walls around his heart chip. "Love."

Twenty minutes later you were greeting him on the side of the building with a smile he felt down to his adamantium bones. A warm coffee was pressed into your hand, a sandwich tucked safely into a small paper bag in the other. For the entire afternoon he formulated things to say to you, stories to tell. Yet all that came now was an awkward smile and a greeting that made his chest burn uncomfortably.

You thought nothing of it. Even as you led him inside and asked him about his morning. The sight of him holding coffee and wearing a grin was enough for you to lose it a little. The breath knocking from your lungs, warmth spilling into your stomach.

"I didn't know what you wanted–"

Taking another sip, you grinned at the glimpse of red that dusted the tips of his ears. "I don't mind what you got."

A stain of soft pink remained on the cup; Logan's eyes attached to it within seconds. You could see the way his pupils dilated slightly—his throat bobbing at the sight of something so small and delicate. That didn't help the way your heart flipped whenever he was near. As if he'd taken control of all your emotions—all the baseline wants that you could normally ignore.

"What do you do here?" he rasped, focusing on the way you watched him. Though the glaze of sleep was gone from your eyes, the way you analyzed him still remained.

"Archives."

Unlocking another door, you led him down a flight of stairs. The elevator would have been the easier route, but he didn't possess a badge nor a library card. You were pretty sure he wouldn't have gotten one either way. So sneaking him in was the way to go until you could convince him otherwise. What you didn't know was that you could have asked anything of him—anything you wanted—and he'd agree without hesitation.

He followed close behind, unwilling to let you get a few feet away. As if he was drawn to you in ways that didn't seem possible.

"I work on making sure things are properly placed in the correct spot. Older books, newspapers from decades ago, stuff like that."

Humming, he watched as you opened the final door—letting him see the grand room that lay below filled with an infinite row of bookcases. Boxes that had yet to be gone through, files not placed properly, and piles of books that stacked on rows of tables. Each one contained a certain label of where they belonged.

"So a librarian?"

Laughing, you shut the door behind him with a soft click. "Kind of. I'm not working upstairs and handing out books like the actual librarians do. We hermits down in the basement prefer the term archivist."

"Hermits," he huffed. "You don't look like a hermit to me."

"Looks can be deceiving Logan."

That was a fact he knew too well. One that kept him up at night, replayed in his dreams without end. Oftentimes he wondered if he'd been the one to deceive. If his persona and reluctance to help gave others the impression that he was the man to turn to. The hero they needed. He never asked to be seen that way—never wanted it—yet when the time came...he couldn't run away from the truth.

The idea of telling you all this came to him last night as he watched you walk back to your room.

What stopped him was the image of the other you, grief stricken and horrified as he stumbled home from the bar.

"I have some questions for you." Your voice pulled him from his thoughts.

The small table in the back was free of books and you took a seat, pulling your sandwich from the paper. He took the chair across from you, his legs bumping into yours as he tried to cram them in the small space. The apology was quick to land on his tongue. Although your smile and the feel of your ankle curving around his leg killed it instantaneously.

"I'm hoping you have some answers."

He swallowed thickly, ignoring the way you shifted—your knee brushing his. "Now that depends."

"On?"

"Are they easy questions?" He grinned at the way you spoke around your mouthful of food—intrigue lighting up your eyes.

You slid half the sandwich towards him, not pretending to see the way he tried to refuse. He took a bite when your foot jammed in his calf. A pointed look crossing your face as if to say: eat because I know you haven't.

"What am I like?"

He nearly choked on the bread. "Do you mean..."

With a nod, you grabbed another bite, oblivious to the way his tongue swiped along his bottom lip. His eyes fixed on the way your teeth sunk into the meal and oil spread at the corner of your mouth. Tearing the sandwich in half would have been the better option. Biting where he mouth was seemed to be what you liked better.

His insides stirred deliciously, heat forming at the way your lashes fluttered at the taste.

"The other me," you mumbled, giving him the rest. "You said we were friends." When he didn't respond you kept going. "Wade alluded that we might have been...more than friends."

Fucking Wade Wilson.

Logan leaned back, his hand curling into fists in his lap as he once again fought the urge to take off. "He sure likes to run his goddamn mouth."

Anxiety sparked in your chest and you fell silent. Perhaps it wasn't the right time to bring it up. Or even something to bring up. Yet curiosity always ate you alive—the idea of not knowing the full truth. And when Wade briefly said Logan was still pining over a version of you that didn't exist on this Earth, you tried not to let it consume you.

You fought against your baser instincts in the hopes that one day he'd tell you himself.

Then he showed up. Offering you coffee and friendship and possibly more.

How could you ignore it then?

You knew he was watching you, could feel the burn of his eyes along the side of your face. Silence echoed loudly in the room as the old wooden bookshelves creaked and the chatter of people upstairs began to filter down below.

"I'm sorry," you uttered, doing what you could to move past whatever this was. "I shouldn't have asked. We can go look at some stuff if you want. I have newspapers from the seventies you might want to see–"

"I loved you."

You froze, head whipping around to meet his solemn gaze.

"On my Earth you were mine." With a sigh, he leaned forward. "And I fucked it all up. No I didn't just fuck it up. I ruined you."

"Logan..." you breathed. "I'm not them."

"I know." Sorrow flooded his hazel eyes—the grief playing across his face like a film you shouldn't be watching. And for the first time...you saw the man Wade spoke about. The broken version of a Logan that was found in a bar wallowing on his own world. "But I can't do that to you again. I won't."

This wasn't an omission of the truth. Nor a confession of his greatest sins. This was a promise lined with the guilt of his past. Memories of a time you'd never witness played out in his mind and he longed to show them to you.

To give you a piece of what he once had with a version of you that loathed his existence now.

But that isn't why he happened upon you on this Earth. History would remain exactly as it was. He couldn't change that. However, this—whatever he shared with you now—he could keep safe. The promise he made so long ago might finally be shown the respect he never thought to give it before.

"Come with me," you said softly, standing with a hand outstretched for him to take.

With a hesitant breath, he wrapped his calloused palm around yours and let you take the lead.

Past bookshelves and rows of boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling, you stopped at a shelf marked with words he'd seen a thousand times before. X-MEN. You tugged a box free and carried it to the table behind you—the top flipping open with ease as he caught sight of the pile of papers within. A list was taped to the side of what this might contain. Names he knew, people that might still exist on this Earth.

"This is all we know about the Logan in this universe." You pulled out a file, a picture of his variant clipped on top. He was rugged—aged. "It's not much, but it shows a bit of his past."

"Why are you showing me this?"

"So you can see what others see."

You handed him a photo of the X-Men. Jean and Scott stood on either side of Charles. Logan was off to the side, a cigar in his mouth and a cocksure grin on his lips. He hated the man before he knew him. Always hearing how fucking wonderful he was; how great a hero he used to be.

He selfishly wanted to be everything this version of himself was.

He wanted to be the hero he could never amount to.

"What happened to 'em?"

You glanced at the image, pulling another file out. The name punched the breath from his lungs as you flipped it open. JEAN GREY: ALIAS - PHOENIX. An image of her smiling at a lecture was pulled free—her hair red and down to her waist.

"I don't know much, because well Charles Xavier never disclosed information about the X-Men lightly. But...something happened to her. From what we know...Logan was the one to kill her."

The file fell on the table, his heart twisting violently in his chest as the words flooded his mind. He killed her. He killed Jean. The woman he once loved before you came into his life. Something severed in his body, the breath in his lungs was suddenly hard to come by. But the touch of your hand on his kept him from completely falling into that dark pit he fought to climb out of.

"He–" Logan sucked in a breath and shut his eyes to the image of Jean. "He killed her?"

You nodded, silent while he processed the information. Showing this to him wasn't an act of malice—he knew that. You didn't want him to suffer. You simply wanted to prove that the Logan that once existed wasn't the greatest to have ever lived. He was simply a man suffering the plight of guilt the universe handed him.

He had his own cross to bear. His own nightmares to fight through.

In some ways...they weren't so different.

"You're not the worst Logan," you admitted, letting him lean into you. "And he wasn't the best Logan." Your hand pressed to his cheek, eyes soft and warm. "He was just a man who was offered a terrible hand in life."

Logan huffed, his forehead finding yours as he breathed in your scent. "So you're sayin' I'm just a man?"

"I'm saying that the James Howlett in this universe probably thought he was the worst Logan too."

The words shouldn't have struck him the way they did. Their truth, louder than anything in this building. But the blunt and hardened reality stared him in the fucking face, and he had no choice but to meet it's gaze. The Logan of this world wasn't perfect. He fucked up. He ruined things. Yet he found a way to fix them. Put the pieces back together in order to obtain something that resembled the image of his life.

As much as he fought to claim he wasn't anything like the Logan that once walked this Earth.

He was finding it hard to see where they differed.

"Show me somethin' happy honey," he replied gruffly, his hand finding your hip with ease. "Show me somethin' you like."

The smile you rewarded him with placed some breath back into his chest. "What like books?"

"If that's what you love."

"I don't think we have enough time."

His hold on your hip tightened. "'M here all day."

"Yeah?" Turning away from him, you dug through the box. Down to the very bottom. "They found these at what they think is his grave."

Silver flashed in his vision before you were pressing a pair of dog tags into his hand. The name WOLVERINE was etched into the metal—its cold touch practically burned the skin of his palm. For years he thought he'd never see these again. A piece of his past he couldn't bring with him.

"I thought you'd want to have them."

"They're his," he croaked.

"And you're the Wolverine. They're as much yours as they were his."

Fingers closed around them as the chains dangled from his hand, and Logan felt his heart place another bit back into the correct spot. He never believed he belonged with people. Never wanted to hurt them. Yet life continued to surprise him. The metal was familiar to his touch. Years of toying with them, of having their comfort on his chest, kept him sane at some points. It helped to remind him of who he was.

Without even realizing it...you gave that back to him.

He wanted to tell you how much this meant. How grateful he felt. But he was never good with words.

So he pressed his lips to your cheek and let them linger there as heat pulsed in your body. The race of your heart made him grin. Simply knowing you liked him hiked up his ego in ways he didn't need at a time like this. But like the Logan that came before...he was a sucker when it came to resisting the aspect of love.

"Show me around bub."

You slid your hand into his, your lips nearly brushing as you turned to catch his gaze. "Okay."

"Why work there?"

The city at night exuded a different kind of energy that you frequently craved during the day. A fun lightness that normally hit when the clock struck six p.m. and people were finally out of work. You were allowed to leave earlier than expected due to a birthday gathering of coworkers going on downtown.

An invitation was offered. Until they saw Logan standing behind you and your plans for the night became clear.

"I love history." He offered to walk you home. You accepted on the single condition that he'd stay for dinner. "How humanity went from one thing to the next and so on."

He scoffed and wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you out of the way of someone barreling by. "You don't have to explain that part to me bub. You're lookin' at a man who lived it."

"Did you?" The look you gave him had the feelings of want he pushed down earlier rearing their head. "Actually live through it?"

"I was born in 1832."

With a gasp, you clutched his arm. "Were you really?" you exclaimed. "That means you saw so much of history. Things we might not have written down."

And suddenly within moments...there you were from his world. Bright and beautiful and in love with the past. At first he believed it was due to your abilities; now he understood that's just who you were deep down. Always in love with what you couldn't fully figure out—the past you could see if you managed to travel back far enough.

"You have to let me pick your brain for facts."

He tugged you closer, stopping off to the side of the busy street, until you were stuck in his hold with nowhere to look but up at him. "Picking my brain ain't gonna be fun honey."

Your eyes were wide, lips parted slightly. "I disagree."

"You forget. Different universe. The history I know might be different from the one you know."

No matter how hard you tried, you could never hide the disappointment that flooded your eyes. "I'm sure it's not that different."

"Hm." He pressed a thumb to the top of your cheekbone, struck by how soft your skin felt beneath his. "Why don't you tell me yours. And then maybe I'll tell you mine."

The double entendre was layered in the lust that clouded his vision—the need that burned in his stomach. Logan hoped you understood it. Could see how much he ached for you. How you affected him since he first caught a glimpse of you yesterday. And seeing your pupils dilate, your chest heaving slightly, made his swell with pride. Saliva filled his mouth at the thought of one day getting a taste of you, but the sound of a horn going off behind him shattered the moment.

You stepped back with a deep inhale, your hand still in his. Which only served to prove Logan's point.

He fucking hated the city.

"Dinner?" you breathed, voice raspy with that feeling you tried to fight against.

Logan managed to turn you inside out. Pulling exactly where he needed to expose your heart. That alone should have terrified you. Yet the thrill of knowing him, of seeing where this might lead, kept you enamored and wanting for more.

"Lead the way."

What plans you created and meal you planned to order were lost the second you ascended the stairs to your apartment and stood in front of your door. The silence of the building was deafening compared to the noise outside. So much so that every breath you took echoed loud against the shitty yellow stained walls. Logan could hear the thump of your heart as it rammed within your chest. Quickening the closer he stepped towards you.

You turned, your back to the door and eyes dazed—unfocused. "I can order something."

His nostrils flared as your familiar scent began to deepen, mix with the arousal that seeped through your body. "That could work."

"What do you like to eat?"

The smile he gave you could only be described as canine. Near feral. "Dangerous question honey."

"What do you–" Shock flashed in your eyes, heat spilling into your face as the words finally processed. "Oh."

Logan wasn't hungry in a way that might seem normal to you. He didn't want to taste you, he wanted to devour. To feel you in ways that would scare you shitless. He craved you potently—viscerally. And perhaps it would scare you off.

Although something told him it wouldn't.

Silence no longer felt all consuming and horrid when he took one more step, crowding you against your door. You should have kept the conversation going. Laughed it off with a flippant smile and an offer of real food. Though neither of you could give a shit about dinner. That fact became evident the second he cupped the back of your neck and slotted his lips against yours.

A moan of surprise tore from your throat and Logan let out a growl to match. He kissed you fervently. Lips pressed hard and hot against yours, tongue sliding along your teeth, and somehow it never felt like enough. He'd dreamed of this for years. For the taste of you again, the gentle grip of your hands that dug into his hair and pulled.

That alone sent a groan echoing down the hallway, his body colliding with yours as your back hit the door. Your teeth found his bottom lip while his hands slid down to your ass, gripping and tugging until you could feel the prominent bulge through the denim of his jeans.

"Logan," you gasped, your tongue meeting his with another sharp tug on hair.

He slammed a hand against the door beside your head, his hips rutting down as you met the movement with one of your own. You wanted to drag him inside. Needed to feel his bare skin on yours. But something pulled tight against your chest as he stuttered into the kiss. The unfamiliar sound of his claws sliding out and puncturing the wood of your door made you jump.

"Sorry," he muttered, sliding his lips down your throat—teeth nipping the vein. "Happens."

"You owe me a door." You sounded breathless.

He brought his lips back to yours with a fury you'd never experienced before. "I'll buy you a new one." Your hips dragged along his, nails digging into the hot skin on the back of his neck. "I’ll fuckin’ make you one," he snarled.

The thought of someone passing by, seeing you nearly held up against your door by a man who's claws were embedded in it, was laughable. Yet you couldn't stop wondering what would happen if you let this go further. If you allowed him to take you right here out in the open.

Logan could smell the way you dripped for him and it drove him fucking insane. His body begged him to keep going. To slam open the door and bury himself in you right there on your kitchen floor. The way you whined into his mouth, rubbing yourself along his crotch, told him you wanted the same.

And he might have done just that.

If they hadn't started.

They're dead because of you!

Memories flashed in his mind with a rage unlike the past few times. Your face, tear stained and rageful. The way you used your powers against him. Tried to kill him for what happened. It all came rushing back with a lungful of air that burned.

I hate you!

"Logan?" You pulled back slightly, hands cupping his face with enough care he could feel the sting of tears start to build. "Are you okay?"

It should've been you that died Logan. Not them.

He sucked in a breath, ripping himself away from and stumbling a few steps back. Fighting against the past wasn't new to him. He'd been broken by it before. But now he couldn't even enjoy the sight of you with swollen lips and ruffled clothes, because all he saw when he closed his eyes was the other you.

The one he broke.

"I'm fine." His voice was raspy as he choked out the words.

A need to help him rang through your body and Logan could see it. He knew how badly you wanted to come to him—to hold him. This simply wasn't your battle to fight. He refused to change that in any way.

Standing up straight, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. An apology for the actions he was about to take.

He only hoped you wouldn't hate him for it afterwards.

"We'll do dinner another night, honey."

"Logan–"

"Goodnight." Walking away from you felt as if he'd ripped a hole in his chest with an adamantium bullet. One that wouldn't heal like before.

The dog tags were now wrapped around his neck, choking him like a collar he couldn't free himself from. A reminder that even the Logan of this world was unable to stop himself from destroying the one he loved. That was the plight they carried.

Their greatest grief. The one thing they had in common.

This...he could accept.

#Y'ALL I AM SO SORRY TO SAY IT ONLY GETS WORSE #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x f!reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x y/n #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine x y/n #wolverine x f!reader #my writing

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oizysian · 3 months ago

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I Need You | Wanda Maximoff

Pairing: Scarlet Witch x Spiderwoman!Y/N

Summary: Spiderwoman!Y/N helps Scarlet Witch get her kids back.

Warnings: magic cock, breeding, slight dubcon

Word count: 1.3k

AN: a post by @hopelesslygaysstuff inspired this. Also, I’m just perverted so that’s what happened.

“Now that you’ve found me, what do you intend on doing with me?” She asked, almost sarcastically, a playful lilt to her voice.

“I just want to help you, Wanda.” I said honestly, my heart beating out of my chest.

“If you can’t help me find my boys, you’re no use to me.”

I watched as she sauntered around the temple, a very large, very evil looking book hovered in the air in front of her, the pages flipping on their own.

“I-I don’t know how.” I responded weakly, her black tipped fingers flicking the air, red wisps forming around her.

I began to panic, not knowing what she was doing. I shot my web at the book and pulled it toward me, holding it in my hands. Her eyes began to glow red with anger, the wisps heading straight towards me now.

“Oh, oh, oh,” I mumbled to myself, not knowing what to do. “Dammit.”

I ran, avoiding her magic the best I could. It was fast, instantaneous, but I was just a bit faster. I looked down at the book in my hands, and then back at Wanda, who was very, very angry.

“Just make more children!” I called out.

With a huff, she finally caught me, the wisps wrapping around my hands and feet, causing me to drop the book and to return to her.

“Make more children?” She asked, looking me over. What was she thinking?

I felt an odd sensation between my legs, like a stretching ache, and looked down to see the outline of a cock through my suit. My eyes widened and I looked back at Wanda, who was now eyeing me with a different kind of hunger.

“Wanda …” I said softly, wriggling slightly to try and release myself from her magic. “What have you done? What are you doing?”

“I’m taking your advice. We’re making more children.”

“W-we?”

She brought me closer to her, our faces almost touching as her dark fingers ran along my stomach, making the cock between my legs twitch ever so slightly.

“I know you like me, Y/N.” She whispered. “Help me get my children back.”

I swallowed roughly, my mind flooded with images of us, feelings of immense pleasure and I tried to shake it off. I did like Wanda, but I didn’t want it to be like this.

“I made you well endowed.” Her fingers trailed down and stroked the cock through my suit and I couldn’t hold back a moan.

“H-how?” I trembled under her touch, aroused and afraid.

She smiled, the wisps tightening around me as she began to take off her clothing.

“I’m much more powerful than I used to be.”

“Wanda,” I watched as her breasts bounced free from the outfit she was wearing. “You don’t wanna do this.”

I was losing my mind. This was the woman of all of my fantasies, of all my dreams, and she was now naked in front of me. I struggled against her magic, but she was right - she was much more powerful than I remembered.

“I know you want this as much as I do, Y/N. I can hear your thoughts about me - so loud, so desperate for me.”

I did my best to clear my mind, to calm down, but she was in front of me and she was the only one I ever wanted ever, and she knew that.

She grabbed the back of my mask and slipped it off my face, my flushed cheeks and hungry eyes finally coming into her view.

“See?” She ran her hands over my breasts, down to my hips. “I can tell you’re ready for me.”

I nodded, just wanting to please her now. Whatever she wanted me to do, I’d do it. She was inside of me; my mind and my senses. She fully consumed me and I would do anything for her.

“Let’s get this off.” She said, talking about my suit, and before I could even register her words, it was gone, leaving me bare before her.

I looked down between us, the girthy red cock sprung up from between my legs and I swallowed roughly. That was part of me.

She nodded and kissed me softly. She was reading my mind. I kissed her back, no longer upset that she was taking control of me. This was what I wanted.

“Now,” she said as she released me from her magical hold. “You have to fuck me good, pup. Don’t let a drop of cum go to waste.”

I nodded, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her against me, kissing her with a feverish heat. She smiled against me and laid us down on the ground, letting me settle between her legs. She spread them and I looked down in awe at her delicious wetness. The cock between my legs was beyond ready, as if it had a mind of its own, and I didn’t waste any time in grabbing it and bringing it to her entrance. How she had managed to make it a part of me that I could feel was beyond me, but it didn’t even matter anymore. What did matter was my intense desire to be inside of her. I slid myself into her heat, moaning lowly as I bottomed out inside of her.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” She said as she rolled her hips against my own, her breathing becoming heavy.

“Y-yes.” I practically whined as my hips rutted against her.

“Yes, what?” She taunted me and I looked into her deep, red eyes, feeling her inside of my mind.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Such a good pup,” she panted softly as I fucked her. “So obedient.”

My hands balled up into fists on either side of her head as I pounded into her, the feel of her addicting. She wrapped her legs around me and pulled me closer, trapping me against her.

“Wanda,” I moaned softly, looking into her eyes. “I c-can’t …”

“You can’t what, pet?” She asked, her pussy clenching around me as we practically melded into each other.

“I can’t hold it.” I was going to cum already. The new sensations were just too good.

“Don’t hold back.” She grabbed me by the ass and pulled me against her, making sure I couldn’t pull out.

I let out a whine and came, my cum spurting into her and coating her walls. She fucking milked me and wouldn’t let go, making sure every drop of cum made it inside her hungry cunt.

“Keep going.” She said, her eyes glowing red.

I could feel myself getting hard inside of her again and I realized that she was doing it with her magic. I could go on forever if she kept it up like this.

Red wisps wrapped around my neck and pulled me against her, our noses touching.

“Fuck me, pup. Don’t make me do all the work.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” I choked out, my airway slightly restricted by her magic, which only turned me on further.

I pounded into her and I could feel her squeezing me, which just heightened my pleasure. I wanted to last more than a few minutes this time, but fuck, she felt so good. She was so wet, so tight, I could lose myself in her if I let myself.

“I’m gonna cum, pup.” She moaned and I realized I hadn’t even done anything for her pleasure, she was just going to cum from me fucking her - not touching her at all.

My hips jerked and my stomach clenched as she came, her pussy squeezing and milking me again. I couldn’t hold back any longer and I came inside of her, my hips bucking weakly.

“Keep it in there.” She said as I tried pulling away from her.

“Please,” I begged her. “I can’t.”

“You can.” She slapped my ass and I cried out. “And you will.”

“Wanda,” I moaned. “I can’t cum again.”

“You need a break, that’s okay.” She said with faux sympathy. “I think I’ll keep you for a while.”

I felt her magic wrapping itself around my body, holding me in place.

“Maybe I’ll hook you up to a milking machine and use you for breeding.”

“Wanda, please.” I begged and she smiled.

“I want a very big family, Y/N. I think I’ll be needing you for a long time.”

#oizysian writes #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch x you #spidergirl!yn #Spiderwoman!Y/N

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 1 year ago

Text

rosé | f. odair

(final part of red wine)

part one, part two

summary: in the final part of the red wine series, secrets are revealed, and miscommunication threatens to tear you and finnick apart.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, blood, minor injury, mentions of forced prostitution, swearing,

notes: i’m sorry this took so long to come out y’all. thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this mini fic <3

word count: 4.1k

Finnick believed he had made a lot of smart decisions in his life—like rigging a net made out of vines to ensnare tributes in the arena, accepting secrets as a form of payment from his patrons rather than material goods, and mastering the art of seduction to manipulate his way out of various difficult situations. However, shutting you out was not one of them.

Half an hour had passed since the incident on the staircase landing. He lingered within the mansion’s extravagant walls, where other guests mingled and dined on a range of bizarre delicacies. He couldn’t eat a thing. His stomach churned at the image of your hopeless expression as he walked off. The expression he caused.

It had to be done. That is what he had been telling himself. It had to be done, otherwise, everyone in the Capitol would learn of his feelings for you. Snow would find out and most likely punish you for interfering with the arrangement he had—the sale of his body. And Finnick was very aware of what happened to people who disrupted the president’s plans.

Partygoers would have already begun to spread rumours of the scene in the courtyard. Hopefully, it would just be chalked up to a simple argument between friends. Friends. The label borderline disgusted him. You don’t fall asleep to the thought of someone and think of them the moment you wake up if you’re just friends. Nor do you look for them in every room you walk into.

Even now, Finnick was scanning the lavishly decorated banquet hall for a glimpse of your pure white gown, despite being the one who walked away. It was an instinct at this point. But there was no one in the room wearing white but him; his matching half was still outside, blending in with the winter snow. Or maybe gone home.

One colour did catch his eye though. A vibrant, almost tacky red, worn by a woman who was strutting towards him, her chin held high with pride. Finnick noticed the material of her floor-length gown. Silk. She was wearing your old dress, only the colour was incredibly off, and each hem was lined with red fur, conforming with her implanted whiskers. That was when he realised who the woman was.

Her ensemble was entirely made out of fur that clung to her body, complementing the whiskers that were embedded in her face which made her look feline.

“Where’s your dancing partner tonight?” she asked, her voice low and seductive.

The bright saturation of her dress was almost blinding as she stopped in front of him. He held back a grimace and plastered on a smile even faker than her voice. “She wasn’t up for it this time,” he lied.

“Well, everyone knows she’s out of touch with our way of life,” she said. Finnick ground his jaw, struggling to maintain his façade. Words could not explain how condescending these people were. “This dress is an adaptation of one she wore quite a while ago. Such a plain thing. I only liked the colour and bodice. The only way I could wear it in public was if I spruced it up.”

He thought back to the dress you had worn. Nobody had even come close to how phenomenal you looked. Where others needed extravagance and flounce to stand out, you only needed a simple red dress. Yet here this woman was, thinking she had the audacity to call you plain.

“I noticed. It’s very… striking.”

“Thank you, darling,” she purred. There was a predatory gleam in her eyes, like that of a wild cat about to pounce and devour its meal. “I was waiting for the perfect occasion to wear it.”

His forced smile twitched. “You’re certainly turning heads.”

“Did I turn yours?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Truth be told, Finnick hadn’t even remembered her existence until she walked right up to him. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her that, so he told her that she did. For a long period of time, they bounced back and forth, complimenting and flirting with each other, never dipping below the surface into a real conversation. Not that he wanted to anyway. Not with her. The only person he longed to conversate with was now out of reach.

The woman started talking about colourless topics such as the latest fashion trends in the Capitol and her opinions on the victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, all of which made Finnick wish she would just gouge his eyes out with her sharp claw-like fingernails. He couldn’t do anything but stand, smile, and agree. Doing anything else would result in Snow staying true to his very detailed threats

As the conversation continued, his attention began to drift. He surveyed the outfits of everyone in the room, amusing himself by deciding whether or not each person was making a fashion statement or tragedy. Only one person claimed the former title—the one in white.

Finnick watched as you entered the room. The giant golden chandelier cast down a bright light which caused your skin to glow with radiance; its glare enhanced the brilliance of your white dress. This brief moment ignited a fear in him that you had died in his absence because there was no way a mere human being could look so angelic.

“Finnick?” the feline asked, but her voice barely registered in his brain.

Captivated. He was utterly and completely captivated. One after the other, sudden realisations conjured in his mind. The first—there wasn’t a life worth living ahead of him if you weren’t by his side the whole way, and not as a friend or a fellow victor, but as his partner. His lover. The second—he would never let any harm come to you. He would keep you safe from Snow’s clutches, from the Capitol, from anyone who would put you in danger, even if it meant the two of you had to disappear into the vast forests of Panem.

And lastly, he was now absolutely certain that the woman in front of him could never compare to you, nor could anyone else in the ever-expanding universe. You were a basic human necessity to him. Without you, his heart might as well stop beating. Your laugh, your smile, your kindness, your unwavering support—every part of you kept him alive.

“Finnick?” the voice that went disregarded hissed again.

With a half-empty wine glass in hand, your anxious eyes searched the room. Finnick wanted nothing more than to sprint over, pull you into his arms, and cast away every trouble plaguing your mind. He couldn’t. Almost all eyes were on you, yet you hadn’t even seemed to notice. Only one person finally seemed to gain your attention, and that was Finnick, standing in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on yours.

The neurons firing in his brain signalled him to move and he did. But just as his legs started to walk, a forceful hand jerked his face to the side and a pair of harsh lips were crushed to his. Glass shattered on the marble flooring. Momentarily paralysed from shock, Finnick stumbled backwards, briefly catching the twisted triumphant smirk on the woman’s face before whirling around.

Your face was frozen with devastation; his heart dropped. Splatters of red wine had stained your gown, pooling in a crimson puddle of glass shards by your feet. Quiet mocking chuckles and whispers echoed around the room. Oh, if only he had his trident; they wouldn’t be laughing then.

An Avox rushed forward, attempting to clean up the mess, but you had crouched down with them.

“No, please,” Finnick heard you say to the Avox as he strode toward you. “Please don’t. I can do it.”

But delicate hands and glass shards never mix well. You gasped in pain. A jagged fragment you collected had sliced into your palm, creating another crimson pool in your hand.

Finnick’s strides quickened, eventually leading him to stop and kneel beside you. He wordlessly took your hand in his, cradling it as he inspected the damage. Blood coated his fingers, but he didn’t care. He might as well have cut your hand himself. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for him.

Pink blush overtook your face. For once, it wasn’t because he made you flustered or bashful, but because you were humiliated. He knew how much you disliked attention; now you were at the centre of it. Beside you was the Avox, tending to the mess of broken glass.

“Could you bring me a first-aid kit, please?” he asked with a polite smile.

They nodded and silently left. Finnick returned his attention to you, applying pressure to your wound. Your gaze was lowered, unwilling to meet his own. There was more to your demeanour than just embarrassment. There was sadness. Disheartenment. Neither of which were present when you walked in, only appearing after the feline woman had kissed him.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, eyes unmoving.

The Avox returned holding a medical kit; Finnick thanked them, taking the box into his hands. He climbed to his feet, hesitating before offering you a hand up. Much to his relief, you accepted his assistance. And then, without a word, you began walking towards the nearest exit with apparent indifference to the engrossed eyes following you.

Finnick didn’t bother to conceal his icy glare toward the crowd as he trailed behind you and exited the room.

*******

Pain of a thousand unrelenting bees stung the broken flesh of your palm. Even the slightest movement of your fingers sent waves of throbbing agony up your arm. But it was nothing compared to the brutal ache of your heart.

You had entered the mansion in search of Finnick, determined to mend the crack in your friendship before it crumbled completely. What you got instead was humiliation and heartbreak. What you saw was another woman kissing the man you loved, whilst wearing a horrible adaptation of your red gown no less.

The air had been sucked from your lungs. Believing he would kiss you on the dance floor in the courtyard was nothing more than a fantasy, a dream, a pathetic fool’s wish—every term under the sun that defined something not real. At least now you understood why he was acting so differently. Because he had found someone else and that someone wasn’t you.

A lump formed in your throat and you knew tears were approaching. As if your night couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

Your feet carried you down a long corridor, far enough away from the banquet hall that listening ears and prying eyes were unable to reach. Finnick still followed behind you, though you weren’t sure why he bothered. How could he explain what you saw with your own eyes? Plus, the last thing you wanted was for his new romance to think something was going on between you and him. Only in your dreams.

Unsure of your destination, you decided to enter the first room you came across. It turned out to be a lavishly decorated library, walled with large wooden bookshelves which were filled endlessly with novels and historic paraphernalia. Sitting within the bookshelves was a stone fireplace.

The door closed as Finnick entered behind you, the silence so loud that the crackles from the fireplace reverberated through the room. Your hand still throbbed something awful so you looked down, taking in the gruesome sight of your dress. A stranger might have thought you had just murdered someone. If it were televised, it would have been deemed acceptable.

You sniffled, wearing a small bitter smile. “I ruined Snow’s pretty white dress.”

A few moments passed before Finnick replied. “Red always was more your colour,” he said, his tone anything but playful.

Ahead of you was a great wall of windows; in the reflection, you saw him staring back at you with an unfamiliar expression. His brows were pinched upwards, pronouncing the lines in his forehead, and the corners of his mouth drooped in a slight pensive frown. He didn’t look like the Finnick you knew. This Finnick looked pained. Anguished.

You dropped his intense gaze and ambled across the room. By the lit fireplace was a cushioned stool which you sat down on, eyes staring into the flickering flames. If you were lucky, maybe your dress would catch alight and whisk you away from your troubled life. Okay, perhaps the thought was a little morbid, but so was a broken heart. Of all people, why did you have to fall in love with Finnick Odair?

Cautious footsteps followed behind you, coming to a stop beside your feet. Without your acknowledgement, Finnick crouched down, eyeing the bloody mess of your hands with concern. His gaze lifted to yours, which was still on the fire, and he sighed.

“Let me take care of your hand,” he murmured.

Before you could refuse, you realised contracting an infection was worse than giving in to your stubbornness. So, you nodded.

Finnick opened the first-aid kit and began tending to your wound; his touch was so gentle it was like he was piecing together a broken china cup. Using an antiseptic gauze, he attempted to clean the damaged skin, whispering apologies whenever you winced in pain. After carefully applying a dressing, he began wrapping a bandage around your hand.

You stared into the orange flames, wondering how he would explain to that woman why he left her behind. You wondered when their relationship started and why Finnick continued to shamelessly flirt with you in her absence. You wondered if their relationship would be the end of your friendship.

“Are you in love?” you quietly asked.

His hands stilled at your sudden words, then he continued wrapping the bandage. “Not with her.”

He secured the binding with medical tape and climbed to his feet, placing the supplies back into the kit on a small side table.

Brows drawn together in confusion, you turned to look up at him. “But I thought—"

“Things are much more complicated than they seem,” he interrupted. There was a clear vase of white roses on the table. Finnick toyed with the petals, caressing them between his gentle fingertips. “No one understands me better than you do, and there is no one in this world I trust more. But… there are still things I’ve been keeping from you.”

The troubled expression on his face melted into one of vulnerability. This was a new appearance for him. Finnick was known nationwide for his radiant confidence and charm; he never let his guard down. You have had difficult conversations before, such as discussing each other’s hardships and innermost secrets, but none of them seemed to affect him like this.

“Everyone knows about my visits to the Capitol,” he continued. “How I spend nights with different people every time as if it’s all a game for my pleasure. But it’s not true. It’s not my game I’m playing.” He began walking over to the wall of windows, overlooking Snow’s gardens. “There’s a part of it that no one knows about.”

You rose from the stool, beginning to take slow steps towards him. “Which is?”

The fire flickering behind you deepened Finnick’s features. It intensified the shiny bronze of his hair and enhanced the defined contours of his face, making it easy to see the muscles in his jaw clench with apprehension. He stared out the window so intensely that you were sure his usual green eyes were blazing with their own inferno.

Even full of angst, he was painstakingly beautiful.

His chest inflated with a deep breath. “President Snow… sells me to the Capitol.”

Horror washed over you in monstrous waves. Sells? Only one explanation appeared in your head as to what he meant. You remained silent, praying he would prove your assumption wrong.

“After I won my Games, he saw my success as an opportunity to please his citizens. He began offering me to potential buyers—'admirers’ is what he called them—who soon became my regular customers. They would use me however they liked. Some would pounce on me the second I stepped through the door. Others were relatively tamer. Kinder. They would have me take them on dates or watch a movie with them, but one way or another, it all ended the same way at the end of the night.” He sucked in a sharp uneasy breath before continuing. “Then there were the rare few—the ones who treated me like I was nothing more than a ragdoll for their amusement. They did things that were… unspeakable.”

Nausea churned in your stomach as your mind conjured sickening images. It couldn’t be true. You refused to believe that human beings could stoop to such levels of atrocity to make one person endure so much cruelty. Then again, you lived in a world where children were sent into an arena to fight to the death on live television.

Finnick looked like he was holding himself together by a thread. Every word he confessed shattered your heart into a million pieces. How could this have happened to him?

“I’ve tried to refuse but Snow threatened to harm the people I care about—my family, my friends. After I met you, I knew you were added to that list.” He finally turned around to face you, his eyes filled with such anguish, it shook you to your core. “The Capitol owns me, Y/N. Body and soul.”

Despair riddled your entire body. As you stared at him, the image of a teenager appeared in your mind—eyes sea green and hair a fiery bronze. He was just a boy when it started. A child.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” you managed to whisper. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to know.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

“Less of you? Finnick,” you said softly, stopping in front of him. Your eyes beckoned for his; you needed him to look at you, to really take in your next words. “There isn’t a single person alive I think more highly of than you. No one even comes close. Can’t you see? Just having you in my presence makes me feel whole. You make me whole.”

Tears glistened in his eyes as they flickered between your own, absorbing every reassuring word you said into his mind, his bones, his entire being.

“You have brought so much into my life,” you continued. “So much good. And I would never have made it to where I am now without you. So please, don’t ever distance yourself from me because you think I will judge you. I won’t and I never will.”

As the room stilled with silence, a lone tear rolled down Finnick’s cheek. His Adam’s apple bobbed, revealing the sob he was keeping restrained within his throat. And then a smile started to grow on his face, small at first, but then it stretched wider and wider, deepening those dimples that you adored so much.

You knew that your words had touched the deepest parts of him. That you had managed to convince him ‘less’ could never be a word used to describe him. He was more. More kind, more genuine, more caring than almost all of Panem.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered in awe, looking at you as if he were witnessing the birth of the universe. “Sweetheart, you’re incredible. Do have any idea how rare that is for a person to be? I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve someone like you in my life, but I swear I’ll do whatever I can to keep you. And if—” His gaze drifted, seemingly wrestling with a decision in his mind— “if that means I have to share all my secrets with you, then I will.”

“Have you got any more secrets, Finnick?”

He returned his attention back to your face. The indecision from moments ago had disappeared and was replaced with certainty, which was underscored by a sort of tenderness that settled in his features.

“Just one,” he murmured. He paused, observing the universe before him and wondering how on earth he got so lucky to have the privilege of having it staring right back at him. “I’m in love with you.”

Electricity shocked your heart like someone had placed a defibrillator over your chest and hit charge. Love? You? He was?

“What?” you asked, dumbfounded.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have told you everything. Even if saying this means I’m risking everything between us, I can’t keep it from you any longer. God, sweetheart, I love you so much it fucking hurts. I always will, even if you never feel the same.”

Somehow in the span of twenty minutes, everything you thought you knew came crashing down. First, your heart was broken by the thought of Finnick kissing another, and then it was healed. And then it broke again as he voiced his arrangement with Snow. It could never fully heal again while Snow was alive, not with what he was forcing upon Finnick.

But Finnick pieced together every piece he possibly could with his confession, one heartfelt word of declaration at a time.

The weight of his confession hung in the air. His eyes held a mixture of anxiety and hope for your response. Time seemed to stretch out as you tried to find your voice. How do you declare your love as powerfully as someone who just bared their soul to you?

An emotional laugh bubbled up your throat, your eyes brimming with tears. “You idiot,” was what you said, the words spoken with utmost adoration. “I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Finnick’s eyes widened in amazement and a brilliant smile broke across his face. Before you had a chance to react, he had moved towards you in one swift step, pulling you into his arms and crushing his lips to yours in a powerful, passionate kiss.

Your hands were quick to cling onto him, desperately terrified that if you let go, he would vanish into thin air. Every ounce of yearning and hidden affection from the past year poured into this one single moment, into the movement of your lips against one another, and the feeling of your hands cradling each other’s bodies.

Emotions were running high. You could taste both your own and Finnick’s tears as they streamed down your faces, salty and palpable with affection. The sheer relief of finally being free to express your love was so unimaginable that you felt like you would be crying with happiness your whole life.

Finnick’s hand cupped the side of your jaw and he lowered his head, deepening the kiss as much as he physically could to make up for all the time he wasted. His lips were soft and adoring, savouring the sweet taste of your lips on his. His other arm tightened around your lower back, pulling you even further against him.

You felt like you were melting into his embrace and happily, you would have. It felt so right, so safe to be held by him. The world outside the library no longer existed; there was only Finnick and you. Your hands settled on either side of his jaw, staining his skin red from your blood-soaked bandage. You knew he wouldn’t care—the blood belonged to you.

And that is how you spent most of the night. In the library, in that one spot by the windows, in each other’s arms. At some point, you ended up sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, both covered in red and feeling blissfully content. Your back was leaning against Finnick’s chest, his arms wrapped around your middle as he occasionally pressed his lips into your hair.

You toyed with the fabric of his sleeves, your head leaning against his collarbone as you watched the flames once more.

“If Snow ever finds out…” you murmured.

“He won’t,” he reassured quietly. “I won’t let him. He’s taken too much from me; he won’t take you too.”

You turned your head to peer up at him, wearing a teasing smile. “Can’t live without me, Odair?”

He grinned, leaning in closer. “Never without you, sweetheart.”

Once again, Finnick’s lips were on yours, conveying every ounce of immense love he felt for you through his kiss. The only time either of you broke apart was to whisper sweet declarations of your devotion and reverence before returning to each other again. This was when you felt most complete.

When you felt whole.

tags: @queenofspades6 @powellssaturn @bellamybellamyblake @heroinhchicblog222

#wife-of-all-dilfs ✍️#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair fluff #sam claflin #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen

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nemo-writes · 12 days ago

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⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; finally awake, the pack must face the consequences of their unraveling—and the distance growing between them and the one they love the most.

★ warnings; memory loss, slight non-con elements, violence

☆ story masterlist

Ghost jolted awake, his heart pounding and skin damp with sweat, his whole body aching with the telltale pain of staying too long in his wraith form. His mask is gone and he’s drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around him, as if he’d been thrashing in his sleep. As he blinked away the haze, he recognized the dim, familiar space of his own room—the one he reserved for moments when he needed to be alone, away from the pack.

“Easy there.” Gaz’s voice cuts through the silence, weary but grounded. He’s sitting in a chair by his side, leaning forward with a flask in hand, his face lined with exhaustion. He looks a mess, his usual spark dampened by something deeper, something heavy.

"Drink this," he murmurs, pressing the flask toward him. The bitter, herbal scent fills Ghost's nose, and he recoils. It’s not your tonic—the one you tailored just for him—but something improvised. The smell is close enough, familiar in a way that unsettles him further. Still he takes the flask, grimacing as he gulps down the harsh liquid in one go. It burns down his throat, sending a faint warmth through his limbs, dulling the ache, but only slightly.

“This isn’t the real thing,” he mutters, passing the flask back.

“It’s what we’ve got,” Gaz replies, a hint of dry bitterness in his voice. “Better than nothing.”

For a moment, silence fills the room, thick and stagnant. Frustration claws at Ghost, his mind churning with broken memories, fragments of something he can’t fully grasp. He clenches his fists, the memories slipping through his mind like sand.

“Talk to me,” he finally says, voice low and tight. “What’s been happening? Everything’s blurred, like I’ve been… trapped in a dream.” His eyes flash with frustration, sharp and intense.

Gaz looks away, rubbing the back of his neck as he struggles to find the words. He inhales deeply, the silence stretching before he finally speaks, his voice low and tired. “You… we’ve been off, mate. The whole pack has. Lost, distracted, like we’ve been… obsessed.” He laughs bitterly, as if the word doesn’t quite cover it. “You especially.”

“Leah,” Ghost breathes out, the name slipping past his lips as his hands clenched into fists, his mind swimming with half-formed images of her—her face, her touch, her scent. But it’s all fractured and wrong, impossible to hold onto.

“How long?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper. “How long have we been… like this?”

Gaz shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not meeting his gaze. “Weeks,” he admits. “Weeks of us barely recognizing ourselves. We neglected the house, each other, our own bloody lives.”

Ghost tries to stand, only for his body to betray him, a sharp pain shooting up his legs. “And you’re only telling me now?” he snaps, anger flaring up. “We’ve been falling apart, and you didn’t think to snap me out of it sooner?”

Gaz flinches but holds his ground, meeting his pack-mates' gaze with determination. “You weren’t exactly listening, Simon. None of us were. Tried everything I could—potions, wards, even talking sense into you, but you wouldn’t hear a word against her. And then, it got to me too....”

Ghost lets out a frustrated growl. And then, as if reganing some of his long-forgotten sense, he thinks of you.

“We need to see her. Talk to her. Find out what’s happening.”

Gaz knows exactly who he’s talking about, his heart and mind in sync with his.

“We haven’t seen her in days.” Gaz laments, hand rubbing his face in desperation. “Her phone’s disconnected, and I’ve been taking care of you while Price went to look for Johnny.”

“Are they okay?” Ghost cuts him off again, but Gaz, despite looking so tired and haggard, doesn’t mind.

“Johnny went feral, stayed in his werewolf form for too long. But he’s alright now; he’s resting in his room. We stacked it up with a few of our clothes and food, or whatever we had remaining. We just haven't been able to leave the house, Price and I. Especially not with Leah still around.”

His last words come out strained, verging on bitter. Ghost can feel the weight of Gaz’s frustration; they’re all trapped in this swirling chaos, and every moment feels like they’re slipping further and further away from you.

Gaz reached into a bag beside him and pulled out a neatly folded set of clothes. They were plain, but clean—washed, pressed, and smelling faintly of lavender, a welcome break from the stale scent that seemed to hang over everything else. A fresh black facemask was also neatly folded into the pile.

“Go and get cleaned up,” Gaz said, holding them out to Ghost.

“Didn’t think anyone would’ve had the mind to do some laundry around here,” he muttered, a hint of dry humour cutting through the weariness as he accepted the clothes.

Gaz watched Ghost with a steady gaze, studying the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. After a pause, he pulled out his phone, typing a quick message to the others.

"I’ll let the boys know you’re up,” he murmured, looking back at Ghost. “But before we reach out for any answers, we need to be together. Properly. You, me, Price, and Johnny. The whole pack.”

There was something grounding about that idea—that, whatever had happened, whatever answers lay ahead, they’d face it unified. The pack had always been his constant, and in the haze of recent weeks, he’d almost forgotten how much that meant.

Gaz finished typing and slipped his phone back into his pocket, his expression shifting to something softer. “Take your time, Simon. Get a shower, clear your head. I’ll wait right here.”

Without another word, Ghost headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The hot water beat down on him, easing the aches in his muscles and slowly peeling away the residue of exhaustion. He scrubbed his face, shaved, and let the water run over him, each drop lifting a little more of the fog that had settled over his mind.

When he finally emerged, clean and dressed, he felt steadier, like he was slipping back into himself. Gaz stood in the room, hands casually in his pockets, watching him with a faint but genuine smile. As Ghost approached, Gaz stepped forward, leaning up to place a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek. Then, he took his larger hand in his, squeezing it firmly. Simon hesitated just a moment before squeezing back, a silent gesture of thanks passing between them. The steady weight of Gaz’s hand in his felt grounding, a reminder that he wasn’t facing this alone.

Ghost nodded, the last of his hesitation falling away. “Let’s go.”

. . .

The silence in the room was heavy, like a smothering blanket that none of them could cast off. The air held an edge of tension, cut only by the occasional creak of the old house settling. The room itself mirrored their state—scattered, untidy, and dimly lit by the fading glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the grime-streaked windows.

Johnny slumped deeper into the couch, the fabric of Ghost’s hoodie swallowing his frame. The scent of his packmate clung to it, earthy and metallic, a faint reminder of stability in a world that felt increasingly foreign. He tugged the hoodie closer around his shoulders, his hands hidden in the oversized sleeves. His overgrown hair and scruff shadowed his face, but his furrowed brows betrayed his unease.

Gaz sat at the table, his leg bouncing in a steady, erratic rhythm. The untouched tea in front of him had gone cold, a thin film forming on its surface. He stared at it like it might hold the answers they couldn’t seem to find. His jaw clenched as he tapped the table with a finger, the sound barely audible over the tick of the wall clock.

Ghost sat beside him, the chair groaning under his weight. The tension in his shoulders was visible even under his heavy sweater, his face-mask firmly in place. He hadn’t said a word since they sat down, but the intensity in his stillness spoke volumes.

John stood by the window, his back to them, puffing on his cigar with short, agitated breaths. Smoke curled around him, dissipating into the stale air of the room. His reflection in the glass was fractured and ghostly, distorted by the grime. He had always been their anchor, their steadying force, but now he seemed just as lost as the rest of them.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Gaz finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was hoarse, as if it had been days since he’d used it. “We all felt it. That… pull. It wasn’t normal. But now? Now it’s like—” He paused, searching for the words. “Like my skin crawls just thinking about her.”

Johnny let out a sharp exhale, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Aye. Same. I can’t even picture her face properly. Feels like I’ve got glass under my skin whenever I try.” He glanced at Ghost, who remained still, his eyes fixed on the table. “Mate, you’re the one who’s best at keeping your head. You’ve got nothin’?”

Ghost’s fingers stopped drumming. He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under the shift. “It’s not about keeping my head, Johnny,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “It’s about the fact that I should remember. We all should. But there’s… nothing. Just a hole where the memories should be.”

Gaz slammed his palm against the table, making Johnny flinch. “And that’s the other thing, isn’t it? Her. And you.” His sharp gaze cut to Ghost, your name rolling off his lips. “We were ready to ask her to be part of the pack. It was all we thought about for weeks. Then—” He gestured vaguely, frustration radiating off him. “Now she’s gone, and it feels like—like someone yanked a piece out of us and then stitched us back up wrong.”

“Enough!” John barked, his voice rough from too many cigars. He turned from the window, his expression dark and weary. “We can’t sit here blaming each other or wallowing in what we don’t know. The fact is, something happened. Something we can’t explain. And until we figure out what it was, none of this”—he gestured at the room, at them—“is going to make sense.”

Ghost leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly on the table, tension etched into every line of his frame. His voice was low but firm as he rasped out your name, “What about her?”

“She’s alive,” Johnny muttered. His voice was uncertain, his fingers trembling. “I can feel it. Somewhere out there. But she’s… out of reach. Like something’s keeping us from her.”

John’s gaze darkened as he looked at each of them in turn, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “We can’t do anything for her—not yet. First, we need to pull ourselves together. Look at this place.” He swept his arm, indicating the wrecked furniture, the dust and chaos surrounding them. “We’re a mess, and that mess isn’t just around us—it’s in our heads.”

He paced to the trash bin, tying off the bag with sharp, precise movements. “We’re no good to her like this. We clear this house. We clear our minds. Only then can we figure out what’s happened, where she is, and why we’re being kept from her.”

Gaz frowned, the sting of John’s words cutting through his frustration. “And Leah?” he asked bitterly. “What do we do about her?”

John’s jaw tightened, the embers of his cigar flaring briefly as he took a long draw. He let the silence stretch, considering his response. “We leave her alone,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “She’s dangerous, whatever she is. And right now, so are we. Until we understand what’s happened to us, we keep our distance.”

The room fell into an uneasy quiet, the weight of his words hanging heavy over them. Slowly, Ghost nodded, his knuckles white against the edge of the table. Johnny exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of him. Gaz rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion and frustration etched into his features.

“Right then,” Price said, breaking the silence as he picked up the trash bag. “Let’s get to it. House isn’t going to clean itself.”

One by one, they rose to their feet, their steps slow and hesitant, but they moved. The weight of what lay ahead loomed, but for now, they focused on the first step—clearing the wreckage, both inside and out.

. . .

The clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the dull scrape of furniture being moved did little to mask the oppressive tension hanging over the house. Price stood by the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, methodically scrubbing a stubborn plate with the kind of focus reserved for anything but the situation at hand. The faint slosh of water and the rhythmic clink of ceramic broke the silence, but not the heaviness in the air.

Nearby, a trash bag sat tied and waiting. Price gave the plate a final rinse, then stacked it neatly with the others before drying his hands on a worn kitchen towel. He grabbed the trash bag on his way out the back door, letting the screen creak open and slam shut behind him.

Meanwhile, Johnny tied his overgrown hair into a small, haphazard ponytail, the uneven strands barely staying put. His freshly shaved jaw—courtesy of Price earlier that morning—stood out starkly against his otherwise dishevelled appearance, making the lingering exhaustion in his eyes even more pronounced. He heaved another broken chair onto the growing pile near the back door, his movements sluggish but determined.

Ghost, nearby, silently swept debris from the floor, the steady rhythm of the broom punctuating the tense quiet. His broad frame was taut, shoulders coiled as though bracing for a blow that never came. Neither man spoke, their shared silence a testament to the strain hanging heavy in the air.

Upstairs, Gaz moved with a quiet purpose through his small workshop, tucked away in a corner of the house. The room smelled faintly of burnt herbs and candle wax, the aftermath of his earlier work lingering in the air. A faint golden glow pulsed from the fresh wards he had just set in front of Leah's door down the hall, the intricate pattern etched with precision into the wood.

He wiped his hands on a rag, the faint shimmer of magical residue clinging to his fingertips. The wards he had placed were strong, layered to shield her room from any unwelcome interference, but also to keep her presence confined. It wasn’t a solution, just a precaution—one that weighed heavily on him.

Suddenly, the sharp trill of the phone cut through the quiet, making Johnny start and Ghost stop. Price turned his head slightly, before nodding curtly, “I’ll get it.”

He stalked over to the phone mounted on the hallway wall, snatching the receiver up with a practised brusqueness. “Price.”

“John,” came Laswell’s voice, rough and harried.

He frowned, his grip on the receiver tightening. “Kate?”

“I need to see you,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “All of you.”

Price’s frown deepened. “This isn’t a good time, Laswell.”

“No, now’s exactly the time,” she snapped, frustration bleeding through the line. “This isn’t something we can handle over the phone. I’m coming up. Be ready.”

His jaw clenched. “An explanation would be nice.”

“You’ll get one when I’m there,” she bit out. Then, after a beat, her voice softened, weariness creeping in. “I’ve got answers, John. But not all of them. Just... be ready. I’ll be there in an hour.”

The line clicked dead before he could press her further.

Price lowered the receiver slowly, his eyes narrowing as he replaced it on the cradle with a deliberate motion. He turned back to the others, his expression grim.

Gaz descended the stairs, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stepped into the room. His brows knit together at the tension rolling off Price in palpable waves. “What’s going on?” he asked, his tone cautious, catching the shift in the atmosphere like a physical blow.

“That was Laswell,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of his stress.

“What did she want?” Gaz asked, his tone cautious.

“Says she’s on her way here,” Price replied, his voice clipped. “She’s got something to tell us. Something about what’s been happening.”

Johnny tilted his head, suspicion flickering in his tired eyes. “She knows what’s wrong with us?”

“Didn’t say.” Price reached for the cigar resting in the ashtray and took a long drag, exhaling sharply. “Only that it’s too much for the bloody phone.”

Gaz frowned, his brow furrowed. “Think it’s about Leah? Or... us?”

“Could be both,” Price said curtly. He cast a glance toward the stairs, his lips thinning. “Either way, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Ghost’s grip tightened on the broom handle, his voice low. “An hour isn’t much time.”

“No, it’s not,” Price muttered. He turned toward the windows again, his profile cast in sharp focus by the dim light filtering through. “So get your heads on straight. Whatever she’s bringing, it’s not gonna be good.”

Johnny let out a humourless laugh as he tossed the piece of wood onto the pile.

Gaz muttered something under his breath before returning to his workshop. Ghost, ever silent, resumed sweeping, his movements just as sharp and tense as before.

They had an hour to prepare—for Laswell’s arrival, for her answers, and for the storm they all knew was coming.

. . .

The moment Laswell’s car pulled up the gravel driveway, the tension in the house thickened. Price watched from the window, his third cigar of that morning, forgotten in the ashtray as he studied the vehicle. Two figures stepped out behind her, their familiar silhouettes making his jaw tighten. Alejandro and Rudy.

“Well, this just got worse,” he muttered under his breath, turning to glance at the others. Gaz frowned, Ghost took a long sip from his tea, and Johnny stiffened, his eyes narrowing.

The trio approached the house with purpose. Laswell led the way, her usual sharp demeanour dulled by weariness, while Alejandro and Rudy followed, their expressions unreadable but far from happy.

Price opened the door before they could knock, his broad frame blocking the entrance. “Laswell. Alejandro. Rudy.”

Alejandro gave him a curt nod. “Price.”

John stepped aside without a word, letting them file into the house. The pack stood scattered in the living room, their postures defensive.

“Stinks in here,” Alejandro muttered as he took in the room, nose scrunched up. His sharp eyes swept over the remaining clutter and the signs of disrepair before landing on Ghost. His gaze darkened.

Ghost stiffened under the scrutiny but didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened as he rose up to meet Alejandro.

“You look better,” Alejandro said coolly, stopping just in front of him.

Ghost grunted, a curt acknowledgment that sounded more like a growl.

“Good,” Alejandro said, his voice like steel. “Now grit your teeth.”

The punch came so fast no one had time to react. Alejandro’s fist connected with Ghost’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force sending him staggering backward. He hit the floor on one knee, his hand clutching his face.

Gaz moved to help, but Alejandro snapped, “Stay out of it cabrón (bastard)!”

Johnny let out a furious snarl, his body coiled to lunge, but Price’s bark stopped him cold. “Stand down, Johnny!”

Johnny stopped, his eyes darting between Price and Ghost, his hands trembling with restrained fury.

Ghost slowly pushed himself up, his expression stoic despite the bruise blooming on his jaw. His eyes met Alejandro’s, something resigned yet determined in his gaze. “I probably deserved that,” he muttered hoarsely.

“You’re damn right you did,” Alejandro growled, shaking out his fist.

“Now,” Ghost rasped, leaning back onto his haunches, “tell us everything. Absolutely everything.”

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leahsgf · 8 months ago

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SECRET LOVE - katie mccabe

katie mccabe x fem!reader

vaguely inspired by secret love song by little mix!

underneath the fluorescent glow of the lights beaming across the emirates stadium, you stood on the sidelines, your usual spot - as you watched your girlfriend shine and showcase her talent on the pitch. the chants of her name echoed around you when she won the ball through one of her famous tackles, and you couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride in your chest, knowing that you were surrounded by thousands of people equally as captivated by the irish woman as you were.

well, maybe not in the exact same way that you were, but they didn’t know that. nobody did. here, you were merely an addition to the blur of red and white shirts and scarves in the stands.

just another voice, merging with all of the others belting the chorus of ‘the angel’.

nothing special.

and with that thought, the cheers and applause surrounding you quickly became almost taunting, leaving a sense of unease lingering in the depths of your soul. behind the facade of her fame and success, and you being simply a fan, another face in the crowd making up a sold out stadium, lay a hidden truth. a truth that threatened to tear apart the already incredibly fragile fabric of your relationship.

you and katie had fallen in love against all odds and expectations, drawn together by what you would call fate - and a passion that transcended all possible boundaries. however, in a world, her world, where public image and professionalism was everything, especially with the way social media was changing - the revealing of your love would jeopardise not only katie’s career and standing within the football community, but your life too.

especially as you weren’t used to the madness of being a public figure.

katie had been in very public relationships in the past, and was determined this time to not give strangers, or to even her own ex a reason to merely look in your direction or attempt to ruin what the two of you had. you deserved more than being reduced to a gossip topic or stupid joke on a so called ‘podcast’ and your girlfriend insisted on not allowing this to happen to you. every move she made was plastered online and analysed to no end, and with that came walls and boundaries that she put up - and an even fiercer protectiveness over her loved ones. you particularly.

you had known this from the get go, and you knew more than anything that she loved you. but there were moments where your resolve cracked, and insecurities slipped through your one innocent, almost naive bubble of love.

as the final whistle blew, signifying a well earned arsenal win, you hung back - allowing the crowds around you to eventually disperse, with their signs begging for katie’s attention trailing by their feet, before finding your way to her, a well practiced routine that now didn’t even need to be said.

you hated that you felt envious of the fans around you, able to literally plaster their love for the girl, your girl, for everyone to see, without even an ounce of hesitation.

your usual car ride was oddly quiet on the way home, with you lost in your own thoughts and your girlfriend still winding down from the adrenaline rush of the game, and quickly sensing that something was up with you.

she knew that you had been struggling more and more with being almost like her little secret as time went on, and it killed her to watch you fade away before her eyes. but her desire to protect you was stronger than her ability to see just how much the tiniest action would affect you.

you knew it was playing on her mind too as she slipped her hand into yours when you were walking from the car up to her house. a short lived moment of happiness and almost relief, that you cut short when you noticed her head constantly turning - making sure nobody was watching, even in the darkness of the night enveloping you.

tears formed in your eyes at a speed in any other moment you would find embarrassing, as you dropped her hand and rushed ahead, ignoring her calls of your name trailing behind you.

and in an instant, her house, your usual refuge from the prying eyes of the outside world, turned from an escape to the place you were trying to hide from as you entered it, with katie not even a step behind you.

“baby please. talk to me.” her voice made you shiver, her being much closer to you than you had realised, and the scratch of her accent almost made you crumble entirely. it didn’t - but it did force your sudden guard down slightly, and allowed her to guide you towards the sofa with a hand on your back.

you sank into the plush of the cushions pathetically, a perfect match to the way you threw your head in your hands a second later. your thoughts were racing around your mind, and not showing signs of letting up for even a second. you’d gone from having one moment of vulnerability at a game to being convinced that your world was ending.

that you weren’t worth it, you never had been - and that she was going to leave you.

“sweetheart, look at me.” katie almost begged, now on her knees crouched on the floor in front of you, looking the most concerned you’d ever seen her, which made you feel beyond stupid.

you knew she loved you. any idiot could look at her now, notice the look in her eyes as she took in you and know that she loved you more than anything. so why was it so hard for you to see that?

why could you not just appreciate what you had and be happy?

any one of those fans sat around you tonight would kill to be you if they knew. and yet you’re near crying and refusing to look at her.

“it’s silly, i’m sorry, you had such a good game i shouldn’t be ruining it.” your words were no more than a mumble, spoken into the palms of your hands.

“no it’s not. nothing you feel is ever silly, i promise. talk to me.” she clasped your hands in hers, causing the now slowing tears to kick start again.

“i just- i’m just so tired of not being able to show the world how much i love you. i don’t want to be a secret anymore, all of the hiding is suffocating me and i don’t want that. i don’t want us to deny ourselves the chance to be truly happy. so many couples are out freely, why can’t we be like that? am i not enough? or do you not want to be with me? i- i just can’t do it anymore. i’m so sorry, katie.”

you closed your eyes when your ramblings trailed off into sniffles, not wanting to witness her reaction. she wanted this to be a secret - she was dead set on it. you weren’t prepared for this life. you didn’t know what it was like. all you thought would come from this conversation was her leaving you.

that surely was the only outcome here.

she didn’t reply for a few seconds. seconds that felt like hours as an unnerving, almost cold silence fell between the short distance between you.

“look at me.”

and for the first time since your emotions had taken over you - you made eye contact with her, staring into her eyes that you were convinced contained some kind of magic, holding the ability to completely bring down your walls just from a glance, every time.

“okay.” she spoke, so softly that you were almost convinced you’d misheard.

“okay what?” you looked at her, confusion visibly plastered all her your face - that in any other circumstance would’ve had her laughing and teasing you.

“we can do this.” her voice was so soft, so vulnerable that it made guilt seep into your veins.

“really, i don’t want you to feel forced i understand you don’t want-”

“baby. no. i want more than anything to show the world how much i love you. i just want to protect you from all of the negativity out there, but the last thing i wanted to do was push you away. if you’re ready, then so am i, kay?” she cut you off before you’d even had a chance to let your insecurities consume any more of you.

“and you are my absolute world. i’m sorry i let you doubt that for even a second. i love you so much it physically hurts - everything i do is for you, and i’m so beyond lucky to have you.”

and with her words, your tears returned once more - but instead for a completely different cause.

her lips were on yours in an instant, joining in a kiss that whilst mixed with salty tears - said everything that months worth of words could never.

you settled instantly in her arms, letting her hold you and literally kiss all of your troubles away.

“i’m gonna have to start training more then i guess!” she broke the first peaceful, happy silence of the evening abruptly, and confusing you even more than she had before at the randomness of her words.

“wait what? why?”

“because you are all mine. and look at ye! i’m going to have to fight off my competition now they’re going to know who you are!”

“there’s no competition, never has been.”

this is not proof read and is most likely the worst thing i’ve ever written but i was determined to actually get it out of my drafts

#katie mccabe #katie mccabe x reader #katie mccabe imagine #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso #secret love song #literally my worst work yet #but it’s gay so it’s okay

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fangswbenefits · 9 months ago

Text

The Arrangement (14) - Trance

Chapter summary: Astarion wishes he coukd freeze this moment in time, but fate has a way of interfering.

Pairing: Astation x female!Tav

Warnings: Astarion's POV. Mentions of trauma.

Word count: 2.6k

Series Masterlist . Ao3

Vampirism had warped his bodily need to trance.

The tadpole had meddled with it even further and he barely found the need for it all, but there was some semblance. Now, it was back to what it used to be.

He had no actual need for it, but he had come to realise it was the only way to be with you without facing the prison his mind had become. It allowed him to bypass how it held back his body.

In his trance-induced dreams, he was finally free.

Whatever freedom meant to him, he was sure you were involved somehow.

Even if only bound to a dream and nothing more.

After all, you had made it perfectly clear that a friendship was all you could offer.

He had made peace with that.

For the most part.

He still had these moments of wanting to slip into his subconscious and lose himself in you.

The mattress underneath his body was comfortable enough and the raindrops outside that thumped against the window, presented themselves as more than enough to lull him into the beginnings of a trance.

He let go of his weight.

He blacked out everything around him in the hopes he'd find you.

Your chirpy laughter was what he heard first. Unknowingly, a faint smile tugged gently at his lips. He could easily get lost in the warmth of your voice.

He was getting deep enough that your voice now had a corporeal form, too.

Your kind face took over each corner of his mind until all of him was you.

Astarion could barely withstand trancing unless he could conjure you this way.

You were the calm in a restless sea that kept on drowning him.

In his mind, he could find himself being with you with nothing holding him back.

It was freeing and soothing.

It was an illusion, and in the back of his head, he almost felt it slip away as awareness threatened to overtake.

He frowned.

Your voice faded and your pleasant face held a grave expression. It was as if you could tell something was wrong.

And you'd be right.

There was something wrong with his trance.

As frustration began to dissolve the image of you, he let out a low growl of annoyance as his eyes snapped open.

And he immediately understood why it felt off.

Ava was standing near the edge of his bed, holding a sweet smile that he had grown to appreciate over the past few weeks.

“You were reaching for her again, weren't you?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It's the only way I can these days.”

She lowered herself to sit, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. “You know that isn't true.”

“Ava, I don't wish to be lectured,” he said, more harshly than intended.

She nodded and said nothing else.

There was nothing more to be said. She had tried to make him see that he was the only one standing in between himself and you.

He had heard it all before and he was sick of it.

It wasn't as easy as snapping his fingers, because a large part of him didn't want your friendship.

He could find friends. In fact, he didn't even know if he needed friends.

Your friendship wasn't enough, but he had no right to demand more when he was struggling this hard with his mind.

Could he even offer more? Did he even deserve more?

“Do you wish me to leave?” Ava's voice snapped him from his thoughts. “I can, but maybe a piece of advice is in order.”

His frown eased and he nodded.

“I would urge you to stop seeking her in your mind. She's out there. You two have been seeing each other to honour your arrangement.” She paused briefly, studying his reaction. “I can lay here with you and help with your intimacy, but I'm not the one you seek.”

Silence.

“The chance you seek is within you and I believe she can help in more ways than one.”

He scoffed. “I can't ask that of her. This is not something she has to concern herself with.”

Ava leaned against the headboard with a sigh. “Lovers help each other through the toughest of times.”

The word ignited a visceral reaction inside him at once.

“We're not lovers!”

Ava didn't even flinch at his snarl. “But you could be.”

Ava was terribly skilled at worming her way under his skin. He didn't regret having gotten closer to her even if merely as an exchange of sorts.

“Leave.”

The word spilled from his lips like poison and he knew he wasn't being fair, but he couldn't stand talking about you.

Not with her.

You would be utterly disappointed that he was giving out his blood like this.

He was beginning to dread any talks of you with her.

Mostly because Ava didn't know you and no string of words he might voice would ever do you justice.

You had saved him from himself. You had trusted him when no one else would. You had been his first and he had been yours.

How could he possibly put into words how much you meant to him?

“Astarion, jus-”

He had made up his mind. “Leave. I don't need love advice from anyone – least of all you.”

It was harsh.

And it was enough to cause her eyes to widen in unmistakable displeasure.

“That was uncalled for.”

She rose to her feet and walked out of the room without sparing another glance in his direction, the door closing loudly behind her.

In a way, he was thankful she didn't. He knew he'd find hurt in her face and he could do without the reminder of how snarky he could be.

For all intents and purposes, Ava had been the sole constant in his life and he might even consider her a… friend.

He had made some progress along the way.

Touching you as he fed didn't feel suffocating. He could even bear your touch as you held on to him for support.

He would need to feed soon.

Your blood was more filling than anything he could hunt out there, but the set schedule wasn't enough.

He pushed himself to sit, face buried in his hands.

You were already giving him more than he could ever repay. Again.

But he still found in himself the unshakable desire for more.

More. More. More.

This was the nature of his bond with you.

No in-betweens. No half measures.

With you, it was all or nothing.

And his vampiric nature always found ways to creep into his mind.

Blood.

“Astarion?”

He was rooted to the garden bench, your eyes on him.

Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. “Yes?”

Uncertainty covered your face and he immediately realised you feared he had spaced out too far for her reach.

“Oh, I apologise, dear,” he said, putting on his best mask. “I suppose I wasn't expecting this revelation.”

But even such a practised facade was no longer enough to keep you convinced.

You knew him too well.

Slowly, you came to sit by his side again. “I'm sorry, Astarion.”

That immediately gnawed at his nerves. “Whatever for?”

“I know you were fond of Ava, and it's never easy to realise that someone we might have placed our trust in once can be capable of such things.”

Your logic wasn't flawed per se, but it didn't quite cover what he was now feeling.

“You think I'm upset because I care for her?”

“You don't?”

He tensed up. “My relationship with her felt necessary. It was built out of mutual need.”

At this, your features hardened. “Like ours when we first met?”

“It could never be like ours.”

He tried his best to hide the offence he had taken from your words, but, once again, you were able to read right through him.

“Didn't you see her as a friend?”

Quite frankly… “No.”

“Then why do you seem so shaken?”

Astarion should have known better than to give in to his impulsiveness, as it rarely did him any favours.

Yet…

“Why? Why do you think?” he said through gritted teeth. “I feel ashamed! More so because it was my recklessness that could have potentially been the cause of all of this.”

You looked alarmed, but took your time to word out an answer. “Astarion, you couldn't have known. If this is actually true, then she played you.”

He scoffed, avoiding your piercing eyes. “Ironic, isn't it? I used to be so good at reading people and…” His voice faltered momentarily. “... and now I realise how much of a fool I am.”

Your hand met his cheek and you slowly turned his head until your eyes found his again. “You're not a fool for trusting people. You didn’t trust me at first, remember? It was all about survival.”

Astarion was sure that if his heart still pulsed, it would have shattered.

“I trusted you and you trusted me.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You are far too trusting.”

You smiled warmly and his defences immediately crumbled. “And you hardly trust anyone. Still, we met halfway, didn't we? Through pain and blood and gore and with all the odds against us, we found a way.”

Astarion realised for the nth time in that moment that he adored you.

He didn't think he had it in him to break the flow of this moment and say it out loud, but he did.

Trust was never on the table with him. He had built his undeath around using and abusing the trust others placed on him, only to bring them to their demise. Therefore, he never expected the same grace to be extended to him. He was unworthy, wasn't he?

Until you came along and shifted his world on its axis, showing him that there was still good out there reserved even for those deemed monsters.

Your hand dropped from his face, but your caring smile only deepened.

“I will not think any less of you if my suspicions are confirmed.”

It would be so easy to just accept your words, but he still hesitated. “Maybe you should. I roped you and others over something driven by selfishness.”

And now you were visibly angry.

“Astarion. Stop it – please. You told me about the spawn in the Underdark, too. A selfish person wouldn't even factor them in.”

He grimaced. “Be it as it may. It didn't start out like that. I thought of only myself when I made the deal with Ava. My blood for a possible cure to my hunger.”

“Does it matter how it started? Does it, really? You're not the person you used to be. You're not driven by the same survival instinct and selfishness.”

“Because of you.” he blurted out.

Did this version of himself even exist without you? If it hadn't been for you, he would have ascended. He would have sacrificed thousands of souls and reach

A part of him still lingered on the ‘what if’ of it all. Deep down, he knew that refusing to partake in the ritual had been the right choice for him. For everyone.

But he still wondered… what if.

“What of the ritual, then? I was so blinded by greed and power that I would have caved in if not for you.”

Weak.

Pathetic.

Broken.

You seemed slightly taken aback before offering a reassuring smile. “You're so wrong, Astarion. I merely reminded you of who you already were. You saved yourself.”

He was stunned silent for a moment.

You were being genuine and it was clear you meant every single word.

“I've told you this before, but I'm proud of you,” you said, reaching for his hand and he nearly hissed from the sudden shift in temperature. You were always so warm… even on a cool night. “I hope you are, too.”

He wasn't. He truly wasn't, but he would lie for you.

His voice would give him away, so he merely nodded, earning a tender squeeze from you.

“Maybe we ought to go and meet Wyll now.”

He hesitated as you tugged his hand, not moving an inch.

In truth, he'd rather stay here with you and savour this moment. He was excruciatingly exhausted from the emotional turmoil the past days had brought on.

“The sooner we go, the better,” you reminded him.

Astarion looked up at the night sky until his gaze found the horizon line, hues of soft pink and orange swirling in the distance.

Dawn was about to break.

The sun couldn't be kept from rising just as he couldn't keep himself from you.

“We'll figure this out, Astarion. Together.”

You gave his hand another squeeze and shifted in his seat, fully facing you.

For a moment, he considered kissing you. He thought it would be fitting. He could allow his body to convey what words would always fail to do so.

But his body was at the mercy of his mind.

So you spoke first, “May I hug you?”

It was a simple enough request, yet he appreciated you asking beforehand.

“Of course, darling.”

You leaned into him, engulfing his body within the warmth of yours. He lowered his chin to rest on your shoulder and you mimicked him, clearly doing your best to read his body language.

He was tense at first, mostly due to the unwavering fear that his mind might play a trick on him.

But he found himself slowly but surely easing into you, welcoming your touch. He could hear your pulse quicken alongside your neck and his stomach lurched in response. His most basic instincts being put to the test.

A wave of revulsion washed down in a frail attempt at keeping his hunger for your blood at bay.

Eventually, he was able to have it subside into the back of his mind, like an ever-watchful fiend, waiting for him to give permission.

But he had sworn off feeding on you again. At least, for the time being. As painful as it was – and borderline unnatural for a vampire – he had to resist this.

The act itself was too tainted for now, and the wildlife around Baldur's Gate would have to suffice.

He wished he could freeze this moment in time and have everything else be background noise.

And when you finally pulled back from the embrace, he saw tears streaming down your face, causing him to stir in alert.

“What did I do?”

You shook your head, your face too close. “Nothing. You're just…”

It was time to lighten the mood and that was a skill he indulged like no other.

“Ridiculously handsome?”

You chuckled, your breath fanning his lips. “Incredibly so. But…”

He cradled your face in his hands, thumb brushing against the softness of your cheek, as he waited for you to continue.

You shivered under his touch.

Was it from the cold?

Or was it something else?

You were close. Too close.

He could feel your every breath on his face and this ever-growing pull was now enveloping him.

Oh, how he wanted to kiss you.

Make you his and his alone.

“What is it, love?”

The word had left his lips before he could register how he was almost… panting.

Your hands came to grip his arms and he found himself leaning into you again.

“Astarion… I…”

He arched a brow, suddenly aware that something was amiss.

Something was terribly wrong.

Your eyes were glassy and your skin had grown cold, mouth agape and face void of any tangible expression.

Suddenly, you went limp in his arms but not before letting out a piercing pained shriek that tore through the night air and through him like the sharpest of knives. Your pulse was weak, but he could still feel your heart fighting through

Amongst the shock and panic, he spotted movement in the corner of his eye.

A hooded figure was standing still by the fence and he immediately knew who it was.

“Hello, Astarion.”

TBC

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x female tav #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!reader #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #the arrangement

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n1ght0f-nyx · 2 months ago

Text

woven bonds pt 4

pert'ah x fem reader

you've struggled with sleep since you first moved in with your arranged orc husband, one night you find him awake in front of the hearth, drawing quietly

tags/warnings- arranged marriage, human female x male orc, gentle giant, your starting to develop feelings for big man

also feel free to request non-woven bonds related things that involve pert'ah or my other ocs (see my masterlist) i love writing for all these characters and seeing the mass of support ive gotten over the last month!

word count-1025

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warm, golden light flickering across the small room. You were curled up on the straw mattress, a blanket pulled up to your chin as you tried to sleep, but rest wouldn’t come. It hadn’t for weeks now—not since your father had sold you to this…orc. You didn’t even know how long it had been since you arrived in the orc’s encampment. Days blurred together in a haze of resentment and exhaustion.

You shifted under the covers, your eyes squeezing shut as you willed sleep to take over. But the soft, almost rhythmic scratching sound near the fire caught your attention. You opened your eyes and turned your head just slightly. Pert’ah was seated by the fire, his broad, muscular form hunched over something in his lap.

You studied him, curiosity tugging at you despite the cold distance you had tried to maintain. His rough features—large tusks, strong jaw, and dark green skin—were cast in soft shadows by the firelight. His long, dark hair was tied back, leaving his sharp, intelligent eyes exposed. He was so different from the human men you had known, yet there was something almost peaceful about him at this moment.

He didn’t notice you watching him as he worked. His large hand moved with surprising gentleness, guiding a piece of charcoal across the page of an old, worn book. The scratching sound was his sketching. It struck you as strange at first—an orc, known for their brute strength, sitting quietly by the fire, creating art.

Your gaze drifted to the rest of the room—his space, now shared with you. It was small but organized with care, wooden furniture crafted by hand and everything in its place. There were his weavings, hung neatly on the walls, adding splashes of color to the otherwise drab space. You had always kept your distance from him and his belongings, but tonight, your defenses felt weaker. Maybe it was the late hour or the quietness of the moment, but you couldn’t help but feel a small spark of curiosity.

Slowly, quietly, you rose from the mattress and tiptoed toward him, careful not to disturb the peace. He still hadn’t noticed you, his focus entirely on the sketch he was working on. You hesitated just a few feet away, unsure if you should say something or return to bed. Before you could make up your mind, his hand stilled, and his head lifted slightly.

“Why you awake?” His voice was low and gruff but not unkind. He still hadn’t turned to face you.

You swallowed, caught off guard by the question. “I…couldn’t sleep,” you mumbled.

He nodded, still looking down at his work. “Fire helps. Calm mind.”

You shuffled awkwardly, unsure how to respond. His broken English always made conversations feel a bit stilted, but you could tell he was trying. He always tried. Despite everything, Pert’ah had never been cruel to you. Frustratingly kind, even. Still, the bitterness of your situation gnawed at you, making it hard to accept any gesture of goodwill.

“What are you drawing?” you asked softly before you could stop yourself.

Pert’ah finally turned his head toward you, his expression unreadable in the firelight. He hesitated for a moment, then held out the book in your direction.

You took a tentative step closer, eyes darting down to the page. Your breath caught in your throat.

It was a sketch of you.

In the drawing, you were lying asleep, the blanket pulled up around your shoulders. It was a peaceful image, detailed and precise. The lines were soft, capturing your form with care. He had been drawing you without your knowledge, but there was no malice in the action—just quiet observation.

You stared at it, unsure of how to feel. His drawing was beautiful, but the thought of him watching you sleep, even harmlessly, made your skin prickle. “Why did you draw me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Pert’ah looked back at the sketch, then at you. “You are…here. In my life now. I want remember this. Peaceful moment.”

Your chest tightened. A part of you wanted to snap at him, tell him that you weren’t here by choice, that nothing about this was peaceful to you. But another part of you—the part that saw the care he put into that drawing—felt…something else. Something softer.

You didn’t say anything for a moment, unsure of what to do with this strange mixture of emotions.

Pert’ah’s gaze fell to the floor. “I sorry… if this upset you,” he mumbled, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“No,” you said quickly, surprising yourself. “It’s just… unexpected. But it’s—” You paused, searching for the right word. “It’s nice.”

He nodded once, clearly unsure how to respond to your hesitant compliment. The awkwardness lingered between you like an invisible barrier, but it wasn’t as heavy as it had been before. You glanced at the sketch again, still processing how gentle his work was despite his imposing exterior.

Without thinking, you reached out toward the page, wanting to take a closer look. Pert’ah, moving at the same time, reached to turn the page, and your hands brushed together.

The touch was brief, just the lightest contact, but it felt like a jolt of electricity had passed between you. Both of you froze. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and you saw the surprise mirrored in his expression.

The air in the room seemed to still. Your heart thudded in your chest, and you didn’t pull your hand away. Neither did he. It was a simple touch, nothing more, but the warmth of his skin against yours lingered, refusing to fade.

Pert’ah was the first to break the silence. He pulled his hand back slowly, looking down at the book as if embarrassed by the moment. “I… make you new blanket,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “Orc blankets warm...Keep you comfortable.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the tension settle back into the air. “Thank you,” you whispered, stepping back toward the mattress. Your hand still tingled from the brief contact, and you weren’t sure why it affected you so much. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t let any of this matter.

But it did.

As you lay back down, you glanced at Pert’ah once more. He had returned to his sketching, but his movements were slower, more hesitant. You could still feel the faint trace of warmth where his hand had touched yours. It was a small, fleeting moment, but it stuck with you, lingering long after the fire had burned low.

Maybe it was the quiet of the night, or maybe it was something else entirely, but for the first time since you’d arrived, you didn’t feel completely alone.

In the quiet darkness, your thoughts churned, and for the first time, you wondered if perhaps things might change—if maybe, just maybe, you could learn to see Pert’ah not as the orc who had taken you, but as the quiet, kind soul who had always offered more than you could give in return.

You weren’t ready to admit it to yourself, not yet. But something had shifted tonight, something you couldn’t quite put into words.

And for the first time in weeks, sleep came easier than before.

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mya-valentine · 2 months ago

Note

if you can write this may I request, (Cyno, Wanderer, Lyney/Diluc (you can pick which one, not sure You write these characters and I don't know your character limit)

That has a s/o who always wore hoodie baggy clothing, when their love deepen, s/o finally took off her hoodie, only to reveal that she has a HUGE BREAST. Like cup G. I wonder what's their reaction when she finally show off her curve infront of them, It's no wonder they always wore a hoodie because they have such a beautiful body like a model.

This is mostly crack request, and can be suggestive if you want lol

Headcannon: Cyno, Wanderer, Lyney, and Diluc With a S/O That Has Large Breasts

A/N: Now this, I think I can do😁 I actually have large breasts myself and have self image issues at times because of it, so this was rather nice to write. Also, there isn't a limit, but please be nice😅 I did all four btw, hope you enjoy

Cyno

Cyno is always perceptive, but the sight of you without your signature hoodie would still leave him speechless for a moment. He's used to seeing you in your usual baggy clothes, which is part of your charm to him. So, when you finally reveal your curves and your full figure, he would blink, trying to process the change. His eyes would widen slightly as he takes in your model-like physique, realizing just how much you'd hidden beneath those oversized hoodies.

Cyno isn’t one to overly react outwardly, but you’d catch the subtle changes—his gaze lingering longer than usual and the faintest hint of a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “You’re full of surprises,” he’d say with a playful tone, appreciating not just your appearance but the trust you’ve shown by revealing this side of yourself.

He’d make sure you know that, to him, you’ve always been beautiful—whether in baggy clothes or without them—but now that he’s seen your full figure, he might tease you lightly. “No wonder you’re always in that hoodie. Were you hiding all of this from me on purpose?”

Though his teasing would be gentle, he’d still maintain that air of protectiveness and admiration, ensuring you know his feelings haven’t changed—they’ve only deepened.

Wanderer

Wanderer, with his typically aloof demeanor, would likely be taken off guard when you finally reveal yourself without your hoodie. He’s accustomed to seeing you in your comfortable, baggy clothing, which he finds endearing, but the moment you take it off, he would find it hard to maintain his usual composure.

His eyes would widen, and for a brief second, he might just stare, trying to process the change. The sight of your curves—especially if they’re as striking as cup G—would certainly catch him by surprise. He’d blink, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer, a hint of admiration crossing his face. “You—” he would start, struggling for words, “You look... different.”

While his initial reaction might be one of shock, he would quickly recover, a smirk forming on his lips. “It’s no wonder you prefer baggy clothes. I suppose you were hiding quite the treasure,” he’d say, his voice laced with playful teasing.

Despite his teasing, he’d also want you to know that he finds you beautiful just as you are, hoodie or not. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to seeing you like this,” he’d say with a slightly softer tone, stepping closer to appreciate your beauty fully.

Wanderer’s affectionate nature would shine through as he reaches out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re stunning, you know. You don’t need to hide.” His words would carry genuine admiration, deepening the connection you share as he encourages you to embrace your figure with confidence.

Lyney

Lyney is the kind of person who appreciates beauty in all its forms, and when you finally reveal yourself without your hoodie, he would be captivated. He’s used to seeing you in your baggy clothes, which have their own charm, but the moment you take off the hoodie, his playful demeanor might momentarily falter.

His eyes would widen as he takes in your stunning figure, and a wide grin would spread across his face. “Well, well, what do we have here?” he’d say, his tone teasing yet full of admiration. He’d lean in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief, and add, “I always knew there was more to you than met the eye.”

Lyney would likely make a show of pretending to fan himself, dramatically feigning a swoon. “You should’ve told me you were hiding such a masterpiece!” His playful nature would shine through, as he makes you feel confident about your body while still keeping the mood light.

He’d also appreciate the trust you’ve shown by revealing this side of yourself, and his affection would deepen even more. “You’re absolutely stunning, and I’m lucky to have you,” he’d say, pulling you in for a warm embrace, making it clear that he loves you for who you are, hoodie or no hoodie.

You’d leave him speechless, but in a good way—his heart would swell with admiration, and he’d likely be even more enchanted by your confidence in showing off your curves.

Diluc

Diluc is known for his stoic nature and deep sense of responsibility, but he has a soft spot for those he cares about, especially you. When you finally reveal yourself without your hoodie, he would be momentarily taken aback.

As you take off the hoodie and show off your stunning figure, including your impressive curves, Diluc’s expression would shift from surprise to a warm, appreciative gaze. He’d stare for a moment, his usually composed demeanor softening. “I didn’t realize you were hiding such beauty beneath those clothes,” he’d say, his voice low and sincere, conveying both admiration and affection.

His cheeks might flush slightly, betraying his typical calm, as he approaches you. “You’re breathtaking,” he would add, his tone more serious now, ensuring you know that he truly means it. He would step closer, gently taking your hands in his, and his gaze would linger, not just on your figure but also on your face, reflecting how deeply he cares for you.

Diluc would make sure to reassure you with his actions. “You don’t have to hide,” he’d say softly, wanting you to feel comfortable in your own skin. His protective instincts would kick in, and he might instinctively wrap an arm around you, pulling you close, as if to shield you from any outside judgment.

He would emphasize that he loves you for who you are, both inside and out, and he’d enjoy every moment of seeing this new side of you, encouraging your confidence and showing just how much he cherishes you.

Masterlist

#genshin cyno #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin lyney #lyney x reader #cyno x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #genshin wanderer #genshin diluc #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr #cyno genshin impact

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mysteria157 · 25 days ago

Text

Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Summary: A terrifying close call catapults your festering guilt, your secrets slowly consuming you.

Rating/CW: slow burn romance, mild intoxication, brief violence and mentions of blood, smut, vaginal fingering, angst. MDNI!

WC: listen buddy..

Author notes: Hello! Apologies for the wait but here is part two! Only one more part to finish up the story. Thank you all so much for your patience, support, and kind words. It truly means the world. I used this part to focus more on emotion and simmering conflict that will finally shatter in part 3.

As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.

Happy reading!

Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika network tag: @pixelcafe-network

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Part Three

The universe, it seems, has a cruel and unforgiving sense of humor. Since that night of the cattle drive, when you let yourself believe in the possibility of more, when you basked in the warm desire of Nanami’s gaze and the electricity of his touch—it was the beginning of the end.

Since that night, every step has been in error, every word a potential betrayal, every shared moment tainted by the secrets you keep—

“I’m not one to put my hands on a lady. But you’ve been slippin' past me for too long. This ends tonight.”

His words echo a haunting melody in your head as you sag against your bedroom door, sweaty and lungs burning with every desperate gasp for air. Your heart is beating so fast it feels as if it will burst from your chest, pounding at your sternum like a snare drum—

The deafening pop of your pistol. The bullet that was meant to be a distraction so you could escape the Phillips’ house had hit the wall and then flesh. Horror flooding your veins in an icy wave as Nanami grunted in pain, a hand flying to the now torn upper arm of his navy long sleeve—

You choke on a floundering breath, fingers trembling and wet with blood as they press against your throat. The coal on your skin feels suffocating, a physical manifestation of your sin—

His weight pinning you to the floor, the heat at the apex of his thighs forbidden and delicious against yours as you struggled beneath him, twisting your bandana-covered face from his prying fingers. Your desperate fingers acting on impulse—anything to get you away—pressing hard enough into his wound that he spat out a curse, giving you enough leverage to buck him off you and disappear into the night, your spoils from Mr. Phillips sashaying against your hip—

You snap back into focus, eyes stinging from a fresh wall of tears. You’ve crossed a line tonight, one you prayed and prayed to never even get close to. As you try to catch your breath, you acknowledge that, yes, this is the beginning of the end. The moment you realize that you can no longer keep up this double life. That you can no longer help in a way you find worthy.

You trudge across your bedroom to the dresser that holds your porcelain basin of cold water. You keep it full on nights like these, ready for you to wash the coal off your face before you collapse into bed. Panting, you dip a washcloth in the cold water, wiping the disguise and Nanami’s dried blood from your skin, pulling your fear from tonight along with it.

You look up into the mirror above your dresser, taking in your haggard form. Eyes no longer filled with determination, a tear in your shirt at the shoulder that exposes the faint scar from an injury sustained years ago, your braid frazzled and coming loose at the ends. You don’t look like the fearsome bandit that you’ve made of yourself.

You look tired. Afraid.

As your pulse begins to steady, a wave of exhaustion washes over you, taking the ordeal of tonight and carrying it into the abyss. You set your coal-soaked washcloth on the dresser, ready to shed your bandit persona and collapse into bed, when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound makes you freeze, your heart seizing in your chest with halted breath as you leave your room and quietly tip-toe to the front door. The darkness of your living room gives you enough cover to peek through the curtains, but you know who it is. Of course, it’s Nanami. Heaving with high raised shoulders as he presses his forehead to your door.

You exhale a shaky breath as you stagger back, walking backward to your room as you think of what to do and—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You jump, your back bumping into your door frame as you gape at the open air.

“J-just a minute!” you call out, your voice higher than usual. With trembling hands, you begin to strip, fingers shaking as you unbutton your shirt and slip out of your leather pants. You toss your clothes under the bed.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“I’ll be right there!” you shout again, slipping into one of your long off-white nightgowns. Your hands fumble with your braid, snagging knots against your fingernails as you unfurl your curls to hang free. One glance in the mirror makes you curse, and you throw on a thick flannel to hide the view of your nipples from behind the near-transparent linen.

POUND! POUND! POUND!

“I said one second!” you yell, frustration and fear curling the edges of your words as you balance the nearly full porcelain basin in your hands. You quietly slide open your bedroom window, throwing the coal mixture out into the night and shucking the blackened washcloth into a dresser drawer.

You rush back to the front door, taking a deep breath as you smooth down your hair and pray he’s not as sharp as usual when he looks at your frazzled form. You pray he hasn’t figured it out. You hope and plead to whoever is listening that your fears about the world falling apart do not come to fruition right now.

You know the sight to expect, but seeing it is still a horrifying shock. He takes up your entire door frame, all muscle and authority, sweaty with pinched eyebrows as he clutches at his bleeding arm. Your stomach coils tight, nausea brewing like a bubbling pot. He’s panting heavily, no doubt from the adrenaline of mounting Flint and racing through town to get here, his Stetson resting on his back, blonde locks sweaty on his forehead.

He swallows, his throat bobbing beneath a sheen of sweat.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice strained and urgent. “I saw her—the bandit come this way.”

Nanami’s too kind, too caring, too willing to put himself on the line for someone else. Because the irony of his concern about you, the fact that he’s injured and came this way instead of getting first aid…it’s almost too much to bear.

You shake your head harshly, slipping into a regrettable mask and pushing away the festering guilt that bubbles to life along with the action.

“I’m fine, but you’re hurt! Why didn’t you go to Shoko?”

“I don’t want to wake her. Besides, there’s no time,” Nanami grunts as he squeezes his upper arm. As much as you internally beg your body not to look, your eyes flicker to the crimson blood that oozes between his fingers. Guilt, unbridled and disparaging guilt, threatens to undo you.

“I need to check the house,” he insists, stumbling past you without waiting for an invitation, his spurs clanging against your floorboards. He yanks his pistol from its holster, fingers shaking as he loads the bullets from his sling into the chamber with precision.

Your Nanami would wait to come in, removing his hat at your threshold with kind eyes. So the blood that trails behind him with every step, marking his path like breadcrumbs, the desperation in his gait, the quiver in every exhale from his chest as he fingers bullets from his gun sling and loads them into his pistol, it’s a glaring reminder of just how bad you’ve made things.

Any other moment, you would freely let him roam.

“Nanami, please,” you plead softly, following his aimless form as he wanders without a purpose, his gun raised at no one as he starts for your hallway. “You need to sit down. You’re hurt—”

“It’s just a graze,” he snaps, dismissive even as a fresh gush of blood seeps his darkened shirt and drips crimson onto the floor. “She could be here. Could’ve followed you, could be waiting.” His words tumble faster, more disjointed as he sweeps your kitchen with barely contained panic.

You fight to keep your voice steady. “Well, she’s not here. I would have heard somethin'.”

Nanami turns to face you, gun still raised, a flicker of it trained on you as the bandit just an hour ago making you flinch. Blood has soaked most of his sleeve now, dripping steadily onto your floor.

“You can’t possibly know that. She’s dangerous, clever—”

“I’m fine,” you insist, stepping closer, flinching as he opens and slams your cabinets. Blood smears on the wood from his hands. “Please, you’re bleeding. Let me help.”

Nanami scoffs, it’s a foreign sound from deep in his chest that echoes into the air. Even with a slight hunch from the pain, he towers over your home from his place in the kitchen, that imposing but welcoming frame casting shadows onto your floor as he takes a step back, regarding you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

The accusation stings, even though you’re the source of it. The source of his frustration and the wound on his arm. If only he knew how seriously you took this.

“I am,” you press, desperately trying to quell his erratic movements now that he’s gone back to searching the pantry for a second time. “But you’re hurt, and I—”

“For God’s sake!” You jump from the boom of his voice, flinching as his gun clatters to the floor and crosses the space in two strides. His hands grip your shoulders with bruising strength, blood from his fingers seeping through your flannel. “You could be in danger!” he snaps, acidic anger spitting from split lips, his face inches from yours with breath hot on your skin. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Nana—” you try to speak through your shock, your whisper drowning in his desperation.

“Why can’t you understand?!” His grip on your shoulders tightens, your skin pinching beneath fingernails. But you can’t register the pain as you take in the fire in his eyes, burning bright and tinged with a vulnerability that makes you want to disappear entirely. “Do you even know what it’s like to lose someone that you—that—”

He struggles, words catching in his throat as his mouth fights silently with indecision.

You watch as he battles with himself, trying to force out words that seem too big in his throat, too consequential to voice as if he’s held them in from the moment they were lodged there. You pick up on the implication quickly. The weight of it, of his unspoken feelings and the pain of his past, somehow connected to that bullet-sized dent on his badge.

“I can’t—” Nanami tries again, voice hoarse. “If anything happened to you, I—”

“Okay,” you whisper, a hand laying softly on his heaving chest. His eyes search yours, frustration giving way to desperation and pleading. It’s rare with Nanami, but when you see the man behind the badge, that raw and exposed cowboy with a hidden past that he will never divulge, you cherish every second it’s presented to you.

He has never told you about that person who changed the course of his life, about the dark side of his work, the death and cruelty that he refuses to talk about. But you won’t ever ask for more, because every minute with him, even if you’re the cause of his misery, is precious and fleeting.

“If that’s what you need to feel safe—to know I’m safe—then check the house.”

The vice grip on your shoulders vanishes immediately, blood rushing back to fill in the gaps of his harsh fingers as he steps away and sweeps through your home with a practiced eye.

You watch, nerves frayed and heart pounding like a hummingbird in your chest as he moves from room to room. The back of your neck breaks into a sweat when he crosses the threshold of your bedroom, lungs seizing as he disappears from your view. But when he finally returns to the living room seemingly more relaxed, you hide the sag in your shoulders from relief.

Gone is the furious and demanding sheriff, duty-bound and crazed with the urge to protect. Now, regret fills his features, brown eyes sweeping over your form and furrowed brows taking in the sight of his bloody hand prints on your flannel. He’s ashamed, remorseful of his sharp words and fierce touch.

“Sit,” you demand as a means to distract him from his inner turmoil, pointing to your sofa. “Let me look at that arm.”

“Ma’am, you don’t need to do that. I should get on,” he tries to fit back into a professional shell, refusing as best he can even though he shuffles closer to you, lingering in front of your sofa with indecision in his eyes.

“Stop calling me that,” you can’t help but snap, glaring at him. “Sit down, Nanami,” you soften your tone, to show just how worried and unwilling you are to entertain his embarrassment. How sorry you are that you’ve caused all of this.

He hesitates, opening his mouth to argue with you, but the glare on your face must be enough. He unbuckles his gun sling and sets it carefully on your coffee table before plopping on your sofa, knees tucked together as if sitting on fine china, afraid to break anything.

You return to lay a medical kit, two basins—one empty to flush his wound, the other filled with water—and a bottle of whiskey on the small coffee table in front of you both, sinking onto the sofa and turning to him expectantly. He eyes the whiskey only for a second before he registers the meaning. You’re not an expert like Shoko, so alcohol may be the only cleaning and numbing agent that will help Nanami with whatever you need to do.

“You’ll need to take off your vest.”

“Right,” he sluggishly moves out of the leather garment, grimacing and biting his lip as he pulls his injured arm free. His upper arm is soaked red, the navy fabric sliced through where the bullet pierced its surface.

“And your…your shirt.”

“What?” he fumbles, eyes slightly wide as he looks down at you.

You clear your throat, blood boiling from his hesitant gaze. “I’ll need to see the entire wound. To clean it and—well…”

“Right, of course.”

Nanami pauses for a second too long, squeezing his fists against dirty denim pants as if to steel himself before his bloody fingers move to the buttons of his navy button-up. But the pain makes him clumsy, the adrenaline finally giving way to the present, and he can barely bend his injured arm. You can tell from the look on his face and swallowed groans that he’s struggling.

Without thinking, you reach out to help, your fingers brushing against his to knock them out of the way. The touch buzzes against your fingertips.

“Let me,” you offer, your voice barely above a whisper.

You take his silence as a cue to continue, and you work the buttons open, hyper-aware of Nanami’s steady breathing and the warmth that heats your fingertips from his skin. Slowly, the lapels of his long sleeve part to reveal sun-kissed skin.

It’s hard to look away from the planes of thick muscle that make up his torso, a firm chest, and chunky bands of abs that bunch together with his haggard breaths. There’s a dusting of honey-brown hair on his chest, littering the skin so faintly that you long to card your fingers through. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight, scratching an itch deep in your mind that only rears its head in the middle of the night.

You help him guide the fabric off his shoulders, your fingertips kissing his skin in a forbidden dance as you slide his shirt out of the way. The billow of his clothes wafts his scent up your nose—leather, gunpowder, a hint of a cigarette. So uniquely Nanami that it makes your head spin and you have to take a second, swallowing against a thick ball of desire in your throat so that you can focus on the task at hand.

“It’s a graze,” you mutter as you bring the empty basin to rest under his elbow. “But it’s gonna need stitches.”

Nanami simply nods, tersely following your hand that snatches and uncorks the whiskey, body tensing as you pour the amber liquid over his wound.

“God damn—” he snarls, the curse cutting off into a harsh groan as his head falls back against the sofa. His free hand grips the armrest, knuckles turning white, the dried blood between his fingers more prominent with his squeeze. The whiskey runs dark down his arm, a muddy brown collecting in the basin.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, hoping he can taste the sincerity and double meaning. He answers with a noise in the back of his throat, snatching the bottle from your hands, pulling deeply from it as you wipe his wound dry and prepare your needle and thread.

By the time you’re ready to start stitching, he’s three gulps in, his eyes locked on your unlit fireplace, body heaving with pained and frustrated breaths.

You hesitate, hand hovering over his bulging bicep before you wrap your hands around his arm. He’s soft to the touch and so incredibly warm; you want to melt into him—curl against his chest and bury your face in his skin so you can forget about the world.

But the moment the needle pierces his skin, Nanami lets out a sharp bark of pain.

“Jesus, are you sure you know what you’re doing?!” he hisses, grimacing with discomfort as he tries to pull his arm away from you. You tighten your hand on his bicep, fingertips collecting the blood that leaks from his wound at the action. “Are you stitching me up or trying to kill me?”

“Oh, hush up, you big baby!” you snap, angry at his misplaced discomfort. It’s already daunting that you have to do this—that you’ve caused this. While you deserve to be barked at, you’re not one to go down without a fight. “I’ve seen children take stitches with less complaint!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, your eyes locked with each other as you process what’s happened. His eyes are wide with shock, a tinge of red coloring his cheeks.

Then, suddenly, his lips twitch. A chuckle escapes him, eyes widening at the uncontrolled expression before he breaks into full-blown laughter.

It’s rich and guttural, a cacophony of deep rumbles that traverse across your sofa and caress your body, just like that night as you both rode back into town. It’s such a rare sound to hear from him, such a treasured piece that you and few others have. But your urge to laugh, to join in this rare glimpse of Nanami with his guard down isn’t deserved, so you swallow it down.

“I’m sorry. I was rude.” Nanami’s eyes are soft as he regards you, strands of honey wheat kissing his forehead and upper lids. “I shouldn’t have doubted your medical expertise. I’m more thin-skinned than I realize.”

You roll your eyes playfully as you press the needle to his skin again.

“Don’t bark at me this time,” you warn, absentmindedly rubbing his large bicep with your free hand to soothe him before you guide the needle through jagged skin.

He hisses, teeth bared like a dog, jaw clenching from biting down, the muscles of his stomach twitching as a grunt rumbles from within.

As you continue stitching, that tension he always carries in his shoulders fades away. With every pierce of the needle on his skin, he takes a generous swig of the whiskey, body relaxing inch by inch. It’s a shame how quickly he turns to whiskey, even if you both weren’t in this predicament now, you hate how much you’ve made him turn to something that is slowly killing him.

The motion of the needle is almost hypnotic, compelling your mind to wander to the danger of tonight, of your hand in all of this, of your desire for some sort of redemption without having to say anything.

“Nanami,” you start, ignoring the weight of his gaze that turns to you, “have you ever thought about…why the bandit does what she does?”

He grunts, tensing slightly under your hands, the next needle prick more difficult against taut skin. “Can’t say I’ve spent much time wonderin' about the motivations of someone who’s made my life hell.”

The revelation stings. Oh, does it sting.

You want to press on, to ask him if he would ever forgive the actions of someone like the bandit if it meant helping those less fortunate.

You want his opinion, his validation, his reassurance that if you were to show him your coal-soaked washcloth hidden in your dresser and the torn black shirt, he would still hold you close and say what you are doing is noble. That he doesn’t think any differently of you. Oh, how you long for that.

But there’s a large part of you that knows your definition of reality is faded and unobtainable. So you change the subject, asking him to talk about his frustrations of tonight even though it pains you to listen.

As you work, Nanami’s usually clipped cadence relaxes, the alcohol loosening his tongue. That Western drawl he usually keeps in check now flows without a barrier at the end of his words.

You listen, heart heavy with guilt, pounding thick regret through your veins as he describes the encounter from his perspective. Each word is more agonizing than the last.

“I was so close,” he mutters, chagrin coloring his voice before he takes another swig. “But lately, everythin’ has fallen from my grasp. No matter what I do, it feels like I’m fightin' against somethin' that should be left alone. And I hate it.”

You tie off the last stitch, fighting back the fuzziness at the corners of your eyes.

“There,” you whisper, throat tight. “All done.” You run your fingertips along the protruding edges of his stitches, admiring your work and the warmth of his muscled skin. It’s a piss-poor attempt to atone for your mistakes.

He looks down at your handy work, then back to you. There’s a fogginess in his gaze, a slightly unfocused demeanor in his irises from the alcohol, dark brown warm with gratitude.

“What would I do without you?”

It’s such a simple statement, something that would have made you smile so bright that it could brighten the room. But now…after everything, hearing the earnest trust in his voice—

You throw him a small smile, turning away quickly to shuffle through your medical kit so as to hide your trembling hands. Your curls create a curtain between your misery and his relaxed form on your sofa.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d manage just fine without me,” you offer truthfully. You know, deep down…if you weren’t in this town making his life miserable, he would be happier.

You turn back to him, not meeting his eyes as you procure a small container of salve.

“Calendula?” Nanami hums, watching as you glide a sticky finger along his wound.

“I got it from Shoko,” you lie, despising the taste of it in your mouth. You stole this salve from a doctor’s office years ago when you began this troublesome life. It’s yet another reminder of how unclean you really are.

“You’re a good sheriff,” you admit softly, tracing a particular spot of reddening skin while your mind clambers away from the darkness that is ever-present. “Stop bein' so hard on yourself.”

Each ridge of his stitches feels mocking—reflecting your deception and a physical manifestation of everything you’ve done. He is so good, the best protector a town could ever have, and you’ve made him miserable. Pushing him further into the bottle and deeper into a pit of self-loathing.

The urge to confess roils like bile up your throat, burning your esophagus and tinging the back of your tongue sour. Nanami’s eyes are on you, heavy and searching, his naked chest rising and falling slowly, veins no doubt pumping with the calming effects of whiskey.

You can feel the weight of his gaze, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to meet it. You’re afraid of what he might see—the pain and fear, the guilt and longing, the desperate need for forgiveness.

It’s too much—you can’t do it.

Those tears you’ve been fighting back all night—every month, week, hour, minute—well up, fogging your vision until the sight of his stitches is a sea of black and red. You blink rapidly, trying to clear them away before they make things worse, but it’s too late.

He’s already moving the second a tear drips from your lashes, reaching for you before you can turn away.

“Hey now,” Nanami murmurs, voice soft and comforting as you feel the warmth of thick fingers caress beneath your chin before tilting it up so you’re looking at him. “What have I done?”

A scoff bubbles wet from your lips, disbelief at his words that only make your lips quiver with an onslaught of more tears. He’s done nothing. He’s never done a thing to hurt you or steer you wrong or cause you pain. Nanami has only given you protection, a gentle gaze, and mannerisms laced with so much affection that you want to hope that it’s love.

You shake your head, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. How can you tell him that every injury whether mental, emotional, or physical, is one you’ve inflicted? That you want nothing more than to wish he was like every other sheriff you’ve come across in this life—willing to turn a blind eye to anything that is not serving themselves. He should be like them, not kind and determined to a degree that’s self-sacrificial.

“I just—” you manage to choke out, lips trembling until his thumb glides along your bottom lip to settle the quivering muscle.

‘I want you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not a terrible person. That you’ll forgive me.’

“I hate seeing you hurt,” you sigh instead on a shaky exhale, blinking away a fresh wall of tears that leaks from your bottom lids. “I worry about you.”

His expression softens, and you hate the way his presence pulls at you, silently beckoning you to fall into him. He brushes away your tears with his thumb, the touch so gentle it nearly makes more fall.

“This is why I don’t like to trouble you with what I do,” he mutters, downtrodden in his admission. “I hate worryin' you.”

“No,” you grip the open lapels of his shirt, yanking at the fabric as a means to make him understand. “I want to know. I want to worry. We’ve been…friends for years, Nanami. I don’t care if it’ll make me sad, make me cry, or make me angry at you. When will you understand that?” You parrot his words back to him, laying the irony of it all at his feet.

His eyes search yours, a mix of surprise and something deeper, more intense, and overwhelming that makes the air between you both thin.

“You want to know everything?” he asks, a whisper that’s barely audible in your quiet living room.

“Everything,” you breathe, twisting your fingers more in the fabric of his open shirt.

It’s true. You want to know his fears, wants, and desires. You want to know what he thinks about in the morning and at night before he goes to sleep. You want everything, even though you are the last person who should wish for it.

His thumb slides across your cheekbone, his large hand cupping your face. You resist the urge to lean into the warmth of his touch.

He’s always so warm. When it brushes against yours on your walks. When he hovers too close at the bar on Wednesday nights when you see Kilmer for moonshine. When you close your eyes at night, and dream of every line of him pressed against you, branding your skin in his touch so you’ll never know anyone else but him.

Nanami leans in closer, his breath hot against your face, the faint scent of whiskey and tobacco rushing up your nostrils to wrap around your brain.

“Even if I come to you in the dead of night, bloodied and beaten?” Your heart races at his words, at the implication. “Would you—”

“Patch you up,” you finish, not bothering to hide the shiver that runs down your spine with equal parts desire and dread. “Yes,” you whisper, “Especially then.”

It has to be the whiskey, because the feel of Nanami’s injured arm sliding behind your back, pulling you more into him, would be against everything he holds moral.

But there’s no chance in the world that you’ll pull away now. You soak in his touch while you have it, beneath a tipsy gaze and the heady scent of his breath on your skin.

“And if I tell you about my failures?” he’s rough, wrapped around a pearl of vulnerability that you want to cradle and store away like it’s precious. “The times I’m not the sheriff this town deserves?”

You can’t ever tell him that most of his failures are because of your very existence. But you still meet his gaze without flinching, hoping to convey how much you mean to him. How much you yearn for him even when he’s broken and disappointed in himself.

“I could never think less of you, Nanami. Never.”

He hums as he strokes your cheek, the sound crawling hot and molten down your body, seeping into the thick fabric of your flannel and the threadbare linen of your nearly translucent nightgown. It’s scalding and should make you turn away, but you pitch closer to him, inhaling a deep breath of alcohol that clings to his lips.

There’s a question in his eyes, something he wants to ask but can’t find the words for. You think you know what it is; you hope so because the air is thick again. Only now, it’s leaden with tension and desire, of promise and a line that’s been danced on without care for far too long.

Even as you inch to close that gap, the shame is persistent. You don’t deserve his curiosity and his want. You’ve twisted his kindness, his affection and laughter, and even his frustrations into a warped justification of your own actions. Your selfishness has cast him into a Hell of your own making, and that realization burns just as hot as your desire.

You should pull away and brush the hair from his forehead with a teasing smile. You should roll your eyes and usher him out of your home with the complaint of having to rise early in the morning to prepare for the kids.

But you’re both close—so so close—and the logic of what you should do dissolves into nothing with every breath you take.

The whiskey has left a slight flush on his cheeks, slightly sweaty from the pain of your stitching. You can’t help but flick your gaze to his lips, slightly parted and split down the middle from dryness, and so tempting.

When your eyes catch his, you swallow a gasp at the intensity, at an emotion you dare not name. You can’t. Every fiber of your being screams to close the distance between you, to finally see how his lips feel and taste—even as your mind equally screams with all the reasons you should turn away.

“Promise me you’ll be more careful,” you breathe, the words a prayer and a plea whispered into the dwindled space between you.

His response is wordless, visceral. The scalding hand on your back presses firmly, pulling you even closer with a strength that makes your stomach twist, your knees knocking against thick thighs.

Your fingers twist into the lapels of his open shirt, the fabric groaning in protest, buttons digging into your skin. You’re both tiptoeing on a thinning line of something profound, fighting against an invisible force that screams the implications of what this could mean—a warning for you to step back and not make this worse.

That rope unravels with the weight of you both, strands splintering open and threatening to snap. And oh, how you want to fall with him.

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s a ghost of a kiss—feather light and achingly tender as chapped skin teases your lips. But it’s enough. For a second too long, you’re suspended in time, searching each other’s eyes for permission, for absolution. Then, as if pulled by that same inviting force, you come together again.

It’s deliberate this time, awakening and filled with intention. His lips move against yours, warm and insistent and heavy with whiskey and want, and you respond in kind, hoping the way you bite down on his bottom lip that he can taste the years of want.

One of your hands slips from a lapel, smacking onto his bare chest, palm flat against skin feathered with tawny hair. His heartbeat is rapid, matching the frantic pace of your own, and you gasp into his lips, pulling harder for him to fall into you.

In this kiss, you taste possibility. You see a future where you have no secrets, where the guilt in your insides is replaced with the butterflies he consistently makes you feel, where it’s you and Nanami happy in this dusty town. For one beautiful moment, you let yourself believe.

But reality comes crashing down like a bucket of cold water on your body. Nanami pulls away slightly, but enough for the air between you to grow stale, molten desire cooling rapidly.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. The alcohol on his breath is like a siren to you, pulling you further under with each whiff. His nose brushes against yours, gentle and exploratory, as he inhales the smell of your skin.

“We shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—” His lips trail down the side of your cheek as he speaks, each word a caress that contradicts his attempted withdrawal.

You shake your head to dispel the cloudiness in your mind and also to convey that he did nothing wrong and that it just might be better this way. That he’s right to regret touching you, kissing you, letting you into his life. It’s better for you both.

You can see the conflict slicing through the fogginess in his gaze, a mirror of the turmoil in your own heart. Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, still pulling inch by inch, unwilling to be the first to let go.

“I should go,” is what escapes his mouth even as he makes no move to leave, his thumb still stroking your cheek. “It’s late, and I’ve forgotten my manners—I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

The words shouldn’t hurt, shouldn’t smack you with such force, but they do. What he hopes to sound humble, only reveals as insulting.

You offer a wobbly smile, fighting against a stinging sensation of tears that threaten to bubble from his rejection.

“Was it that bad, Sheriff? I know I’m not the best kisser in town but—”

“No. It was perfect,” he interrupts, the hand on your cheek caressing the skin, his thumb stroking in reverence as he offers a regretful chuckle. “You just deserve someone else. Not a man like myself.”

His words fall like heavy weights in your stomach, plummeting into acid that bubbles with guilt and fear. You pull yourself from his embrace before you can stop, his warmth evaporating into the cold air.

“And just what kind of a man are you?” you ask, incredulous, as you regard him with slightly widened eyes.

Nanami sighs heavily, his uninjured arm coming up to card a hand through his unruly strands.

“The kind that spends most of his time with outlaws and criminals instead of decent folk. The kind that smokes with no regard for his health. The kind that drinks far too much whiskey than what is good for him.” He shakes his head, frustration twisting around his fingers as he fumbles for the buttons of his open shirt. “I won’t subject a woman to my carelessness.”

Your mouth hangs ajar, fighting to form words to dispel his worries even as the opportunity to distance yourself presents like a meal on a silver platter.

“Why would you say that about yourself?” you whisper, incredulous as you watch his fingers slip on his buttons, the pain in his arm flaring from the angle with which his arm is bent.

“Because it’s true.”

You smack his hands away from his lapels with far too much force, your anger permeating from your fingertips as you snatch up the fabric in your hands and fasten each button.

“No. It’s not true. You’re a good man. You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?” Your fingers falter on the last button that hovers over his collarbone, the words at the tip of your tongue.

For love?

His hands draw themselves up to wrap around yours, cocooning in their warmth even as they burn with the reminder of what you can’t have. What you shouldn’t have.

“I’ve done a poor job of conductin' myself around you. I’m sorry…”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. At that moment, something snaps inside of you. It feels like a dam breaking, flooding you with a combination of sadness, frustration, and a desperate need to stop this torturous dance.

“Okay.”

It’s clipped and sharp, cutting through his apology like a knife. It leaves a lingering bitterness on your tongue. A single syllable but loaded with so much resignation and unspoken pain.

For a second, you wish you could take it back, to smile up at him, wrap your arms around his neck, pull him close, whisper in his ear that he deserves more than he gives himself credit for.

When you finally drag your eyes from his collarbone to meet his gaze, the regret in his eyes is so heavy you almost drown in them. It etches onto his features, pulls at the edges of his lips as he frowns, and pushes at the top of his nose to make his brows furrow. Your fingers twitch beneath his, an involuntary urge coming to life as you swallow the need to smooth the worry lines from his skin.

“Please understand that I never want to hurt you. You’re precious—I need you to understand how much you mean to me,” he presses; he sounds insistent, begging, wishing that you could understand his inner turmoil.

It’s ironic just how much you do. Every day you spend with him is another day that you have to live with feeling inadequate. He deserves a woman who is honest and forthcoming, who would never lie to him and hide a secret so heinous it might kill you before you’re half a century old.

So just like he yearns to put distance so that you can find someone more worthy, you do the same.

“You better get on,” you mutter, the words like sand in your mouth, eyes downcast to your floor as you stand and tuck your flannel around your body. It’s a poor substitute for his embrace, but it’s all you will have of him for the foreseeable future.

From your peripheral, you faintly see Nanami’s hands curl into tight fists on his denim-clad knees, knuckles pressed white like sun-bleached bone before he relaxes, blood filling the skin again.

As he stands to leave, you’re struck by the duality of the moment—the warmth of his touch that lingers on your skin, the silent admission from both sides of this conversation—of the kiss that was not enough, and the cold weight of much-needed denial settling in your stomach.

It’s enough to make you nauseous as you watch him shrug on his vest, the rustle of fabric unnaturally loud in the loaded silence of your home. Your eyes take him in a while his gaze is turned away, tracing every curve of muscle, every worry line from work and the harsh sunlight.

“Thank you,” he finally speaks, voice low as he clicks his gun sling in place. Your eyes finally meet, uncertainty and hesitant desire from both sides.

You dig your fingernails into your flannel, tightening its hug around you to desperately hide every inch of yourself and the emotions that are threatening to seep through your pores.

You nod at him softly, offering a gentle but dishonest smile that feels so brittle it could crack at any moment. The door creaks open, the late-night air rushing in cool and with memories of your haste to get home, guilt in your hand at the stitched bicep beneath his coat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he offers, hopeful. And oh does that nasty side of you, the one that Mama always chastised with a smack to your hands, coils like a rattlesnake—ready to strike.

You could slap him for even thinking you would entertain his presence after giving you so much for months, years, tonight—and stripping it away in a matter of seconds because of misplaced self-righteousness.

But that other side, the side that longs for every inch of him, understands that while your feelings are tumultuous, you know he wants you close, even if it means hurting you both.

“I’ll be working later than usual for the next few days,” you lie blatantly for the second time tonight, your stomach churning. “So maybe next week sometime.”

There’s a hitch in his breath, quick and staggered as it catches in his throat. He lingers, mouth opening as if to speak, shoulders hitching with stolen breath before he sags in defeat, exhaling whiskey-tinged breath across your face.

“Have a good night.”

You don’t offer anything else, not trusting your voice to speak, eyes stinging with more unshed tears as you watch him disappear from your view. You don’t watch to see him mount his stallion. You don’t strain your ears to pick up the rustle of leather as he mounts his saddle. You don’t even peek through your curtains to watch the dust kick from Flint’s hooves as they make their way home.

Instead you press your back to the door, bottom lip trembling before you let your body give in to the mess you’ve made of everything.

“Storm might be the worst one this year.”

Against the backdrop of a clap of thunder, Nanami hums noncommittally, calloused fingers idly twirling his badge, sliding it between each knuckle with practiced ease.

His office isn’t much, just a little room in the jailhouse. His walls hold no relics of his life and are littered with wanted posters and photographs of his form stock still next to outlaws and bandits he’s caught over the years.

But on his desk, there is one photo of him with the schoolchildren, Yuji perched on his shoulders, peach hair spilling beneath the brim of Nanami’s stolen Stetson. There’s a freshness that began to brew on Nanami’s face from that moment, still stone-faced and aloof, but with a soft look in his eyes because of the woman holding the camera.

You’d been new to town then, eager but uncertain, insisting on capturing the moment rather than being in it. Nanami was adamant you be in the frame, to commiserate your first day, but you’d stood firm, that familiar fire in your eyes that’s always drawn him in.

He likes to look at it every day, reminding him of why he protects the town and fights so hard to keep everyone safe. It makes him feel wanted and anchors him when doubt creeps in, and the weight of his duty threatens to overwhelm him.

But Nanami really should be paying attention.

Across from him sits the town’s new lawyer, Higuruma Hiromi, overworked but effervescent as he describes a case that he’s working on. He’s only been in town for almost a week, already capturing the hearts of the town’s citizens, who like to linger in the shiny new law office a few streets over.

While Nanami has never been one to work with others if they will only slow him down, the conviction that radiates from Higruma as he gestures wildly with lightly tanned hands, running them through dark brown hair that’s styled back over and over, Nanami can tell that they will get along. He’s strong-willed with a fierce belief in justice that this town needs.

But Nanami’s mind is, regrettably, miles away. Back to that night when he’s gotten the closest he’s ever come to the bandit with her thrashing underneath him, his arm pulsing with white-hot pain from her attempt at distraction.

She had gotten away again.

And when the bandit had jumped from the window at the Phillips’ house and disappeared into the night towards town, his sole thought was you.

Find you. Make sure you’re safe.

His mind shamefully recalls his raised voice and the shock on your face as he dug his hands into your shoulders. He replays the feel of his limbs loosening with every drag of whiskey, canting toward your body as if you’re a magnet that he spends every waking moment trying to pull away from so he doesn’t stick to you forever.

He can still feel the ghost of your lips, smooth and hot, passionate and tasting faintly of the love he wishes he could have from a woman. Your hands were soft even with the dryness from chalk. Your voice alluring even when tinged with frustration as you chastised him, reeling from his rejection.

“You’re a good man,” you had said, fiery and exasperated. “You spend your days and nights convincin' yourself that you’re not good for what? For happiness?”

He’d pushed you away, insistent in his belief that it was for your own good. But the memory haunts him—your always illuminating melanin-kissed skin twisted with hurt, that brittle smile, the small pearls of tears bubbling at the corners of your lids that you thought he couldn’t see. The consequences of his choice now cut deeper than ever.

He hasn’t seen you since that night—not properly. He finds himself at the saloon more often than usual and can no longer blame the bandit for seeking solace in whiskey.

In the past, his days had been measured by moments with you—walking you home, watching Yuji drag you to the general store as he trailed behind with a somber gait, treasuring that smile you’d shoot his way from over your shoulder.

It’s barely been a week, and to put it simply, Nanami is unbearably lonely.

Fleeting glimpses through saloon windows or watching you with the schoolchildren aren’t enough. Every night since that bullet grazed his arm, when he can’t sleep because all he can think about is you, fingers tracing idly along his healing stitches, he wonders what kind of man pushes away the one woman who only wants him.

A fool of a man, apparently.

His mother always told him that self-righteousness is more foolish than denying your own heart. She’d be clicking her tongue in disappointment at him right now.

His mind is so lost, so caught in its own web of self-destruction, that he doesn’t register Higuruma's question. “I’m sorry,” Nanami says, one hand still twirling his badge while he sits up in his chair. “Could you repeat that?”

The lawyer chuckles, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his suit as he fixes Nanami with keen brown eyes.

“I was just rambling about the town festival and asked if you’re taking a pretty lady? I’ve finally worked up the courage to ask a beautiful sweetheart to accompany me.”

Nanami’s expression never changes when faced with anything that a situation out of his control. Too many tells in the eyes of the enemy could cost him his life. He’s calm and collected, even with a gun pointed between his eyes.

So he exercises the most restraint he’s ever needed to keep his eyes from twitching, to keep from shifting in his seat under the painful squeeze in his chest.

“Anyone I know?” The question brims to life of its own volition.

Higuruma's tired eyes flash with warm admiration so genuine that it turns Nanami’s stomach. For the first time in many years, he finds himself comparing his adequacy to the lawyer. He looks too refined in his suit, aquiline features too handsome for the rustic surroundings of the sheriff’s office.

“I should think so. It’s the schoolteacher.” Nanami’s heart seizes in his chest, painful and lurching in a desperate act to beat again. “Surely you know her? Radiant as the sun, always wears the nicest skirts, beautiful curls, and smells like lavender—a man could lose himself.”

The physical description of you hits him like a physical blow, punching his gut hard enough to make his lunch gurgle up his throat. The memories of that cool night after the cattle drive flickering like a time reel in his mind.

“…pick someone else. I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”

You’ve taken his advice and chosen a man to accompany you. He should be happy that you’re doing the right thing. Shouldn’t he?

“She has the most beautiful smile,” Higuruma continues, seemingly unaware of the badge that’s stopped twirling between Nanami’s knuckles, to the subtle groan of tin as his fingers clench around it.

Nanami knows how to navigate most situations. He has a backup plan for every single unexpected situation in his life.

But not right now. Not while he’s trapped under the guise of propriety with a lawyer he suddenly can’t stand.

Now, Nanami imagines if he punches him in the face, he might smooth the curve in his nose. Now, Nanami hopes that every case Higuruma takes will keep him awake for days, never to know relaxation or peace. Now, he hopes he wakes up each day to more of those silky strands on his pillow until he’s bald for daring to breathe in your direction.

Now, now, now Nanami hates.

The badge protests in his grip, jagged edges breaking thin skin. Anger flares hot and sudden in his chest, irrational and consuming him to the point where he barely recognizes himself. Vitriol burns his mouth, bubbling past his teeth before he can stop it.

“You don’t know a thing about her.”

The words permeate in the air, sharp and accusatory. Higuruma blinks, taken aback by the sudden vehemence in Nanami’s tone. Surprised that the stern sheriff, who usually moves in silence, carries a bark that hangs in his belly, locked in a cage, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

The office is silent save for the storm that rages outside and the faint trickle of laughter from the schoolchildren across the street. No doubt you’ve let them out early so they can get home safe.

Another clap of thunder booms through the office, rattling the windows as if the storm is trying to force its way inside. The white-hot anger that boiled in Nanami’s gut is doused immediately with humiliation. It drips over him like a cold sweat, sliding down his leather vest and beneath his clothes.

“I apologize,” the lawyer starts, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

But he did offend. By coming into this town, by breathing your air, by having the mitigated gall to ask for your hand to an asinine town festival that Nanami should have stepped up for. That Nanami should have swallowed his pride and let his heart guide him for once. Not Higuruma. Not this lawyer who would probably treat you well.

He’s offended Nanami to the highest degree.

Yet, his humiliation runs rampant enough to quell his fury.

“No, I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“If she’s spoken for, I’m not a man to make matters complicated. I can—”

“No,” Nanami insists, eyes flickering to the rain-stained window. Water droplets cascade as if racing against each other, the landscape a torrent of wild wind and dusty dirt turned muddy. “She’s not spoken for. I’m simply…protective of her.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth, but Nanami swallows down the acrid flavor. He has no right to be jealous, no right to lash out, no claim on your affections. If anything, the very thought him claiming any part of you under the guise of protection would have earned him a rightful scowl on your face.

He made his choice that night on your couch, his lips still tasting of you, his body singing for more. Duty over desire. Now, he has to live with the consequences.

“I’ll be sure to do right by her,” Higuruma insists, earnest and sincere. Nanami wishes at this very moment that his father had taught him to be a violent man. The kind of man that wouldn’t hesitate to reach across this desk and show men like Higuruma what happens when they speak about a woman that Nanami wants. Deeply, viscerally, from a jagged pit in his belly.

Because you’re his—not really. But you are, you are, you are—

Another clap of thunder, his office flashing white. The sound closing the door to his internal rambling.

“If that’s all,” Nanami presses as politely as an impatient man can manage, hand still a vice around his badge as he stands from his seat.

“Right,” Higuruma picks up on the moment turned sour, ready to leave the tense atmosphere, and Nanami wouldn’t mind shucking him out the window if the lawyer wanted a boost. He claps his hands on his suit-clad knees and rises from his chair. There’s a small seed of triumph that blooms in Nanami’s belly as he takes in the two inches he has over the lawyer.

“I’ll bring everything by tomorrow morning and we can discuss further.”

Nanami doesn’t offer any further words, simply extending his hand for the lawyer to shake, unconsciously squeezing a little tighter before they part. He watches in silence, narrowed eyes trained on his back, as the lawyer throws a hat on his head and ducks out into the rain.

The open door carries hot and humid air into his small office, the roar of the storm rising with every passing second before the door closes, and he’s cast back into silence and regret.

Nanami quickly strides across his office to the window that gives him a view of the schoolhouse. He watches as the last of the school children disappear down the street, his eyes catching Yuji as he stumbles in the thick expanse of mud in front of the schoolhouse door, smiling bashfully as he turns back to listen to whatever is being spoken to him.

He seems jovial and careless at his young age as he tries to trudge through the mud before his foot is caught, and he falls to his knees. He yanks at his ankle, tiny fingers slipping over wet skin as he fruitlessly tugs at his foot.

Nanami’s eyes catch the movement of you before he can think, fixating on the flash of dark green calico of your skirts as you race out of the schoolhouse and into the torrential downpour.

He admires the flash of your shins as you hike your skirts up, clambering heavy-footed across the schoolyard before you wrap your arms around little Yuji and heave with the strength of ten men, his feet shucking from nature’s grip.

You fall backward, your skirts fluttering to a thick smack onto the ground, soaked beyond comprehension. You pat Yuji's hair gently, your affection for him clear even from the distance before letting him scurry off, uncaring of the rain that drenches you as you remain firmly planted in the mud, a small smile on your face as you watch him go.

Nanami longs to run outside, to race across the street, pull you up into his arms, and get you to safety. He longs to draw you a hot bath, stoke the fireplace in his home that he built with his two hands, and allow you to curl on his prized fur that he keeps in front of it.

But he can’t have that now.

And as Higuruma comes into view, running across the street to your drenched and relaxed form, Nanami realizes that he’s not only a fool—he’s unequivocally, painfully stupid.

Your curls kiss your cheeks in wild abandon, unfurling along the break of your smile as Higuruma approaches. Something dark and possessive twists in Nanami’s gut as he watches the lawyer reach for you, seemingly uncaring that the downpour ruins his pristine suit.

The casual way his hands find your waist, pulling you easily onto your feet, makes Nanami’s fingers tighten around the badge in his hand until the metal bites into his now raw flesh. The lawyer guides you up the steps to the schoolhouse, work-worn eyes bright with affection that he wants to strangle out of him.

Then, as if to twist the knife further that Nanami has willingly lodged in his own chest, Higuruma takes your hand in his and brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss. The gesture is kind, nothing untoward, especially for a man who’s trying to court a woman.

But for Nanami, it may as well be the most scandalous sight because his blood boils, the sight of another man’s mouth anywhere near your skin makes him so angry it nearly blinds him.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Nanami slams his badge on the windowsill, cursing beneath his breath as he storms from his office. He barely registers the rain that soaks him as soon as he steps outside to stride across the street. His eyes are locked on Higuruma's retreating form as he runs away from the schoolhouse and to his home, hardly paying Nanami any mind.

The red-hot and foreign jealousy whispers like a cat in his ears, beckoning for Nanami to follow the lawyer home and give him a piece of his mind. But he won’t, not this time, his sight only on the fluttering schoolhouse door.

The familiar scent of chalk dust envelops him when he steps into the schoolhouse, lingering with the lavender that always radiates from your skin. His hot fury splinters from the sight of you, your back to him, wringing water from your curls.

Each strand wraps around your wrist like a tendril, water droplets scattering across the floorboards. Nanami watches, transfixed, as rivulets trace thick lines down the rich brown column of your neck. He wants to trace those trails of water with his tongue, to feel the warmth of sun-blessed skin in stark contrast with the coolness of the rain. He wants to gather your curls in his hands, to know how silky they would feel in his calloused palms, to turn you around and—

“Did you need something, Sheriff?”

Your voice, coolly formal, cuts through the silence. You don’t turn to face him, continuing to wring out your hair as if his presence means nothing at all. Even though it means everything. The scent of him—leather and tobacco wrapped around rain—fills the schoolhouse, permeating the air so quickly that you’re dizzy with it.

You hear the shuffle of his boots against the wood behind you and feel the weight of his gaze on your back like a physical caress. Your spine shouldn’t itch to shudder under those invisible hands.

“I hear you’re going to the festival with the lawyer,” he blurts out, the words rough against your wet back, piercing through the drenched calico of your dress like a pin needle pushing through the thickest of fabric.

Your scoff is bitter as you turn to face him, so unlike your usual melodious laugh that he flinches.

“Is that what you stormed in here to say? After almost a week of silence that you asked for?” Your voice trembles—with festering rage or the slow trickle of hurt in the hollow of your chest, you’re not sure anymore.

“You didn’t speak to me either,” he counters weakly, trying to sound firm even though the words paint him like an idiot. As if he’s a young boy again, trading blows with a classmate that means nothing but is more destructive than the last.

Immediately, you’re angry as you soak in his words, wide-eyed and seething. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, shaking against your skirts as you drip wet onto the floor.

“Do you take me for a fool, Nanami Kento?”

It’s the first time in months that you’ve said his full name. You brandish it like a weapon, deliberately sharp. He has that look on his face again—a mischievous schoolboy caught in mischief, all that stern authority crumbling under your gaze with no Stetson to anchor him.

“No ma’am, of course not—”

“Then let me spell it out for you,” you begin, your voice trembling slightly with barely suppressed emotion. “I like you. You like me. A few days ago, we shared somethin'…” your voice cracks traitorously. “Somethin'…intimate. After so many years of dancin' around each other. And then you decided to pull away, to make decisions about how I should live my life, to tell me what I deserve, as if I’m incapable of takin' care of myself!”

Thunder rumbles like a hovering figure, matching the storm brewing in your chest. Lightning flashes through the windows, catching in the water that falls from his locks, illuminating the conflict in his brown eyes.

“Hiromi is a nice man. He asked me on a friendly date, and I said yes. That’s all there is to it.”

“You said yes to a man who’s only been in town for a few days,” Nanami growls, jealousy coloring his words that strike your chest like a dagger. “Already calling him by his first name?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as your gaze turns icy. You’ve never known Nanami to have a scornful bone in his body. So while you know his actions now stem from some deep-rooted insecurity in his choices, the words still sting.

You stalk towards him slowly, purposefully, your leather boots squelching as they leave wet prints with each step.

“What exactly are you tryin' to imply, Sheriff?”

“A few pretty, albeit stuffy, words from a stranger in his pressed suit, and you forget yourself entirely,” he hisses, the words so painful as they stab at your cheeks that you can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes.

It’s hurtful because these words come from someone who knows you so well, how carefully you’ve built your reputation, and how hard you’ve worked to earn a place in this town. It’s a feeling you never thought would be directed at you.

“How dare you,” you snarl, raising your hand to smack, punch, do anything to hurt him like he’s hurting you.

But Nanami is faster, catching your wrist mid-swing and yanking you against him. The impact against his chest steals your breath—or maybe it’s the feel of him, towering and burning hot despite the rain-soaked clothes between you. Your free hand flies up to twist in his shirt, fingers catching on the fabric in a dance of pushing him away and pulling him closer.

You struggle against his grip, grunting with futile effort that meets iron strength. His fingers don’t dig enough to hurt you, but to remind you of his brutal strength, of all the times you’ve dreamt of how that strength would feel when channeled into his hands on your body. The thought only fuels your anger.

You wrench your hand from his grip with a sound that croaks from your chest like a raging dragon, turning to storm to your desk. Papers scatter in your wake like startled birds, floating to the slick floor beneath your sodden boots.

You have no right,” you spit, fingers trembling as you bend down to gather the papers. “No right to act like I belong to you when you pushed me away!”

You need to push him away. God the hypocrisy is overwhelming, but not enough to grasp the logic you need right now.

“You don’t know Higuruma—” Nanami starts, and you whirl to face him, wet skirts slapping against your legs, eyes flashing with a storm of your own that claps with the next ring of thunder and lightning outside.

“And you do? He’s a good man, a respected lawyer—”

“He’s not good enough,” Nanami cuts in, voice rough like gravel. You watch his jaw clench, the muscles jumping beneath sun-weathered skin moist from the rain that slides down his throat.

“Oh?” You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Let’s play this game then, Nanami. Put the shoe on the other foot. I guess Thomas from the general store won’t do it for you?!”

“The man can’t keep his hands to himself even in the saloon,” he growls, the corner of his lip twisting into a snarl.

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle with heat despite your anger. You’ve never seen him this furious, not with you, and it shouldn’t make your stomach churn with arousal, shouldn’t make your stomach twist with want, shouldn’t make heat bloom between your thighs.

“Mr. Foster.”

“Unfaithful to every woman who’s given him the time of day!” Nanami’s words crack through the air like a whip, furious at your suggestion.

“Deputy Gojo then,” you challenge, lifting your chin in defiance.

It’s a low blow, a harmful punch to the intimacy of the conversation and closeness that brewed from Gojo's presence that night after the cattle drive. But you don’t care. Your heart pounds against your ribs like a war drum, each beat echoing the pain and anger that pushes through your veins and thrums in your ears.

His warm brown eyes widen with fury, menacing as they liquefy into a glare so dangerous that your core pulses with a need you should be ashamed of.

“Don’t,” he says simply, low and deep, unwilling to entertain it any longer. The very thought of Gojo's name in association with you is enough to make him crazed.

Something inside you snaps, fraying like an old rope, finally giving way to the push and pull of you both. You slam your hands on the desk, the sharp smack of your palm echoing through the schoolhouse.

“Well, then, enlighten me, Sheriff!” Your voice rises with each word. “Since apparently no man in this town meets your precious standards, what exactly do you want from me?!”

He’s silent. So dreadfully silent, broad shoulders heaving with each ragged breath, eyes locked on yours, conflicted but unwilling to back down.

You storm up to him until you can smell the tobacco on his clothes, and you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Dark blonde eyebrows are pitched down in barely contained rage, sharp cheekbones beckoning your hand to slap him. You’re so unfortunately attracted to this cowboy, but so angry that your head spins.

You jab a finger into his chest. His shirt clings to every muscle like a second skin, reminding you of how his chest felt under your fingers that night, how his skin burned against yours as you stitched him up.

“You don’t get to push me away and then dictate who I spend my time with,” you whisper with deadly intent. “You don’t get to act like some—some jealous husband when you made it clear that I wasn’t—that we weren’t—”

The words stick in your throat like thorns, choking you from speaking any further. Nanami’s eyes darken, black nearly eclipsing brown, something dangerous and wild flickering in their depths. The air between you crackles with electricity, every breath shared between you charged with the energy that seeps through the walls from the storm.

But despite the quiver of want in your bones, the close proximity, you can’t do this anymore—you can’t stand here in this now suffocating schoolhouse and lay your emotions at your feet that need to be locked away.

You have to leave.

Without thinking, you shoulder past him, flinging open the school door and stepping out into the rain. The harsh pellets are a jolt on your feverish skin, quickly soaking through your barely dry clothes.

The thud of Nanami’s boots and the jingle of his spurs behind you spur you on, your legs trudging through the mud to Buttercup’s stable and away from him. You only make it halfway through the schoolyard before a large hand catches your wrist, firm and calloused but somehow still gentle as he spins you to face him.

“I’m done talkin' Nanami!” you yell over the storm, glaring at his handsome face soaked in rain. You yank free from his grip, gait heavy and sticky as you stagger away until you’re several feet from each other. “I’m done arguing with a man who doesn’t know what he wants!”

Through the veil of rain, you see his eyes widen in disbelief before they narrow into heinous slits. “You think I don’t want you?” Thunder punctuates his words, your heart fluttering against its cocoon of rage. “That I don’t think about you every waking moment?!”

“Then why—” you holler, throwing your hands up to the sky in exasperation before he interrupts.

“Because I can’t have you!” The confession rips through him like tearing open a wound, his words cracking along the next lightning strike in the mountains. “I’m supposed to be dedicated to this town. To my citizens. To my career. If you weren’t so—” he stops short, growling beneath the howl of the wind. “If you hadn’t shown up that day all those years ago, if you didn’t bake me those pies, if you weren’t so goddamn beautiful and—”

“This is my fault!” you screech, taking a step towards him only for your leather boots to sink into a particularly deep patch of mud. The wet soil seeps into the spaces, coating your socks and toes. The rain continues its onslaught, your curls heavy as they sway and stick to your face. You wipe them from your cheeks in a fury, sputtering through dirt and water.

“You’re blamin' me because you’re too much of a coward—”

“Yes!” he shouts, shoulders shaking in a wave of vulnerable anger as he glares at you. “Because every time I see you smile, every time Yuji comes to me happy that you taught him something new, every time you look at me like I’m worth something—” His voice catches Adam’s apple bobbing and lips gaping for words. “I forget why I need to stay away.”

You flop your hands against your thighs in defeat, huffing a humorless laugh. “Just tell me what you want,” you whisper, half challenge, half plea. You should run, turn around, and make your way home before you fall deeper into a web of lies you’ve spun. “For once in your goddamn life, Nanami, just tell me.”

“I want you to tell him no,” Nanami growls. “I want you to turn down every. damn. man. in this town who thinks they deserve you.”

The whiplash of his want and need is enough to make your neck hurt. That simmering rage boils to the surface, churning like melted butter in your limps as you yank your feet from the mud to storm toward him.

“You stubborn—” you start, boot immediately sinking in mud. You yank it free with a wet squelch. “Just wait until I get my hands on you, you self-righteous—” another step, another struggle against the soaked earth. Your deep green skirts are heavy with water and mud, tangling around your legs as you fight tooth and nail to get closer. “Insufferable—” Yank. Step. “Maddenin' excuse for a man—”

Your last step is interrupted by him, stomping and angry and biting as he navigates the schoolyard like it’s nothing, his hands digging into your wet waist before he yanks you to him, crashing his mouth to yours. The kiss is so brutal, so possessive, and everything you’ve been fighting and craving all at once that your eyes roll into the back of your skull from the force.

Your boots slip against the ground as his mouth claims yours, teetering backward to fall, but his hands are there instantly—one tangling in your soppy curls while the other digs further into your waist, steadying you as he angles your mouth without having to ask.

How can you be so hypocritical right now? Why have you made such a mess of things? The wall that you need to erect between you is crumbling beneath weak weight, freely giving up any resistance as his lips slide against yours. You chastise yourself even as you twist your fingers into his transparent shirt, pulling him closer as thunder cracks overhead.

“They don’t know you,” Nanami hisses into your mouth when you break for air, rain streaming between the gaps of where you don’t touch. His grip at the base of your neck tightens, arousing licking to life as your core tingles in betrayal at the twinge of pain. You bite into his bottom lip, swallowing his groan that vibrates down your throat and into the muscles of your pelvis.

Nanami spins you—you stumble in the mud, flailing even though his strong arms reach under your thighs to yank you up. Your skirts stretch uncomfortably, legs begging for more room so you can wrap your thighs around his waist. But he has other plans, swallowing another whine as his lips take yours, the sound of his spurs rattling the jumbled space in your mind as he climbs the schoolhouse steps.

Your back crashes into your desk, more papers scattering and floating to the water-slicked floor. You’re both dripping everywhere—creating puddles beneath your feet, water running from his shirt to collect on the wood between you. His hands squeeze your waist, the strength permeating a thick pulse between your thighs as he lifts you onto your desk.

“Those men could learn about me,” you gasp, involuntarily bunching your skirts around your waist as Nanami crowds into the space between your legs.

His fingers reacquaint themselves with their hair at your nape, twisting and yanking your head back to expose your throat.

“He doesn’t get to learn a thing about you,” Nanami growls into your pulse point, dragging sharp teeth along the skin. You can’t help the whimper that breaks free, leaking past your lips. “Not how you sound.” A tongue to your neck that makes you arch, eyes shut tight as your cunt thrums in your panties. “Not how you taste.”

Your hands fly up to find purchase on the wet fabric of his shoulders, grabbing the muscles of his trapezius as he growls into your neck.

You have to stop, you have to. But when his hips press forward, the metal of his belt buckle grinding against you through sodden layers of fabric, all coherent thought vanishes.

You gasp at the feel of his hot hand trailing along your leg, up the canvas of your thighs, that part even more for him without thought. Calloused fingertips tease the edge of your panties, the touch electric enough to make your hips buck for more, a whine dying in your throat as you nod to his silent ask for permission.

“Tell me,” he demands, a seductively low timber against your mouth as he pulls your panties to the side, the cool air yanking a wanton moan from your throat. The touch of two fingers to your clit is enough to make you faint, your fingers digging into his shoulders to keep yourself from screaming. The hand in your hair squeezes, rewarding you for your sounds. “Tell me you don’t think about this.”

You do. You do. God, you do. You think about him exactly like this, skin to skin, reverent words of desire in your ear as he takes you higher and higher.

You bite his lip instead of answering, and the fingers on your clit begin to move in torturous circles that make you moan into the cool air. You were wet the minute he raised his voice, the minute you could taste his jealousy, the minute you smelled that leather and gunpowder from his skin. So your essence pools to the bottom of your panties now, embarrassingly wet and dripping as he circles your clit with a precision that makes you wary.

His fingers slide down your wet folds, teasing your entrance that clenches around nothing. The callous of one fingertip press inside, barely enough to do anything, and you pull against his resistant shoulders, whining desperately for more. A broken sound creaks from your lungs as he sinks in one finger and then the next inside of your pussy.

“Oh god,” you cry out in what feels like relief, your boots hitching on his hips, mud streaking the denim.

“No one else,” Nanami demands, setting a pace just shy of too slow within you. Water drips from his hair and catches on your collarbone before sliding down between the hint of cleavage of your bodice. His eyes are dark, mahogany depths gone as they take in every flicker of pleasure on your face. “No one else gets to see you like this.”

“I—” you gasp, swallowing around a dry throat parched from your guilt and building pleasure that tingles in your cunt against his fingers. You’re still shivering from the rain, but his touch burns, each stroke of his fingers devastating. Your head falls back as his fingers curl inside of you perfectly, brushing against the spongy wall of your pussy like he’s studied you for centuries and knows just how to pull you apart.

“Look at me,” he demands again, his grip tightening in your hair. When your eyes meet him, you flinch at the intensity of his gaze. There’s an unspoken danger there, a hint of untethered lust that barely overshadows the flickers of guilt he’s trying to keep at bay.

It’s the perfect opportunity for you to take charge of the situation, to pull away and agree that this needs to end now. To grab his wrist and tell him that you don’t need anymore. But—

“Tell me he’s not worthy of this.” His thumb finds your clit, stroking with fervor, fingers sinking deeper inside of you. “Tell me.”

“He’s not—” you choke, your orgasm rounding the corner sharp and fast. “He’s not worthy—oh please, please.”

You have no idea where the words are coming from—surely some deep cavern in your chest where you keep all your desires for him in the dark. But they rise freely now with every curl of his fingers and every desperate sound.

But even as ecstasy threatens to consume you, anguish claws at your heart. The reality of what you’ve done crashes over you in waves, each crest of pleasure tinged with the bitterness of your dishonesty. Nanami worships you with abandon, hypocritical in his touch, his lips whispering possession against yours while you hold back the very essence of who you are.

Another flash of lightning illuminates the room, a rivulet of water sliding down your lower back, a reminder of the storm that drove you to this moment.

“That’s it,” he growls against your mouth, watching as your orgasm begins to shake your body on your desk. “Show me what no one else gets to see.”

You’re so close—so, so close, tumbling on the edge of something that feels like falling and flying. The furrow of concentration between his brows, the raw hunger in his gaze as he watches you come undone—it’s too much. Tears prick at your eyes, blurring your vision as your orgasm builds to a devastating crescendo.

“Let go for me, Dove,” he whispers against your mouth, and that endearment, that tenderness when you’ve been so aggressive with each other—it’s what you finally need to vault over the edge. Your orgasm rips through you, blissful pleasure obliterating everything in its path. You cry out his name, whimpering into his mouth that he takes for a kiss, your body arching into him as release crashes over you in burning waves of fire.

As you slowly come down, you’re left gasping, trembling, utterly wrecked with your gaze locked on his. The magnitude of what’s transpired settles over you like a murky shroud, beautiful and terrible. You’ve never raised your voice at Nanami, just like he never has with you, but these fading moments were overwhelming, with hidden desires being shoved to the front without a barrier to guide them.

You use the feel of his wet shirt as a beacon to keep you rooted in the moment, doing whatever you can to push those guilty thoughts away that waste no time teasing you wickedly. Even now, dripping wet and breathing deeply against you, he’s devastating to look at.

You want to touch him, to make him feel what you just felt, to have the memory of the weight of him in your hands one time before you leave this town forever.

So you slide one hand from his shoulder to reach for his belt, but his fingers catch yours, impossibly gentle, as he stops you from going further. The softness of his touch hurts more than if he had smacked your hand away. It hurts because you see it clearly, so clearly that it makes your chest ache.

Even if you didn’t have another persona, even if you were just the schoolteacher in this town who bakes him pies and makes him smile, his want for you palpable in the air, he would never let himself have this. He would never let himself be completely yours.

The realization smacks you in the face, the flames of your rage that had been put out with his touch now roaring back to life. You’ve been handed yet another opportunity to right your wrongs, and this time you don’t hesitate to snatch it up.

You push him away, sliding off the desk on shaky legs as you yank your hand from his grip.

“This is never going to change, is it?” you ask, voice steady even as your heart stutters out of rhythm. “You’ll always push me away in the name of duty or nobility or whatever excuse helps you sleep at night.”

“I—“ he starts, reaching for you, but you push him away further, savoring the muscles of his chest one last time.

“Save it.” You swallow, squaring your shoulders for what feels like an impossible task. “After today…nothin' needs to happen between us. No more walks home, no more pies or acting like we know somethin' the other doesn’t.” You wrap your arms around yourself, cold and wet now that the heat of his skin is gone. “Because we both know we can’t be friends without wantin' more….and I won’t let you string me along any longer.”

He stands there, dripping, with hands hanging at his sides in defeat. He can’t argue with you, he has no right. And you use his dejection as fuel.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” your words cut like glass in your throat. “I don’t want to see you. You had every opportunity to take me as yours…splayed me on this desk until I had nothing left, and still you…I’ll find someone who isn’t afraid to want me completely. Like you said, it’s what I deserve.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps, but he stays silent. You hate how well you know him—how he’s retreating behind duty been now. That this pain is noble somehow. And you couldn’t agree more.

“I should go,” you whisper, deliberately formal, deliberately final.

The silence stretches between you like a chasm, punctuated only by the sound of rain and thunder outside and the water dripping from your clothes. You wait a moment longer—some foolish part of you hoping that he will fight for this, for you. But Nanami remains silent, his leather vest striking on his wet frame as he stands with rigid shoulders.

“Goodbye, Sheriff,” you mutter, turning away first and gathering what’s left of your dignity.

Your skirts are still heavy, clinging on cold legs that still tremble slightly from your orgasm. Each step feels like you’re traversing through the mud in front of your schoolhouse all over again.

Let him keep his duty. Let him wrap himself in nobility and righteousness while you finish up what’s left of your path in this dusty town.

The storm greets you again when you step outside, immediately soaking you as you make your way to Buttercup’s makeshift stable. The physical discomfort you feel as you gather her reins is nothing compared to the ache in your chest, the knowledge that even without your secrets, the outcome would have been the same.

He doesn’t come out of the schoolhouse. He doesn’t chase after you and drop to his knees for forgiveness. And the reality of it all makes your eyes blur with a fresh wave of tears.

As you race home on Buttercup’s saddle, the rain is harsh on your skin, and the clarity cuts through your emotional haze.

You know what you have to do.

The treasure.

You’ll gather it up, just as you’ve planned all along. But now, it’s not just about helping the town. That thought of freedom no longer seems wary. You’ll get the treasure, yes. You’ll distribute it to the town, giving them the help they need. One final good for the people you’ve grown fond of. And then… then you’ll leave. You’ll disappear, never to return to this place that’s become both heaven and hell to you.

The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through you, but you embrace it. Pain means you’re alive and that what you’ve experienced here matters. You’ll carry it with you, a bittersweet reminder of the life you’re choosing to leave behind.

As your house comes into view and you take it all in, soaked to the skin and shivering, the distant sound of Buttercup whinnying beneath you, you make a vow to yourself.

No more hesitation. No more torn loyalties.

The storm rages on when you finally close your front door, but inside your heart, a strange calm settles over you. You have a plan now. And soon, you’ll have your freedom. Even if it comes at the cost of everything – and everyone – you’ve grown to love.

Thanks for reading! Finale coming soon!

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