#liking how this one is coming along though!

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

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

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

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

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

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

One month. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doing what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

“Want some help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just trust me,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

“You find this amusing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

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

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

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pain hits you like a freight train.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

+++

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

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

You want to hear it again. But not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re home, too.

[woso-dreamzzz]

If You Were My Little Girl II

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Things are looking up

Alexia watches from the stands.

They're mostly empty, like almost all Barcelona B matches.

Women's football has only really started picking up steam recently but only at the top flight. The lower level leagues are still having a bit of a popularity issue.

But Alexia, for once, finds that she doesn't mind.

Because it means she can sit practically alone in the stands as she watches the home match.

A notepad sits on her lap, a pen tapping against the pages thoughtfully as she watches.

Barcelona B are good and Alexia has never expected anything different. She's seen the system at work many times as La Masia churns out players like Aitana and Pina and Jana, and more recently Vicky and Martina.

There's a reason so many clubs wants La Masia products.

They're all good players but even now, Alexia can tell a great player when she sees one.

You rise up among the crowd in the box and slam the ball into the goal, the net rippling with the force of the shot.

The best part, Alexia thinks, is that you didn't even need a moment to control the ball, hitting it in on the volley and grinning as your teammates practically dogpile you.

A hattrick in ten minutes is impressive in any league and Alexia makes another note in her notebook, humming softly to herself.

She rises out of her seat at the end of the match, disappearing into the building and out the doors.

It takes another half an hour for you to appear again, hair damp and an old crew neck sweater that Alexia's pretty sure is Alba's being tugged over your head.

You slip into the passenger seat, throwing your bag into the backseat and Alexia pulls your head down to press a kiss against the side of it.

You smile shyly at her as she offers up the fries she'd bought for a job well done.

"You did good, kid," She says," Very impressive."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. But I think we're going to work on evading slide tackles next," Alexia says as she drives off," We're trying to keep those ankles of yours intact, alright? I'm going to need them this season."

You roll your eyes and Alexia clicks her tongue.

"Don't roll your eyes at me," She says," I've got a good feeling about that meeting later in the week. A great feeling, actually. You should have one too."

"I'm managing expectations."

Alexia looks at you fondly. "Well, we'll see which one of us is right in a few days."

She lets you choose the music in the car, like she always does when you've scored a goal and you pull up to the apartment a lot quicker than you want to seeing as you're in the middle of singing along to your favourite song but, still, you drag yourself out of the car and up the stairs.

"How was the match?" Olga asks as she greets Alexia with a kiss on the lips.

"She did very well," Alexia brags," A hattrick within the first ten minutes and another goal in injury time."

"Exciting," Olga says indulgently as Alexia grins, already giving her running commentary of everything that happened during the match.

You escape though, hurrying to raid the cupboards before Alexia finally comes to her senses and tries to stop you 'spoiling' your dinner.

You don't know if there's any way to thank Alexia for what she's done for you.

Just three months ago, you were convinced that you were going to quit. You had no passion for the game, no hope of what your future was going to be but now all of that had changed.

You had direction. You had a manager. You had new boots and a place to live that wasn't a group home and support and love and everything seemed to be coming together for you.

A toe pokes you in the leg.

"Move."

"Alexia says that if you're trying to nap on her sofa again then I don't have to move," You tell Alba, who huffs and pokes you with her toe again," She also says that you have your own apartment and should stop mooching of us."

"But Olga's a better cook than me," Alba complains and you roll your eyes.

"Aren't you an adult? Even I can cook."

"Yeah but it's not like you could mooch off your sist-"

Alba falls silent quickly and you pretend to not notice what she was going to say for both hers and your own sakes.

The topic of your sister is kind of off limits when you're in the room. It's not completely banned because Alexia's still Jenni's national teammate but she's not really spoken about if you're in the room.

Alba's face flashes with terror for a moment so you pretend you don't notice her slip up ever though it sends a bolt of lightning into your stomach, a deep pit forming there.

It works for the most part, everyone in the house pretending Jenni isn't who she is to you, pretending that she's just Alexia's teammate and not her friend and ex, pretending that Alexia fostering you isn't her walking on a tight rope because Jenni doesn't know.

All Jenni knows is that you didn't quit when she told you to.

Jenni doesn't know that you live with Alexia. Jenni doesn't know anything. You doubt she even thinks about you when she's got a life far away in Mexico.

She lives there, far away from you and your life here in Barcelona.

She lives there and her presence is hardly ever mentioned around you.

Life is good at Alexia and Olga's house. Life is even good at training, though you could do without the smug little smirk Alexia has on her face when she picks you up.

"You already knew!" You accuse her, waving a finger in her face.

"Knew?" She asks, lips curl up in what can only be described as pure smugness," Knew what?"

"Right, who told you? Go on. Who was it?"

Alexia grins. "You do realise I am the captain? Any time they're looking to bring someone in, they ask me my opinion."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah and I'm sure you gave it."

"You're a good player. A great player," Alexia says," All I did was tell them what they already know."

You look down at your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. You want to be mad at her, to yell at her for keeping this from you. Maybe even yell at her for promising to the staff something you're not but you know she hasn't done that.

If she thought you weren't ready, she would have told them that.

But Alexia didn't. She didn't tell them to let you have a bit more time with the B team. She didn't tell them that you don't quite have what it takes.

"Thanks."

Alexia smiles at you as she drives home, a comfortable silence enveloping you both until your hand is on the door handle.

You stop.

"When I open this door, there's going to be a party, isn't there?"

"I may have told Olga...who told Mami...who told Alba...who told the rest of the family..."

"Is that a yes?"

"Possibly..."

"And there's no getting out of this?"

Alexia ruffles your hair, a soft kiss being pressed to the side of your head. "They're here to celebrate you."

You suck in a breath, just ready to turn the handle when the sound of the lift doors opening chimes down the corridor.

Both you and Alexia turn your heads towards.

It's just a fleeting second.

Just a moment.

But your good mood plummets as the door opens.

Alexia's hand tightens on your shoulder, pushing you slightly behind her and putting herself between you and the elevator.

Between you and Jenni.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Could you write about a phone call from Morocco between the reader and rafe the reader really misses him

Lonely in My Mansion || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

gif by @rafeyscurtainbangs

A/n: loooove this!!!

Warnings: none rlly

Word count: 764

MASTERLIST

The sun filtered through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the living room as the movers carefully set the velvet couch in place. You tilted your head slightly, stepping back to admire its placement. It was perfect, exactly how you’d envisioned it when selecting it from the showroom. A satisfied grin spread across your face as you clasped your hands together. “That’s perfect right there,” you said, your voice filled with approval as the movers carefully adjusted it into position.

“Where would you like this painting?” a woman asked, holding a canvas wrapped in protective plastic. Taking a moment, you scanned the room, letting your gaze settle on the wall just above the futon. “Right above that futon—” you began, gesturing toward the spot. But before you could finish your sentence, the vibration of your phone in your pocket interrupted you. Pausing, you slipped it out and glanced at the caller ID. A smile tugged at your lips when you saw the name flashing on the screen.

Rafe. The sight of his name alone filled you with a warm, familiar comfort. “Excuse me for a moment,” you said politely to the woman before stepping into the airy kitchen. Lifting the phone to your ear, you answered the call, your voice bright and eager. “Hello?” “Hey, baby,” Rafe’s smooth, familiar drawl came through the line, and you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. “Hi,” you replied, your voice soft but brimming with energy.

As you spoke, you instinctively reached for the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of freshly made juice for the movers bustling about. “How’s it going? Settling into the house okay?” he asked, his tone warm but with a subtle edge of distraction. “Yeah, yeah,” you replied, glancing back toward the living room where the movers worked. “They’re moving in all the furniture and decorations. It’s coming together nicely,” you added with a light laugh.

“Good, good,” Rafe said, his voice softening for a moment before shifting slightly. “Hey, listen, I need a favour.” You paused, your brows knitting together. “What’s up?” you asked, your tone immediately shifting to one of concern. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine," he reassured you quickly, though the faint tension in his voice didn’t escape your notice. “I just need you to find a pen that Groff gave me. It should be in the kitchen somewhere, in one of the drawers maybe. ”

“A pen?” you repeated, setting the juice pitcher on the counter and scanning the room. You began opening drawers one by one, your eyes darting around for the item. After a moment, you spotted it in the second drawer, its sleek design catching the light. “Found it,” you said, inspecting it curiously. “Perfect,” Rafe said, his voice tinged with relief. “There should be a name of a hotel written on the side. Can you read it out for me?”

Turning the pen over in your hand, you squinted slightly to make out the embossed letters. “Riyadh Mimouna, Essaouira, Maroc,” you read aloud, the foreign words rolling off your tongue carefully. “Okay, great. Yeah, I think I saw a sign for that,” Rafe's voice dropped, the lightness from earlier replaced by something heavier. You leaned against the counter, a faint frown tugging at your lips. “Rafe,” you said gently, “are you sure everything’s okay?” There was a beat of silence on the other end before he let out a breath.

“Yeah,” he said, though the hesitation in his tone made you question it. “I’m just handling some business. Don’t worry, babe. I’ll get it all back with interest.” Your chest tightened slightly at his words, and you instinctively ran your thumb along the edge of the countertop. “Just… be careful, okay?” you said softly, your concern bleeding through your voice. “I will,” he replied, a low chuckle escaping that managed to ease some of the tension. “I promise. I’ll get this wrapped up and come home as soon as I can.”

A playful smile tugged at your lips as you decided to lighten the mood. “It’s so lonely here,” you said dramatically, your voice taking on a teasing lilt. “And the bed is way too big for just me.” You heard him exhale sharply on the other end, followed by a groan. “Babe,” he drawled, his voice rougher now, “don’t do this to me.” “Do what?” you asked, feigning innocence, your grin widening as you bit your bottom lip to stifle a laugh.

“I think you know,” he muttered, a strained chuckle following his words. You laughed softly, leaning more comfortably against the counter. “Maybe,” you teased, drawing out the word just enough to make him groan again. He sighed heavily, his tone reluctant but firm. “I gotta go,” he said, and you could hear the pull of obligation in his voice. “Okay,” you said quietly, your teasing fading into softness. But just as he was about to hang up, you stopped him. “Rafe?”

“Yeah?” he replied immediately. “I love you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but filled with sincerity. “I love you too, baby,” he said without hesitation, the warmth in his voice washing over you like a blanket. “I’ll come home as soon as I can, yeah? Can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place.” “Please do,” you murmured, a soft smile gracing your lips as you held the phone to your ear, lingering for just a moment longer before the line went quiet.

[machveil]

Mmmmmmm loser!simon and short!reader size training mmmmm buying multiple dildos increasing in size in order to slowly train your inside to fit him in mmm maybe dedicating a day inserting the biggest one all day inside to prep and finally try to insert him inside that night mmm maybe loser!simon bursting out just from helping you to take the dildo out of you because it felt so warm and slick from you keeping it snug inside you the whole day and the moment the imagination of what if it was him instead being cockwarmed inside you that whole day- the thought alone made him went feral there and then mmm

hi, oh my god? [blows up]

CW: Fem!Reader, size difference, dildos, size training because Little Lieutenant Riley is big, Loser!Simon Riley is his own warning, oral and fingering (Fem!Receiving), spit

Loser!Simon Riley who desperately wants to be able to bully himself inside you. he doesn’t want to hurt you though, hates the thought of you being in discomfort or forcing yourself to take him. even though he’s tried oral and fingering you, slow, comfortable hours between your thighs, he always stops short of fully burying himself. he can’t, not when your eyebrows cinch and your breathing gets unsteady. he’ll always work you towards an orgasm for trying, you did so good for him, he doesn’t mind a handjob in return or finishing himself off if you’re tired. as much as he wants to feel you he won’t push you to take him

Loser!Simon Riley who buys a dildo for you, straight-faced when he presents it to you - ears flushing a little as he stares at you. he really just wanted you to feel good, he always does, and if he can’t work his cock into you then this will do. he didn’t expect to like it so much, cradling you against him while crooning praise, lips pressed to your forehead while he thrusts the silicone in and out of you. it’s nothing compared to what he’s working with, but watching you take it has him breathing heavily. the mixture of lube, slick, and spit coating the dildo has his attention, the way you cry out when he tilts it at a different angle. warm brown eyes watching the way your legs shake and spasm, making sure to bury the toy to the hilt when you orgasm

Loser!Simon Riley who comes home a week later with a new dildo. a little longer, a little more girth. “S’just a little bigger, yeah? You can handle it.”, he knows you can. he doesn’t mind starting off with his mouth and fingers, crooked nose brushing against your clit as he loses himself in your cunt. he starts you off with the first toy, quiet and patient as the fake tip runs along your slit. there’s something about watching you take it that makes him feel elated, shallow thrusts as he rocks the dildo into you. as much as you’re the one crying out and holding onto him, lost in the euphoria of him hitting all the right nerves, Simon’s sure he’s never been harder. especially when he switches to the new dildo, face flushed and straining against his boxers with how it easily slips into you. he holds you close, nosing at your neck as he picks up the pace, watching how it glides in and out of you

Loser!Simon Riley who’s fascinated watching you take larger dildos, thoughts running wild as he thinks about you taking a toy bigger than him. for now he’s content sitting between your legs, a hand pressing down over your tummy as he works his latest purchase into you. “Think you’ll take me t’night.”, voice gravelly as you whine, eyes glued to the way you’re stretching around the toy. as excited as he is with the thought of finally sliding into you, Simon’s more excited that you agreed to have this dildo in you for the day. he’d take it out if you asked, but he’s already trembling with the image in his mind. it plays out how he envisioned - watching your breath hitch as you try to sit down, the way your legs shake when you walk. it’s a long day, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment when he excuses himself to the bathroom after lunch. he barely managed to pull himself out of his boxers before drenching his hand in pearly cum

Loser!Simon Riley who’s fidgety when you both finally retire to your bedroom. still silent as ever, but he’s eyeing you, a slight twitch to his fingers. once you settle in bed he’s following you, pressing gentle kisses to your face as he shimmies your underwear down, soaked in the middle. he can’t help but trace the base of the toy, thumbs running over the slick silicone. there’s a perverse feeling in his chest when he inches it out, a pathetic whine resonating in his throat from how warm it is. he can’t help but toy with it, dumbly working it in and out of you as he watches it split you open. does he really need to replace it? it’s already made you feel so good, kept you full better than he’s ever done. he doesn’t even register how he’s grinding his hips against the sheets, too caught up in bullying the dildo back into you. he’s moving on autopilot, drools onto the cock in his hand before thrusting it back inside you. the only thing that makes him stop is his orgasm, eyes fluttering shut when you climax around the toy, his hips stuttering as he lowly moans

[luvyeni]

( drabble ) intoxicated ̨ ! ୨୧ 一 방찬 ՞

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ chan comes home drunk with only one thing on his mindヾ

boyfriend!chan・ reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw ・ sex under the influence, unprotected sex, breeding kink, pregnancy talk wc ・ ‎0.8k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

request. can you make one of Bangchan? please, he is drunk and horny after a party and he is obsessed with getting her pregnant ?

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 i loved writing this idk why i hope you like it <3

looking at the clock it was way past midnight when you heard the door open. “baby!” you heard your boyfriends slurred voice. “baby where are you!” you shook your head — shrieking when he came bursting through the door. “baby!” he yelled out. “hi baby!” you laughed at how drunk he was. “hi chan.”

“hi baby.” he smiled, face flushed as he stumbled over his own feet. “not that drunk i swear.” he said, but his actions said otherwise. “i missed you so much.” he kicked his shoes off; unbuckling his pants. “wished you would’ve came out tonight.” taking his shirt off, tossing it. “it was fun.” he clumsily climbed into bed, falling flat on top of you. “bang christopher chan!” you yelled, slapping his bare back. “get off you are heavy.”

“why.” he whined , wrapping his arms around you. “why are you being so mean?” his face pressed against your stomach. “i love you so much and you’re being so mean.” his eyes closed, you shook your head, thinking he was going to fall asleep. “chan let’s lay down now.” you tapped his cheek. “come on baby.”

it was silent; you thought he had actually fallen asleep — that was until you felt his hands lifting up your shirt. “channie what are you doing?” he hummed. “just wanna feel my girl.” he rubbed all along your waist. “you smell nice.” you chuckled. “it’s your body wash.” you ran your fingers through his hair. “i know, but im talking about your natural scent, smell so sweet.” he kissed your bare stomach. “ch-chan.” you warned.

“what?” he said softly, slurring his words. “let’s lay down.” you said, trying to get him to sleep, even though he was slowly turning you on. “o-okay.” he said, before sitting up, quickly pulling you down, your head hitting the pillow. “let’s lay down.” he kissed your neck. “ch-chan you’re intoxicated, we’re not having sex tonight.” he whined against your ear. “you’re not taking advantage of me , i know you feel how much i want you right now.” he took your hand, running it down his abs, down past his waist. “see.” he groaned, placing it on his cock.

“ye-yeah but you’re still not in your right mind.” you didn’t want to egg him on, but he wasn’t having it. “im well in my right mind to know how much i want to put a baby right here.” he pointed to your stomach. “wanna fuck you so full that it has no choice but to stick.” the air was too thick, you could still smell the alcohol on his breath. “let me finally put a baby in you.” his hand working into your panties. “chris.” you moaned. “see you’re so wet, you want this, you want to be fucked full of my babies.” he groaned. “let me do that.” his fingers slipped into your dripping cunt. “gonna get you pregnant tonight.”

chan was insatiable when he was sober, but it was nothing compared to when he was drunk. you were on your 4th orgasm, chan on his second; the clock beside you was almost at 2:30 am, but he didn’t plan on stopping — determined to have you swollen with his kid by the end of the night. “fu-fuck baby.” he groaned, his hips snapping against yours. “fuck i love this sweet pussy so much.” he groaned, his face flushed. “chan.” you moaned out. “so fucking tight , taking my fat cock like the good girl you are.”

he was pinning you to the bed as he plowed into you. the squelching noises from your previous orgasms filling up the room. “fuck you hear that baby -fuck- you pretty pussy is talking to me.” he huffed. “she wants to be bred so bad , she crying for my cock.” his necklace dangling in front of you. “you wanna cum for me?” you nodded dumbly, you were now intoxicated but not like alcohol, but his cock, you sobbed out. “so bad.”

“cum for me.” he whispered in your ear. “fuck chan!” you screamed out, you sweet juices spraying all over his abdomen. “ye-yes fuck baby.” he groaned. “fuck cum all over me.” he continued you to fuck you. “that’s it -fuck- fuck me im gonna cum again.” he moaned, cock twitching as his filled you up for the third time that night. “fuck im gonna breed you , fill you with my seed, give you a pretty baby.” he groaned. “fuck i love you so much.”

feeling his warm cum pouring inside you, he sighed falling against you, your bodies sticking together. “chan , channie get up we have to clean ourselves.” you could feel his heart beating as he softly snored on top of you. you ran your fingers through his sweaty wet hair. “told you , you were tired.” you kissed the top of his head. “you big goof, you know you can’t hold your alcohol.” he wrapped his arms around you , holding you close. “sleep now.” you chuckled. “fine.” you said, finally drifting off to sleep.

almost a week later the two of you were standing over the sink in your bathroom , a positive pregnancy test sitting right in front of you.

©️LUVYENI

[playnextdoor]

Like old times

summary: Abby loves on you like old times

cw: mom!abby x mom!reader, drinking and intoxication (Abby), mentions of reader breastfeeding, kissing, fingering (r! receiving), cunnilingus (r! receiving), fucking on the couch yasssss, cursing, proofread-ish

You’re almost rocking yourself to sleep, the book forgotten on the floor, as your little one drifts off. Her tiny snores escape from the delicate pout of her lips, her face completely relaxed. Abby had offered to put her down for the night, but you’d refused. Abby’s bedtime attempts usually end with the baby happily babbling away and Abby falling asleep in the crib or getting so riled up that you have to step in, separating the two like mischievous kids in a class. But now, the room is peaceful, your feet gently kicking the rocking chair back and forth as your eyes flutter closed.

Abby, coming from the kitchen with a glass of wine, shuffles towards the nursery. She was on her second glass, feeling fine. Okay, maybe she was feeling a bit tipsy, the rosy tint on her cheeks evident, and the way she was smiling to herself. She liked to make the excuse of drinking for you, breastfeeding getting in the way of having a nice glass of vino at the end of the night with your wife. You also didn’t like wasting any of your production; your freezer was packed with frozen packs of breast milk. 

Abby grips the doorknob as she quietly enters the nursery, not expecting to see you still rocking the little one after 15 minutes. Your eyes open as you hear the door open, seeing your wife's sweet smile, body leaning comfortably against the door frame. Her blonde locks braided down the side, loose strands framing her face so nicely. Your eyes shift down to the glass in her hand, oddly full from when you were last with her. “Another?” you ask, voice soft but not bothering to whisper so Abby can hear you. The blonde shrugs with a sheepish smile that has you softly laughing.

“I was coming to get my girl back,” she says, pushing herself off the door frame and taking one last sip before placing the glass carefully on the changing table. She peeks to see if your little one is sleeping, even though she has been asleep for the last 5 minutes. Abby leans down and places a kiss on your baby's lips, then places one on yours. “I was wondering what you wanted me to make?” she whispers, asking permission as she gently cradles the baby in her arms. As expected, your baby girl stirs, whining as she rubs her face, Abby starts to rock her on her way to the crib, making quiet shushing noises. This gently calms her down, settling down nicely as Abby places her on her back in the crib.

“I was gonna strangle you if she woke up,” you murmur, rising from the rocking chair with a gentle sway. You step closer, wrapping your arms around Abby’s strong waist and pulling her against you. Your fingers find hers, intertwining naturally as she continues to rock back and forth, the slight sway of her body betraying the wine in her system.

You press a series of soft kisses along her back, your voice muffled as you add, “I just want a coke.”

Abby nods, smiling to herself. She’d expected you to ask for your usual margarita mocktail, but the quiet comfort of the moment feels indulgent enough.

“I was actually thinking…” she begins, turning swiftly to face you, guiding your arms to loop around her neck. Her hands glide gently up and down your arms, soothing and warm, as your fingers play with the end of her braid, tugging lightly at the hair elastic.

Now that you’re facing her, you take in the deep flush on her cheeks—whether from the alcohol or the way you make her feel, probably both. Her steel-blue eyes are darkened, almost black, a sign of how tipsy she is.

She leans in and presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of your mouth, her touch so tender it makes you both giggle softly. The laughter is hushed, careful not to disturb the baby sleeping just a few inches away.

Without saying another word, her actions speak louder than words. Her leg slips between yours, her hand drifting dangerously close to your lower back, teasing at your hip.

"Okay, you're drunk. Since when did you become a lightweight?” you tease, your hands drifting down her back. With a playful grin, you pinch at the soft curve of her hips. She hisses then pinches back at your arm, her eyes narrowing in mock warning.

“I picked this up from a coworker after work today. Her family owns a winery,” she explains, nodding as if to emphasize her point. Then, she leans in to place a proper kiss on your lips, the tart taste of the wine lingering on her mouth. It’s intoxicating, and you can’t help but let out a small whine when she pulls away too quickly.

Her finger gently brushes against your bottom lip before your tongue darts out to lick the tip of her index finger in a playful, teasing motion. “I think,” she murmurs, her voice warm, “when I saw how sexy you looked just now, the wine really hit me.”

You screw your face up in confusion that has Abby covering her mouth as she stifles her laugh. Your hair is messy as hell, one of Abby’s shirts you stole when you first started dating is now filled with stains of breastmilk and spit up; your sweatpants are nearly two sizes too big for you as they pool on the floor around your slippers. You genuinely didn't see what Abby saw, and that was fine with her, having her own way of reminding you, like now. 

“Let me fuck on the couch like old times, please,” her whispers brush against the shell of your ear, followed by a dulcet kiss just below your lobe that draws a low groan from you, muffled against her hair. She doesn’t stop there—her lips trail along the length of your neck, leaving a series of soft kisses punctuated by gentle bites. Each nip is quickly soothed by the warmth of her tongue, sending shivers through you.

Your grip on her tightens instinctively as your knees threaten to give in, her every touch leaving you unsteady.

“Abby, please.” Your fingers rake through the messy braid to gently yank her head back to look at her. A devious smile is plastered on her face that has you placing a couple of kisses on it.

Looking everywhere but her eyes, always a bit too shy as this side of Abby. She makes an exception for now, picking you up with ease and grabbing her wine glass as she makes her way with you out of the nursery to the couch. She drops you off, bouncing slightly as you watch Abby's hungry eyes. She takes another sip before placing the glass down on the coffee table. Her hands reach around her as she slips her sweater off, sports bra still on. Your wife practically dives in between your legs, hurriedly slipping off your ginormous sweats. You prop yourself on your elbows as you watch her, helping as your hips lift off the couch, sweats are now forgotten on the living room floor. 

“I need to taste you, fuck,” her voice murmurs against your clothed cunt, placing a kiss on your clit before pushing your underwear to the side. You gasp at her crudeness, legs caging her head as you feel yourself wanting to hide. Her hands reach up to find yours, intertwining with the left as she uses the right to run her two fingers up and down your soaked slit. Abby hisses, watching as your hole clenches as her fingers play with you. Whines and moans fill the living space, both from you and Abby, not caring about being too loud. Her tongue flattens against your cunt, licking a slow stripe from your hole to your clit. Throwing your head back as your fingernails create small crescent indentations.

“Fuck Abby, please,” The feeling of need and desperation swirls in your stomach as you feel her tongue burry itself on the hood of your clit. The muffled laughs vibrate through you as she hears your squeaks of pleasure, looking up to get a look at you. She watches as you don't know what to do with yourself, from looking down at her to squeezing your eyes shut as it feels too overwhelming. Smiling to herself, your wife buries herself further, licking, slurping, purposely producing these provocative noises between your legs.

As she slips her index finger inside you, soft mewls come tumbling out.

"I know," she slurs, her mouth finding your clit as she suckles onto it. Her left hand, long forgotten, comes to pry your thighs open as you are on the verge of suffocating her, knowing she probably doesn't mind one bit. You bite back a moan as you bring the back of your hand to your mouth, stifling your moans as you feel her finger and mouth work you out.

“Can I put another?” a hoarse voice startles you from your trance, feeling her second finger prodding at your entrance. You nod too eagerly, watching as Abby slips her first finger out, and then she slips the two in with ease. A small smile decorates her lips as she's rewarded with your soft gasps. The way your chest rises, the slight jerk of your hips chasing after her tongue boosts Abby's ego even more, rightfully so.

She notices you’re close—the tremble in your legs, the way your body melts deeper into the couch, and the frantic bucking of your hips. Every motion tells her just how desperate you are, amplified by the obscene, wet clicking sounds as Abby expertly finds that perfect spot. Your cries, raw, your hands darting to her hair, gripping so tightly it’s almost painful. Yet, the way Abby’s eyes roll back in ecstasy tells you she’s reveling in every second of it.

Abby doesn’t need any reminders on how you like it—her fingers pick up speed, curling just right as her head bobs in rhythm. Your hips buck instinctively, chasing the blissful friction as Abby works you with precision.

You glance down, expecting to meet her gaze, but she’s completely focused, lost in her own world. Her eyes are shut, brows furrowed in deep concentration, every movement calculated as she brings you closer to where you desperately need her. “Right there, right there,” you chant breathlessly.

You come with a cry, literally. A tear runs down your face as Abby has to launch herself on top of you to shut you up, hand finding your mouth as she muffles your cries. You whimper into her hand as her fingers continue to abuse your clit. “Let yourself go, baby,” whispering as she slows her fingers down, fingers creeping down to collect the slick that's spilling out of you, then coming back to play with your clit again. Littering your face with kisses, trying to catch your breath as small whimpers manage to slip out. You reach down and push her hand away, feeling too sensitive for her torture. Abby laughs before wiping her fingers on her pants, placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

“When did you get so good, fuck” whispering as you tucked the loose hairs behind her ear, hand trembling as you cupped her cheek. She laughs as she kisses your hand, snuggling closer to it.

“I told you, I get drunk on this pussy” Soft breath tickles your hand as she makes her way to hide in your neck, sighing with comfort as she places featherlight kisses there. You playfully smack her back, causing her to jump in surprise.

“oh my goddddddd, please stop,” you laugh, burying yourself in her hair as you feel your face heat up. 

“I just ate you out, and I’m still gonna fuck the shit out of you, why are you acting all shy?” Abby whispers, her tone sincere and free of teasing as if she genuinely wants to understand. You’ve always been like this—shy when it comes to dirty talk and even shyer when Abby explicitly describes the things she does to you. No matter how much you trust her, you can’t help but cringe and bury your face further.

“You’re hotter when you have your mouth shut, you know,” you tease, slipping a finger in and snapping her sports bra back into place. The action makes her sit up with a sharp gasp, her legs straddling you as she looks down at you.

“The way you get fucking soaked says otherwise..” she gets cut off as you throw a pillow in her face with an ‘oof’. The air around the two of you shifts, a glint of something primal in Abby’s eyes as she starts to tackle you. It’s good that the coffee table is pushed far back, the two of you falling onto the floor with a thump.

“This isn’t fair, you’re on top of me!” You managed to get out as Abby tried to trap your swinging hands, blowing a few punches at her chest already. You loved your wife’s meaty muscles, she was built like an ox. But it is times like these when you wish she showed you some mercy. The weight of her body having you glued to the floor, the carpet below your ass, is on the verge of giving you a rug burn. “Stop, stop! My ass, babe!”

Your daughter’s shrill voice cuts through your playful wrestling. Without hesitation, you jab Abby square in the chest.

“Ow!” she wheezes dramatically, clutching her ribs as she falls back.

“You’ll survive,” you retort, a smile plastered on your lips as you grab a blanket to drape over yourself, scrambling to check on your daughter.

“Love to see you go, hate to watch you leave!” Abby calls after you, still sprawled on the floor. She doesn’t even attempt to get up, her laughter following you as you disappear into the nursery.

a/n: this took a lot longer than it needed to be, sorry i like to prioritize my studies lmao. inbox is open for requests.... say hi or give me your horny or nonhorny thoughts on arcane thanks

[treeguzzler]

was up at 4am thinking about megumi🗣️

look me in the eyes and tell me that megumi doesn’t get jealous when he sees you on his bed, body in his shirt (which you look absolutely stunning in), wrapped all snug in his blanket…

… cuddling with his divine dogs.

megumi isn’t normally a jealous person— why would he need to be jealous when he’s got you by his side?

but the way your high pitched giggles filled the room’s atmosphere, paired with the two divine dogs on each side of you, stirs something in him. yeah, sure, it’s a heart squeezing (in a good way) sight to behold— a sight that megumi would take in bit-by-bit, savoring it— it takes every centimeter, no, every nanometer of his being not to keel over, clutching his left chest in pure adoration of his partner and cooing at the sight. he’d be a sinner to even think that the glorious sight in front of him didn’t make him want to drop to his knees and worship your very being.

but a sinner he shall be.

his girl, his girl, the very woman he devoted his heart, soul and very being to every second he was breathing, was currently busy showering his shikigami with love, honeyed coos and words along the lines of “good doggies!” spilling out of her mouth while said ‘doggies’ were slobbering her cheeks with drool. (why did he even summon his divine dogs again?)

though he too, did adore (once again, something he wouldn’t say out loud) his divine dogs, he couldn’t help but feel like he should have let them be destroyed by a curse in a mission. (intrusive thoughts)

sure, they were his shikigami. with a flick of a finger could he have them be gone from sight, leaving all your attention to be focused onto him. but for some odd reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do that. it wasn’t because he loved you (believe me, he does, and would continue to do so even if the sky were to fall and the ground give way to the curses), but it was because he felt… what was the word now? domestic? he didn’t know how to properly phrase what he was thinking about at the moment, having not felt this feeling for majority of his childhood. there was only a subtle gnawing feeling in his chest, but not the bad type of feeling. (it might not make sense but) it was the type of feeling that whispered in his ear:

she’s the one.

as megumi’s usually sharp gaze softened into something much more fonder (he looked at you as if you just went to outer space and picked out a star to bring back for him because he said stars were pretty), he really couldn’t help but wonder what he had truly done to deserve such an adorable sight to be put in front if his eyes.

damn, should he just wife you up the second you both reach the legal age?

“h-hey! ‘gumi c’mere and cuddle! they want you too!”

“huh? oh yeah coming…”

oh how megumi wishes he could wife you up right at that moment.

[deathbxnny]

hey i was wondering if you could do how arcane characters would react to seeing their partner looking really good dressed up?? also i love ur writing!!

Arcane characters reacting to their s/o dressed up really pretty. | Vi, Ekko, Jinx x Gn!Reader

Thank you for the request, Anon, and I hope you'll enjoy this!!<3

Content: Established romantic relationships, fluff, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VI

"Ooh... where are we going?" A wide grin rested on her lips as she watched you put on your fancy shoes and straighten out the last details of your pretty attire. "I'm going out with a couple friends." In other words, she was not invited. But Vi couldn't hear you over the sound of her mind spinning with many different thoughts.

Humming, she leaned against a wall next to you, intensely dark eyes staring you down with a glint that made you shake your head in defiance. "No." "Oh come on, Cupcake! Do you really have to go out today? I mean... I can go along. It's dangerous around this time of the night and-" "-Viiii. I can take care of myself." She pouted at your clear disagreement, hardly attempting to even hide how much she loved the way you looked.

"Aw... please? At least let me tag alone so I can show you off to everyone." Typical. And yet, you had a hard time denying her anything when her hands suddenly sneaked around your waist so smoothly. She always got what she wanted out of you in the end. Not that you necessarily minded.

"Fineeee... but keep your hands to yourself around them." You huff out whilst your heart warmed a t the sight of pure excitement on her face. But the slyness in her smirk didn't leave as she gratefully kissed your cheek and let go. "Can't promise you that when you're looking so good, unfortunately... but I'll try. For now."

Rolling your eyes with a smile, you let her happily run off to get ready, glad that she enjoyed your outfit a lot.

》EKKO

He was stunned at the sight of you emerging from the bedroom, fully dressed up so beautifully it left him speechless. The Firelights were having a huge festival in celebration of a recent successful mission, and of course, you were both expected to look your best. And you weren't the type to ever disappoint either.

It was rare to see you dressed up so nicely, the cute outfit being one he had only seen a small couple of times before due to your line of work and life circumstances. But in his mind, you looking so good was a sign of success. He wanted you to be able to dress that way every day, perhaps another motivation of his to continue going.

"How do I look?" You ask, the nervous tone in your voice making his eyes soften even further. "You look great. Who are you trying to impress, hm?" His words were playful as he grabbed your waist carefully. Ekko mirrored the shy smile that crept onto your lips at his question. "A certain someone. I don't think you know him, though." You played along, watching as he raised a brow with an unimpressed smirk.

"Hm... maybe we shouldn't go out then-" "-Oi! Why are you guys taking so long? Let's get going." Scar's voice made you both jump, as he appeared in the doorway and waved you over. A sly smirk crept onto your face as you quickly followed after the man. "Ah, there he is! See ya around, Ekko!" "Hey! I'll remember this-!" Running after you two, he couldn't help but laugh a little.

The festival was going to be great, to say the least.

》JINX

You were just trying out some new clothes you had gotten. Nothing special and definitely not for anyone else's eyes, except for hers. Once you were done, you were quick to hunt down your girlfriend to show her your outfit. "Jinx! How do I look?" You asked, a happy smile on your lips as you now stood next to her, whilst she tinkered away on some projects. Removing her googles, she glanced up at you and blinked in surprise, near speechless for a moment.

Nervously shifting under her intense gaze, you wondered if she didn't like it. "Uhm... should I go change or-" "-You look really good..." She muttered thoughtfully before a large grin crept onto her lips mischievously. "A bit too good! Makes me nearly jealous, pretty. How about you dress me up too so we can match?" You should have honestly seen this coming, as she enjoys doing cute things like that with you.

And so, you did as she asked, whilst she painted your nails to match her own. By the end of it, you looked like you were headed to a fancy event, something she found greatly amusing. Kicking a nearby radio to make it play music, she held out her hand to you with a bright smile. "Alright, let's get this party started!"

[joelsgoldrush]

➽ summary: To love is to cherish, to endure, to fight. But to love is also to forget—at least, for you and Logan. Despite countless attempts to erase the part of yourselves that yearns to find completion in each other, you always end up back where it all began: the moment your eyes first met his—the moment everything changed.

➽ word count: 12.4k words

➽ warnings/tags: mdni smut 18+ angst. fluff. feels. enemies to lovers. petnames. multiple focalizors/POVs. memory loss. x1 logan. mutant!reader. flashbacks. dirty talk. oral (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. unprotected p in v. missionary. doggy. creampie. cum swallowing.

➽ a/n: inspired by “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind”, one of the most hauntingly beautiful (and life-changing) films ever made. i took some creative liberties when it came to charles' powers, so just follow along. i’d love to know your thoughts on this one, hope you like it as much as i do! <3

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned.

Alexander Pope.

Logan thinks Jean is speaking to him, but her words dissolve into fragments, lost before they reach him. Her reddish lips shape the vowels and consonants with precision, yet the meaning is drowned out by the pulse in his ears. She’s agitated, her long strides barely matching his pace, heels striking the wooden floor in a staccato rhythm.

A few children peek their heads out from their rooms, curiosity tugging at their expressions as the tension unravels in the hallway. Had it always stretched this far into eternity? It feels as though he’s been walking it for centuries now.

If Jean Grey is the embodiment of grace and intellect, then Logan carries the weight of all the world’s stubbornness. It clings to him like a birthright. Defying her beliefs—or anyone’s—is as instinctual as breathing. She’s trying to dissuade him, to talk him out of this reckless act: asking Charles to meddle in what she’s called his personal issues. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, focusing instead on the steady cadence of his steps toward the man’s office, each one heavier with purpose.

Jean’s voice grows sharper, her warnings echoing in his mind. This is a mistake. You’ll regret it. You’ll want to undo it. Don’t be stupid, Logan. Don’t do this to her—don’t do this to yourself.

But her protests are futile. The cards have already been laid out. Only meters from the door, he comes to a sudden halt. Jean, caught mid-stride, almost stumbles into his back. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers across her face. Maybe, just maybe, she’s convinced him to reconsider. A tentative smile begins to form on her lips, until he turns to her with a look so unyielding, it steals the breath from her lungs.

She has never seen him like this. This resolute, this… haunted. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed so tightly it seems etched in stone. There’s no trace of relief or satisfaction in his expression. Only the grim determination of a man about to pass a point of no return.

Why is he doing this? Soon, there will be hands prying into his thoughts, a marauder pulling apart his memories. Think about her. Now think about this moment. What do you remember? Each memory bearing your name, inked into his unconscious, will be inspected, cataloged, and then erased.

A mind already scarred will be stripped even further, the void swallowing everything. It has to come from a place of self-loathing, he thinks, because no reasonable explanation suffices. Perhaps he’s always been this broken, this damaged, and it was only a matter of time before he sought refuge in the very solution that had once been his calvary.

“I’ve made my choice,” he says with a tilt of his head which aims to deliver a tacit message: stay back. Don’t follow me. I have to do this. I need to.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks to himself, to willingly want to forget, to crave oblivion. To stop caring.

His fist hovers over the door, but he doesn’t have to knock. Charles’s been waiting for him. His voice resonates behind Logan’s eyelids, calm and inescapable. Come in.

“Coward.”

That’s the last thing he hears before he steps into the office, leaving her behind.

The first time you saw him, he was a contained storm, seconds away from coming undone in front of a rather small audience. Hardly the most convenient introduction.

You were in Charles’ office, attending one of his Physics lessons—not because you needed to. He’d already taught you these principles long ago, in a different time, under different circumstances. But lately, Charles had been trying to delegate some of his responsibilities, hoping to carve out time for the pressing matters that demanded his full attention. Ever the sweetheart, you’d offered to help, stepping in to take over this class.

Which is why you spent those past few weeks studying him—not just his teaching style, but the way he presented the topics: the analogies he drew, the subtle inflections in his tone. You’d promised yourself perfection, committed to live up to his standard, and that was exactly what you were working toward.

The sound of a door slamming shattered the flow of the lesson. A man burst into the room as though escaping from some unseen predator, shutting the door with a loud, final thud. He didn’t turn to face you. Instead, he lingered by the door, chest pressed against it, his ragged breathing filling the silence. The students abandoned whatever fragments of attention they had left for the class—this new stranger was far more compelling.

And, truthfully, he’d caught your attention, too.

You hesitated, fists clenching slightly at your sides, bracing for something you couldn’t name. A familiar voice cut through your thoughts, grounding you: This is the man I’ve been telling you about.

Apparently, this was Logan Howlett in the flesh. You certainly didn’t expect Charles’ newest recruit to look like this. 

“Good morning, Logan,” Charles greeted him when the man finally spun around. From this distance, you could see the tension carved into his features, the crease in his forehead betraying his distress. Charles, still composed, redirected his focus to the students. “I’d like your definitions of weak and strong anthropic principles on my desk on Wednesday, all right? That’ll be all.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, gathering their belongings in a flurry of notebooks and murmured goodbyes, barely sparing you a glance as they shuffled out. You offered them a tight-lipped smile, lifting a hand in acknowledgment, but your attention was drawn elsewhere. Logan was looking at you—or rather, through you—with a gaze that felt assessing. You never quite met his eye.

He stood there barefoot, dressed only in a sweater and sweatpants, his breath still uneven. Disoriented. His eyes swept across the room, his expression distant yet guarded, as though he was questioning the reality of it all. Considering the way he carried himself, it almost seemed like this was his first encounter with other mutants—but you knew better.

At some point, Charles decided to break the tension. “I’m Charles Xavier,” he began, his tone inviting. “Would you like some breakfast?”

But, of course, his cordiality and kindness were dismissed, being met with a gruff, “Where am I?”

“Westchester, New York,” Charles replied evenly, maneuvering his wheelchair closer. “You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention.”

You hadn’t been part of the mission that led to this moment; that had been Scott and Storm. In fact, you hadn’t even met Logan or the girl they’d brought with him—Rogue, as you later learned. Although at the time, rooted in the aftermath, you stepped forward, bridging the distance between yourself and Logan. You extended a hand toward him, offering your name with a cautious smile. “Nice to meet you.”

The gesture lingered awkwardly in the air, refusing even the pretense of acknowledgment. His eyes locked on yours, piercing and unrelenting, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was his way of dissecting you. Then his gaze shifted back to Charles, impatience dripping from every word he uttered. “I don’t need medical attention. Where’s the girl?”

Oh. So that’s how he wants to play this. You withdrew your hand, doing your best to mask the sting of rejection as you pivoted on your heels and returned to your place beside Charles. “Jerk,” you muttered, low enough that it almost drowned beneath your breath, fussing with your sleeves in a vain effort to seem unaffected.

He didn’t miss it. His expression hardened, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Come again?”

To end the exchange right there, Charles cleared his throat, effectively steering the conversation into a different direction. Seizing the opportunity, he wheeled himself closer to the brown-haired man, his composure intact. What you admired about him was his self-control, something you’d tried to master in the years spent under his guidance without success. Yet, you couldn’t fathom how he managed not to tell Logan to just fuck off. “About Rogue, she’s doing fine.”

Logan arched a brow, his sneer cutting through the air like a blade. “Really?” You couldn’t grasp how he could hold so much bitterness toward a person he barely knew. His voice was thick with condescension, and a dozen sharp retorts swirled in your mind, each one eager to escape your lips. Your mouth parted to respond on Charles’ behalf, but he beat you to it.

“You’re in my school for the gifted. For mutants.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the dense air. Even the act of breathing felt strained, a soundless tug-of-war for the air around you. “You do know you’re not the only one with gifts, don’t you?”

“Is that what you tell those kids?” Logan’s scoff was a window into his beliefs. “That they have gifts?” 

“It’s no more than the truth.”

“Yeah? Truth my ass.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The words escaped you before you could stop them, fury flaring in your chest. You stepped forward, the crackling heat of frustration coursing through your veins, ending in your fingertips. His blank stare only fanned the flames. “We took you in. We saved your life. How about showing a little fucking gratitude?”

Logan advanced, and his eyes bored into yours with a stinging glint of smugness. “I don’t remember asking to be saved.”

Your jaw tightened. You could’ve cracked a tooth as well. “Well, the least you can do is not act like a complete prick.”

A hand encircled your wrist, its grip firm but soothing. Charles’ touch anchored you, grounding you back in the moment. Your breath faltered, tearing your gaze away from Logan’s eyes to meet Charles’ calm expression.

“Don’t be so hard on our guest, my dear,” he murmured, as if the hostility in the room didn’t exist. It could’ve also been that he was too practiced at disarming it. He didn’t bother to glance at Logan, speaking as though the man was just a shadow. “Give him some time. He needs it.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you bowed your head. You sidestepped Logan without another word, avoiding his presence like he was a flame that threatened to scorch. The tension clung to your skin, and you flung the room.

From that day on, Logan becomes the only subject you seem capable of discussing.

It’s everything about him—his walk, his voice, the sheer audacity of his existence—that drives you to the brink of madness. You tell yourself to let it go, to not let it eat away at you, but your mind refuses to cooperate. Each day, it does a stellar job of reminding you that you now share the same roof as a man with forks for hands.

Logan is, undeniably, the source of your every frustration.

“He’s an idiot,” you grumble around a bite of your lunch, settling into one of the chairs in the kitchen. Scott, Ororo, and Jean are gathered around the table with you, savoring a rare break before the afternoon classes pull them back into their routines. “I can confirm it.”

“Trust me, we know,” Ororo snaps, her tone more cutting than you expected. The words catch you off guard, and you pause, napkin halfway to your lips, to lift your eyebrows in surprise. “Look, I’m sorry,” she continues, her voice softening just a fraction, “but could you please talk about something else? It’s been Logan this, Logan that, for weeks now.”

“I think I understand what she means,” Scott chimes in, his tone lighter, nearly playful. You lift your hand for a high five, and he obliges with a grin, stealing a laugh from you.

“See? He gets it!”

Leaning back in his chair, your friend shakes his head. “I must admit I don't like the guy either. He’s—”

Jean’s elbow shoots out, jabbing Scott in the ribs just as Logan crosses the kitchen threshold. Scott’s indignant “Hey!” is muffled by your exaggerated cough, though it does little to mask the smirk threatening to break across your face.

How does the saying go? Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Logan’s eyes sweep across the room, his silence louder than the faint hum of the refrigerator. He strides toward the cupboard with methodical ease, and Storm bites her lip to stifle a laugh once she catches you watching him far longer than you should have. His back muscles tense and flex as he stretches his arms, the white tank clinging tighter with every movement.

“Please, don’t stop talking just because of me,” he remarks, his voice gravelly as he rummages through the cupboard, his focus presumably on some elusive snack. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Your response comes out of instinct, words laced with irritation. “It’s hard not to,” you retort curtly, putting down your sandwich with a firm slap of your palms against your jeans.

That gets his attention. Logan turns around to confront you, a flicker of amusement twitching at the edges of his mouth. It’s that toothy smile of his that sets your blood simmering. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You jump to your feet, matching his intensity. “Such a pity I can’t say the same about you.” Without missing a beat, you step closer, snatching the bag of chips he’s holding. Hiding them behind your back, tilting your head in mock innocence, and then saying, “Oops.”

His brows draw upward, though his tone stays measured, as if speaking to a child. “C’mon,” he replies, making a half-hearted grab for the bag. “How old are you? Twelve?”

Unable to suppress the grin threatening to break free, you rest your back against the counter. “We both know you can do much better than that.”

Already preparing yourself for the lecture Ororo’s going to unload on you the moment he leaves, you watch as Logan exhales sharply. His irritation is palpable in the way he leans in, one hand planting itself on the counter behind you, his frame eclipsing yours. The proximity is electric, his scent, a mix of leather and something woodsy, fogging your senses. Hazel eyes, so deep you could drown in them, peer down at you, as he attempts to strip away every layer you’re desperately trying to hold together.

Safe to say, it’s working. Damn it. 

“Alright,” he finally says, tapping his fingers against the cool surface. “What do you want from me?”

Your galloping heartbeat is a major detail you choose to ignore, instead turning to the others for support. With an exaggerated motion, you point to each of your friends in turn. “Ororo and Scott were the ones who found you that day,” you start, trailing off, “and Jean ran a ton of tests on you to make sure you were okay. Have you even bothered to thank them for their hospitality?”

You believe you can joke with him—it’s how you usually bond with others, how most of your friendships have started. But you can’t help questioning if Logan can even get your sense of humor. The room falls silent, and his eyes flicker, just briefly, to your friends. 

“You’re right, you’re right. My bad, princess.” One of his big, manly lands on your shoulder, the pressure of it too casual, too familiar, working the muscle there. Your fingers slacken around the bag of chips, the feeling of his touch making it harder to maintain your grip. “Guys, I’m deeply sorry for my lack of amiability. Hope you can forgive me.” The sarcasm is thick in his voice, but it’s the sensation that clings to you, that doesn’t seem to fade—the warmth of it seeping through the layers of your clothes, pressing into your skin, stubbornly refusing to fade.

His hand leaves only when he yanks the bag from your grasp, and the warmth that had been just beside you evaporates with his retreat. In an instant, he’s already pulling away, his parting words a careless “See you around,” tossed over his shoulder.

No one dares to speak after that. Because to speak would be to acknowledge what has just happened. Your stomach has turned into a knot, that kind of knot sailors make that are impossible for beginners to undo. Logan’s fingers left a burn in your shoulder. Can you still smell him, the trail he left? Scott is the first to speak after a minute or so. “What… was that?”

“I have no clue,” Jean says between bites, staring reflectively at you. “Care to elaborate?”

Your tongue feels heavy, your throat parched. Even if you tried, a rational explanation wouldn’t come.

Ever since you were a child, you had yearned to grow up, to experience love as only adults could. In your young, unformed mind, it all seemed like a simple equation: adults dated; adults embraced love in the flesh; adults reveled in freedoms that children could only dream of, waiting patiently for their time to come.

And you did grow up. You did fall in love. But now he’s forgotten you, and nothing could have prepared you for that kind of ending. It wasn’t the closure you would have chosen, not the goodbye you imagined for you and Logan.

You find yourself caught in the in-between—not quite a child, yet not fully an adult either. Because surely, an adult would know how to handle this pain. An adult would find a way to cope. But you feel small. Weak. Hopeless.

It leaves you wondering just how much you are willing to forsake.

More weeks go by, and Logan remains in the mansion, defying the departure you’d expected. Part of you is relieved. He moves through the halls like a shadow, his eyes always on Rogue: checking on her, observing her interactions with the rest of the students at the mansion. She’s thriving, really. Blending in with her peers, forming bonds, especially with a boy named Billy. They are quite the pair.

Yet, despite Rogue’s happiness, Logan can’t seem to shake the grim air that surrounds him, an aura that emanates a quiet kind of disgust.

One night, you’re flipping through channels in the living room, stopping when an old love movie catches your attention. You place the remote down on a cushion, and pull your knees up to your chest, the murmur of the characters’ voices the only sound in the otherwise hushed room. You don’t think anyone else is awake at this hour.

 “Can’t sleep?”

There he is again. Always intruding, always finding his way back to you. The predator creeping into the vixen’s nest. He moves closer, slowly, and you lift your gaze to him, replying, “Actually, I’m a sleepwalker.”

Your comment earns a half-smile from Logan as he drops onto the couch beside you, his leg brushing against yours momentarily, worn denim against bare skin. His attention shifts to the TV, to the grainy images of the film playing out. You steal a glance at him, tracing the hard lines of his side profile.

“Feelin’ romantic tonight?” he asks.

“Not precisely,” you retort, fingers toying with the frayed edges of the blanket pooled at your feet. “There’s nothing else on. Sometimes you have to make do with what’s there.” Your gaze drifts back to him, lingering just a second too long before you add, “What about you? Any ghosts keeping you up?”

“You could call them that,” he says after a pause, his face still angled away. It must be easier to speak to you with this thin, invisible wall between you. “I have nightmares.”

“So you’re the one screaming at two in the morning?”

“Exactly. That’s me.” He ends up meeting your gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, harboring an emotion he doesn’t voice. “M’sorry if I ever woke you up.”

“I’m usually awake at that time, too.” Your eyes flick to the screen. The couple in the movie bursts out of a building into the rain, their body language unmistakably revealing the heated argument unfolding between them. The man, clad in a raincoat, removes it to cover the woman, his supposed girlfriend. She’s visibly upset, but accepts the gesture nevertheless. “You can always knock on my door if you need anything. Unless I’m snoring—then I’ll be useless.”

Logan clicks his tongue, his focus shifting to the film as well. The man shouts, ‘Because I love you, for God’s sake!’ He casts a glimpse in your direction, his expression unreadable. “Same goes for you.” The woman in the film responds with a strangled, ‘Then prove it!’

“Anytime?”

“Anytime.”

The man cradles the woman’s face before kissing her. She throws her arms around his neck, and the music swells, evolving into a much more melodic song. A chorus of angelic voices replaces the earlier tense harmony. The camera lingers on every angle of their kiss, every desperate touch, as the world outside their embrace ceases to exist.

“This is cheesy,” Logan mutters, his heel bumping against the floor in repeated, short motions. Is he nervous?

“Yeah, so cheesy,” you reply quickly, pulling the blanket over your lap and curling into yourself. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking about kissing you, not even remotely, but you are.

A quiet yawn escapes you, and you rub your fist against your eyes, sleep beginning to take over your body. Logan catches it, his own yawn following like a reflex. “Looks like the movie’s workin’ wonders,” he quips.

You let out a drowsy giggle. “Shut up,” you murmur, but then he’s inching closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. His warmth seeps through, and after a few seconds of hesitation, you allow yourself to lean into his frame, resting your head on his arm. It’s awkward, your neck already protesting the angle, but you accept it. You’ll take the stiffness tomorrow without complaint, because this moment is worth it.

It won’t last long, though, this rare tenderness. These nights, the quiet ones, are when Logan opens up the most—when Jean and Storm aren’t around, when it’s just the two of you. That’s when he approaches you, like a wary black cat testing the waters. But he doesn’t need to tread carefully. Not with you.

“What if I were to fall asleep… hypothetically?” Your eyelids grow heavier with each blink, the pauses between each one stretching longer. Your cheek nuzzles against him, seeking warmth, and you feel the subtle tug of his hand as he pulls the blanket over his legs as well.

“Hypothetically,” he begins, rasping his words near your temple, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Within moments, sleep claims you. You never find out what happens after that, but he stays, trailing quietly behind. No nightmares or shadows from his past dare to haunt him that night.

It was inevitable that an encounter like that would spiral into something more. You weren’t naïve. You could connect the dots, and the picture was clear: Logan wanted you, too. Desire often walked a fine line, and from hatred to something else, it’s hardly a leap—just a small, barely perceptible step. It could change with the shift of light, from dawn to dusk. But you’d need the strength to cross that line, to be bold enough to make the first move.

And now, with the sun already dipped below the horizon, taking its long-awaited rest after a full day of burning up in the sky, you find yourself alone in the kitchen, though you hadn’t started that way. Scott had lingered for a while, insisting he didn’t mind keeping you company. You’d thanked him with a polite smile before subtly nudging him out. It hadn’t taken much—just a few hints. Simplicity at its finest.

At the table, a neat pile of student papers spreads before you. Your pen dances across the pages, leaving corrections and grades in its wake. It’s then that he appears. He doesn’t speak at first, but his presence saturates the room like a shadow stretching across the floor. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him; it must be the unspoken familiarity of how he fills a space. Or maybe it’s just how attuned you’ve become to his every movement.

Logan leans in behind you, close enough that you feel the heat he radiates at your back. His low hum sends a shiver down your spine as he peers over your shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be playin’ the teacher?”

Your grip on the pen tightens, a small tremor in your fingers giving away the tension pooling in your stomach. You exhale softly, blowing on the fresh ink. “Would you prefer to have me doing something else?”

Smugness prickles at the edges of your words, but the resolve in your chest is faltering.

“Now that you mention it…” His voice dips, grating next to the shell of your ear as his chest brushes your back. His presence is magnetic, the scrape of his beard scratching your skin while he tilts your head to one side. His fingers sweep your hair over your shoulder, lips mapping the nape of your neck, tasting your fevered skin. “I might have a few ideas in mind.”

Your breath hitches. You try for composure, but it wavers in your reply. “Really?” you ask, because playing dumb always has its merits, after all. “Want to show me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves deliberately, tracing a sensual, teasing path up your abdomen. His palm settles over one of your breasts, his thumb brushing the sensitive peak through your sweater. “I don’t think you’d want me to do it here,” he says, his voice thick with suggestion. “Too public for what I’ve got planned for you.”

You disentangle yourself from him, slipping off the chair with an unsteady grace, but Logan doesn’t give you time to find your feet. He smashes his lips with yours, the force of his kiss almost sending you reeling. His tongue presses insistently, seeking entry, as if the urgency in his touch could dissolve every barrier between you. He grabs your cheeks, holding you in place as though you might slip away, drawing you so close there’s barely space to breathe.

You’re caught off guard, not knowing where to put your hands, searching for purchase. The cold metal of the refrigerator handle digs into your lower back as he backs you against it, his groans reverberating through your mouth like a growled confession.

“My bedroom,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “Take me to my bedroom.”

Logan obliges, intertwining his fingers with yours. Together, you ascend the stairs, your laughter mingling in the noiseless night when he missteps and stumbles, momentarily breaking the spell. But he recovers quickly, finding your room in mere seconds. 

The door clicks shut behind you, and he presses you against the wood with a force you’d never experienced, his hands sliding down to grip your ass and knead the supple flesh with a possessive fervor. It all helps to feed the fire pooling in your core.

“Quiet, baby,” he whispers, slipping his fingers beneath the back of your sweatpants. His nails trace fiery lines along your skin, igniting your every nerve. “Don’t want anyone wakin’ up to those pretty sounds you make. They’re just for me, right?”

You nod frantically, longing for more, arching into his hands as your hips grind against his, your body moving with a will of its own. The friction is exquisite, a tantalizing promise. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his words laced with unfiltered hunger. “I’ve thought about havin’ you like this ever since I met you.”

His confession sends a surge of pride through your chest, an ache that feels equal parts affection and astonishment. Ever since the beginning? When he could barely look at you without scowling, his disdain practically tangible? “You hid it well,” you reply, breathless as you trace the outline of his erection over his jeans. The way it twitches under your undivided attention makes your pulse race. “I thought you hated me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “I thought the same about you,” he counters, before crushing his lips to yours once more. This time, you can’t help but smile into the kiss, your bodies moving as one, the pent-up tension between you unraveling in waves. “Guess we were both wrong.”

Your pants hit the floor in an unceremonious heap. It should embarrass you, how desperate and utterly needy you sound, the pleas spilling from your lips like the filthiest confessions. But the hunger in you is too vast, too insistent, drowning any possible flicker of shame. Decency was abandoned the moment you crossed that threshold. Logan nudges your legs apart with his knee, and the instant you feel him against your center, a contained sigh escapes you, half-resignation, half-surrender. Thought dissolves, leaving only instinct as you rock against him in slow circles, seeking relief.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” He toys lazily with the waistband of your panties, like he has all the time in the world. You don’t give him an immediate answer, choosing instead to grind harder against his thigh, your breath hitching at the pressure. “Don’t go all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, dipping his head to mouth at your collarbone, the scent of his cologne heady and intoxicating. “Judging by the way you’re basically humpin’ me, I’d say it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember,” you blurt out, your head thudding against the door when his teeth nip at the delicate curve of your neck. Your pulse thrums beneath his lips, and you’re seconds from biting your tongue just to keep from crying out. “Stop teasing.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a wicked smile against your skin, his knee retreating only to be replaced by his fingers, trailing them along the fabric covering your heat. “I like it when you get bossy. It reminds me why I like you so damn much.” He tugs the fabric of your underwear aside, the cool air hitting your wetness for only a moment before his fingers glide over your arousal, testing your patience. One digit slides into you, curling slightly as his palm presses over your mouth, muffling the whine that falls from your parted lips. “So wet for me, princess.”

Your legs shake under the weight of sensation, threatening to give out as you lean into the door for balance. His fingers move inside you with a sharp rhythm, hitting that spot with each furious thrust. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, and it’s overwhelming, but then he drops to his knees, and the sight alone sends a jolt through your core.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds is molten. He laps at you with long strokes, his pace never faltering, pumping his digits in sync with the flick of his tongue, coaxing every sound you’ve tried so hard to stifle. “Oh, fuck. Logan—” 

He groans against your core, his eyes remaining locked on your face, soaking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His focus is relentless, as though your reactions fuel him. You rake your hands through his hair, clutching at his dark locks with haste whenever his wet muscle lavishes extra attention on your clit, the intensity of his ministrations making your voice break, a choked gasp dying on your lips.

Your climax teeters on the edge, faster than you anticipated. “Close,” you manage to huff, the obscene noises he elicits driving you wild. “I’m gonna come. Please, come here—”

Logan detaches himself from you, standing tall with a fierce determination in his eyes. He’s set on pushing you over the edge with his fingers alone. His lips crash against yours, biting and licking, swallowing every desperate mewl that falls from your mouth, spit glistening down his chin. Three knuckles deep, coaxing your body to respond, your walls tighten around him, shuddering as he corners you against the door, the sharp edge of pleasure sending your knees buckling. Your orgasm washes over you, rendering you boneless in his hold. Limp and spent, you can barely return his kisses, panting harshly against his mouth, his arms the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

As you steady your breath, a satisfied smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes flicker down to his slick palm, and a rush of pride floods you. "That was amazing," you breathe, your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, reaching for his belt to tug at it. “My turn now.”

He ends up with his back pressed against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. You’re positioned between his legs, stimulating him over the fabric of his boxers. “It won’t take too long,” he says, and you feel the weight of his words more than hear them as you pull him free, revealing the hardness beneath. He’s already swollen, the tip wet with precum that coats your thumb as you stroke him once, feeling the heat pulse beneath your touch. A shiver runs through him, his legs stiffening as though on the edge of restraint. Bewitched by the size of him, you lean forward to slip the leaking head past your lips. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s difficult to take all of him at once, but you push through, your mouth stretching to accommodate his size. As you work him with your hand, your tongue traces the veins that snake along his length, feeling him throb. Logan’s body betrays him, his fists tightening around the sheets as if holding on to his last thread of control, desperately keeping his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck up into you.

“Honey, pull out,” he warns, stroking your back. “M’not jokin’. You’re gonna make me come.” But you don’t stop. Instead, you deepen your movements, cheeks hollowing as you take him with more enthusiasm, pushing him toward the back of your throat. When he realizes what you’re doing, a moan escapes him, laced with a dark laugh. “Filthy girl. So that’s what you want? To choke on my cum? Should’ve asked for it sooner.”

Not long afterwards, you feel the first splash of his release hitting your tastebuds. Ropes of his seed flood your mouth, some of it dribbling out to stain the corner of your lips. He watches, his thumb gently swiping over the edge, collecting what’s spilled, his eyes never leaving yours as he moves.

“Show me,” he asks, still breathless. You lean closer, your faces a whisper apart, and then you part your lips, revealing the evidence of your devotion like a masterpiece on display. His fingers find your chin, holding you there as he bites into his lower lip, the pressure turning the skin pale. “Now swallow,” he commands, and you obey, the motion deliberate, your satisfaction mirrored in the curve of his grin. He kisses you languidly, as if savoring the moment. “Where have you been all my life?”

The question invites countless answers, but you choose to murmur, “Down the hallway.”

“Logan, are you even listening?”

Charles’ voice slices through the playful moment, forcing Logan’s hands to still against your sides. The team sits around the table, embroiled in serious discussions that demand focus and discipline. Yet Logan’s fixation on you has rendered him deaf to anything beyond the sound of your laughter. Not a single word of the last hour and a half has stuck, his mind entirely preoccupied by the warmth of you perched on his lap.

He’d insisted he was much more comfortable than any chair, and you’d indulged him, leaning into his chest as his fingers danced teasingly along your ribs. “Of course I am,” Logan drawls, though the way his hand resumes tracing lazy circles on your stomach says otherwise, his entire attention remaining fixed on you.

“I don’t think you are,” Charles counters, leaning forward with both palms flat on his desk. His sharp gaze locks to you, narrowing faintly. “Do I need to seat you two on opposite ends of the room, or can you manage to behave?”

You stiffen in response, the easy comfort of moments ago evaporating. Sliding off Logan’s lap, you settle into the nearest chair, your departure catching him off guard. Your eyes meet his subtly, and you offer him an apologetic smile. Beneath the table, your fingers squeeze his knee, a silent reassurance. Finally, you direct your attention to Charles, straightening in your seat as if to demonstrate your newfound focus.

Logan, however, is less cooperative. His arms cross over his chest, and a crease forms between his brows, the picture of rebellion. Nothing that Charles says registers in his brain. All he can think about is how much better it felt to have you on his lap, where you weren’t bothering anyone. He contents himself with watching you now, contemplating your profile and the way your fingers absentmindedly tap against your notebook.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. It’s not the same. You’ve been dating for a month, much to the surprise of everyone in the mansion. It’s as if the idea of the two of you together had never even crossed their minds. Not even Rogue believed it when she came to ask Logan if the rumors were true. He hadn’t known how to respond to her, caught between mirth and disbelief himself.

It’s been decades since he’s felt this alive. He’s head over heels for you in a way that’s exhilarating. Seeing you, even across a crowded room, lights a fire in him, and he has to actively fight the urge to walk over, pull you close, and kiss you senseless right there in front of your friends.

As the meeting finally draws to a close, Charles asks him to stay for a while. “I just need to have a quick word with you,” he says, waiting until the others leave.

Once you’re out of earshot, Charles sighs, shaking his head like an exhausted parent addressing his wayward child. “Look, I’m glad you two worked through your differences,” he begins, a note of cautious joviality in his tone, “but this... well, this is the opposite of that.”

Logan exhales wearily, rolling his eyes before he can stop himself, and regretting it instantly. Don’t shrug him off, his inner voice scolds him. “C’mon, Charles. You’re overreactin’.”

The man arches a brow. “Am I? Watching the two of you cuddling during a meeting feels like chaperoning teenagers. Honestly, I must admit you’re even worse than them at times.”

That remark lands harder than Logan expects. He opens his not-so-smart-mouth, ready with a retort, but no words come out. For once, his quick wit fails him, leaving him standing there in uncharacteristic silence.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Charles’ eyes fall shut. “Just… try to be more present, alright? And don’t distract her, or yourself, too much. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Later, when he recounts the conversation to you, you start pacing nervously across his bedroom, your teeth worrying at your nails.

“Maybe he’s right,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Darlin’—”

“I just don’t want him to be angry with us,” you cut him off, arms dropping to your sides in defeat. Turning toward him, you sit down on the edge of his bed, your shoulder brushing his as your eyes bore into the carpet. “Do you think we should... give each other some space?”

Your suggestion feels like a punch to his gut. He sits up straighter, hands finding their way to your hips as he guides you onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. “I think we’re fine the way we are,” he says, tipping his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a loving gesture, coaxing a small smile from you. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Are you happy with me?”

You nod—once, twice, like it’s the only answer you could possibly give. “I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling, your lips curving into a smile that he feels against his own when he kisses you.

“God,” he grumbles against your mouth, long fingers tightening on your hips. “I never get tired of hearin’ that.” Logan cups your ass through your clothes, rocking you against him, and a groan escapes his throat as your center presses against his half-hard cock. “Say it again,” he rasps, his voice wanting.

“I love you,” you breathe, your head falling back when his hands move to unbutton your shirt, his touch reverent and greedy all at once. “I love you so much.”

Before you know it, he’s rolled you onto your back, hovering above you as he peels away the layers between you. He can’t comprehend how he got so lucky, how he gets to have you like this every day, so pliant and eager beneath his body. Your whimpers grow softer, more airy, but even then, you’re still whispering how madly in love you are with him.

This is a memory he’ll hold on to when Charles inevitably asks him to reconsider—to think about what’s best for both you and him. Fragile moments like this will slip through his fingers, but for now, they’re his to cherish.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

It turns out that love doesn’t come neatly wrapped in perfection. No—it’s a chaotic blend of tender glances and fiery clashes, of whispered promises and cutting comebacks. It’s arguments that sting as much as they heal, moments that don’t glitter but still matter, making the difference.

“Fuck off!” you snap, shoving the door against its frame, trying to shut him out. But Logan’s hand wedges in the gap, his strength effortlessly outmatching yours. “Get out, Logan.”

“No.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he grits through clenched teeth, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Behind him, Jean calls your name, but he doesn’t turn. “Not now, Jean!” His voice echoes down the hall, and the sound of her retreating steps leaves the air tense.

You’ve already crossed the room, standing by the window. The sunlight filters through, painting your silhouette in warm flickers. Outside, the kids are in their break, passing a ball, their laughter carried by the breeze. Logan moves toward you, his presence heavy, and you hold up a hand to stop him.

“I’m going on that mission,” you say firmly.

“No, you’re not.”

Your head snaps toward him, a storm unraveling in your gaze. “Charles wants me there. The team wants me there,” you shoot back, jabbing a finger into his chest with each word, “and most importantly, I want to go. You don’t get to decide for me.”

Logan doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch. He can’t understand how you don’t see his side of things, how the thought of you being in danger like this twists his insides into knots. “I can’t lose you.”

“Logan—”

“No, you don’t get it!” The words burst out of him. “What if something happens to you? What if you get hurt, and we can’t get you back in time?” His fists clench at his sides, fighting the need to pull you into his arms, to feel that you’re still here with him, still safe. “It’d kill me, because I love you with everything that I am. Just thinkin’ about losin’ you makes me sick.”

Your expression softens, but only for a moment. You take a step in his direction, closing the space between you. There’s no hesitation in your tone when you speak, leaving space for conviction. “I had a life before you, Logan. I’ve been here since I was a child, learning how to fight, how to survive. I’ve gone on missions for years—missions that were just as dangerous as this one. I don’t need you to protect me like this.” Your voice wavers, just barely. “I appreciate that you care, but I’m just as capable as you are.”

How long can someone hold their breath? Logan doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until your arms encircle his waist, your embrace melting the tension that’s been coiling in his chest. You bury your face against him, your breath steadying, and he draws a long breath, pressing his lips to your forehead like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a softness that feels almost out of place after the heated exchange.

“You get so bossy sometimes.”

"I thought you said you liked me bossy," you answer, your voice low, laced with mixed feelings, as you look up at him through hooded eyes.

Logan’s lips twitch into what aims to simulate a smile, but it’s weighed down by the sadness pooling in his gaze. It doesn’t reach the crinkle of his eyes, doesn’t carry the warmth it usually does. 

“I do,” he says, his voice rough, barely audible, brushing a thumb across your cheek. The words hang between you, carrying a plea for things to feel less heavy, for this closeness to fix what words can’t.

The arguments come more frequently now. The love hasn’t faded—of course, it hasn’t—but it feels buried beneath the noise. You and Logan clash over everything, over nothing, over things neither of you can quite name, all the fucking time.

It’s a cycle that none of you can seem to break, passion feeding the fire until it burns too bright, too hot. One of you always storms out, slamming doors or throwing words that linger in the air like acid smoke. And yet, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how lost you both feel, the love is still there. Aching, waiting for the dust to settle.

You tell yourself it’s just a rough patch. That love like this isn’t easy, that it’s supposed to be messy. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too long after another fight, you can’t help but wonder how much more the two of you can take before something breaks for good.

Lust becomes your apology, an untamed collision of anger and desire that you can’t resist. It’s not gentle—it’s frenzied and blazing. The bed creaks beneath you, the sounds of your moans and the slap of his hips against your ass enveloping the room. Every thrust drives you closer, the ferocity of it making your head bump into the headboard, but all you can think about is how full he makes you feel.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry out, drooling all over the pillow, ass high up in the air as Logan continues to pound into you. He pulls out all of a sudden, making you gasp in protest. That’s when you feel his tongue against your slit, eating you out from behind, spreading your cheeks to see just how much further he can go. Your hand flies back, pressing him into your skin. “So good, baby. F-fuck.”

There’s no leaving him, not even in your wildest dreams. When he spills inside you, you always ask him to hold you close, whispering for him to stay there. To keep you full of him. And he does, fusing your body with the mattress, his weight anchoring you to the pleasure he knows how to grant you. 

But then, it’s morning. The sun filters through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, and you’re tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare at the ceiling, your mind crawling back to the fight, to the anger that seemed so vital only hours ago. You have to force yourself to remember why you were so mad in the first place. As his hand slides over your hip, pulling you toward him, the memory slips further away.

Dating Logan means understanding the darkness he carries, the nightmares he has almost every night. Usually, you’re woken by his movements, his rambling, the tremors that run through his body. You’ve perfected a way of rousing him gently, pulling him from the grip of whatever horrors his mind conjures without causing him more harm.

Though tonight, you must’ve been drained. You didn’t notice the moment the nightmare began.

“Honey? Oh, fuck. Wake up, c’mon.” His voice pulls you from the depths of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open and adjust to the dim light, the first thing you see is Logan, sitting rigid, staring at your arm as though it’s breaking him apart. The pain in his gaze is nearly palpable.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice groggy as you sit up, still partly disoriented. “Logan, are you okay?”

Then you see it: Blood. Dark stains seeping into the sheets, trailing from a jagged cut running the length of your forearm. It isn’t deep, and oddly, it doesn’t even hurt that much. But Logan looks stricken, his eyes flickering between your wound and his own hands.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,” you assure him as you fumble to grab the ruined sheets, bundling them up to contain the mess. Reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, you switch it on, bathing the room in a golden glow. That’s when you notice the droplets of blood on his knuckles, the torn skin where his claws must have pierced through. This has never happened before. Neither of you know what to say or how to react. When you reach for his hand, he recoils, shaking his head like he’s trying to will the scene away. “Hey, don’t do that.” 

“I knew it’d happen eventually.” He’s spiraling, rising to his feet. A man trying to escape himself. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his chest and back, his body tense with the effort of holding his pieces together. Turning to face you, his expression is the embodiment of torment. In his eyes, it’s as though the prophecy has been confirmed, irrevocably, by his own doing. “I hurt you. I told you it was going to happen.”

“Why are you acting like this?” you ask, pushing yourself off the bed to meet him. You’re tired, too tired to be arguing like this. “It won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure? You said the same thing before, and now look. Look at where we are.”

You’re at a loss for how to calm him. The exhaustion weighing on you makes your thoughts sluggish, and you’re afraid of saying something you’ll regret. But giving up isn’t an option—not with him, not because of this. Slowly, you step back and spin in place, letting him see you fully, the wound and all.

“You see? I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m not hurt. Please, Logan, believe me when I say I’m okay.”

He doesn’t respond, but the uncertainty etched into his face lingers. For a moment, you think you’ve reassured him, as he lets you guide him back to the bed. Together, you pull the sheets up to cover your bodies, and he leans into the pillows with a weary sigh. He mutters something about being sweaty, so you don’t rest your head on his chest as usual, settling into the curve of his shoulder instead. The rhythm of his breathing, uneven at first, begins to steady.

At some point, the warmth of his body disappears. You stir faintly, but your mind is too clouded by sleep to register it as anything more than the remnants of a rather vivid dream.

Logan remains standing, staring at Charles, refusing the invitation to sit down. “You told Jean,” he says, and the other man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even attempt to deny it. “I asked you to keep it between us.”

“I thought she might help you reconsider,” Charles answers, looking more serious than usual, his piercing eyes fixed on Logan. “Logan, I still don’t believe this is the right path for you. It’s not the solution to your problems. You can’t run from her, from this—relying on forgetting won’t bring you peace.”

Who really knows what’s best for him? Logan certainly doesn’t. After all these decades of walking the earth, what has he truly learned? His long life feels like a cruel irony, offering time without clarity. What use is immortality when you’re paralyzed by indecision, unsure of what you truly want?

“I can’t leave her. At least, not willingly,” he explains, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the arm of a chair, the gesture lacking finesse. “She’ll get over it. She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“You’re deciding for her.”

To that, Logan has no reply. He only looks away.

“When I got here, you told me you’d help with whatever I needed.” Logan crosses the room, lowering himself into a chair by Charles’ desk, his posture stiff. He lifts his chin slightly, trying to convey a confidence he doesn’t actually feel. “This is what I need you to do. Today.”

“Let’s start with your most recent memories and work backward from there.” Charles rolls himself closer, his chair nearly brushing Logan’s legs. “There’s an emotional core to every memory, and when you eradicate that core, it begins to degrade. By the time I’m done, those memories will have withered, as in a dream upon waking.”

Logan’s throat tightens at the description. There’s no comfort in Charles’ words. It doesn’t sound like a dream. It sounds like a nightmare.

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Yes.” Logan’s reply is immediate, though it scrapes his throat like gravel.

Charles nods once, solemnly. “Then tell me your most recent memory of her.”

I think I was preparing a class when she burst through the door, uninvited. I’d been trying to keep my distance from her, because of... well, all of this. But it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to leave, so I let her stay. She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and asked if I had much left to do. I told her everything else could wait. Big mistake.

We were lying on my bed. Somehow, we always ended up there, tangled together. It wasn’t strictly... sexual. There’s something profoundly vulnerable about sharing that space. Snuggling, you could call it. Now that I think about it, she likes resting her head on my chest. Says it’s the best way to hear my heartbeat and find out if it matches hers.

“Focus, Logan.”

Yeah, I know. You’re right. Anyway, she asked me if I believed in soulmates, and I laughed. Obviously, she thought I was mocking her, so I had to convince her I wasn’t. I just thought the question was funny.

“Why did you laugh?”

Because it was exactly the kind of question she’d ask. She hadn’t before, but I’d been waiting for it. She told me she thought soulmates existed, and that I was hers. And I laughed again, and she threatened to leave. I held her tighter.

I told her I didn’t know if soulmates were real. I didn’t have that kind of certainty. What I did know, I said, was that I loved her. That was the only thing I was sure of. Soulmates or no soulmates, I loved her. I was right where I wanted to be. Those were my exact words.

“When did this happen?”

Yesterday. Before she left with Ororo and Scott for their mission. That’s why I’m choosing to do this now.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you again. Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Yes, Charles. Please, don’t ask me again.

Throwing open the mansion’s entry door, you let it swing wide as you step inside. You could use a shower, but right now, all you care about is finding him. Where is he?

Before starting your search, a cluster of students rushes toward you, their arms wrapping around your waist. Their laughter fills your senses as they chatter excitedly, hugging you tightly. “We missed you!” A boy exclaims, and you can’t help but smile, ruffling his hair.

“Have you seen Professor Logan?” you ask, crouching to meet the eye of one of the younger girls.

She grins, her innocent smile spreading, and she points toward the kitchen. “He’s in there.”

You thank her and make your way to the kitchen, your heart beating a little faster. You find him standing by the counter, slicing bread. His movements are methodical, his posture calm, but something feels off. You pause in the doorway, scrutinizing his face for a sign, any sign, that he’s happy to see you.

But his gaze flicks to you for only a brief moment, cool and detached, before returning to his task.

“Hey,” you call softly, tilting your head. His shoulders tense, and he doesn’t stop cutting. “I’m back,” you add, stepping closer, hoping for some sort of acknowledgment.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, and when he does, his voice sounds flat. “I see.” He opens a drawer, pulling out a fork. “Good for you, I guess.”

The words hit you like a slap. A joke, surely. But why? You take a hesitant step forward, your brows furrowing. “Logan, why—”

Before you can finish, a hand grabs yours, yanking you out of the kitchen. Startled, you turn to see Jean, her expression pale and stricken.

“Jean?” you ask, confused. “Is this another one of Logan’s pranks?”

Her lips twitch, and tears glisten in her eyes when she swallows thickly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I tried to stop him. I really did. But he—he wouldn’t listen!” Her hands tighten around yours, quivering. You’ve never seen her like this before.

“Wait—slow down,” you urge, your stomach twisting.

“I swear, I tried to talk him out of it,” she pleads, each of the words she utters rushing out like a flood. “You know how stubborn he can get.”

It doesn’t take too long for her panic to feel contagious. The pit in your abdomen deepens as you glance back toward the kitchen, where Logan stands just out of sight.

Something is wrong—terribly wrong.

“Jean, what did he do?”

Despite all his wisdom, Charles had known this moment would come the second he agreed to help Logan.

The door to his office flies open, slamming against the wall with a force that reverberates through the room. You storm in, your strides long and charged with anger, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Madness blazes in your eyes. “You did what?!”

“My dear—”

“You erased me from my boyfriend’s memory!” The words erupt from you, shaking the very air. You fling your arms wide, your fury spilling over. Before he can respond, you turn on his bookshelf, yanking ancient, cherished volumes from their resting places. One by one, you ignite them, flames devouring their fragile pages in an instant.

Then, there’s a momentary pause—a flicker of silence before you seize another book. This one you hurl in his direction, not quite at his face, but close enough to graze the air near his shoulder before it hits the floor with a heavy thud. The sound echoes, a physical punctuation to your rage.

“You made me disappear! He doesn’t fucking know who I am!”

His expression, pained and weary, holds no exasperation—only regret. “He asked me to do it.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” The question hangs underlined by the tears that stream down your face. Your voice breaks, the pain behind it cutting deeper than any accusation. “You could’ve said no, Charles. How many times have you denied me things?”

“You didn’t see him in the way I did, he was—” He stops himself, faltering. No words can repair what he has already destroyed. “I’m sorry.”

You stand there, breathing hard, the space between you filled with smoldering ash and a silence so loud it feels suffocating. The remains of his books lie scattered, the faint scent of burnt paper lingering in the air. Charles watches you, but he doesn’t move to stop you. He doesn’t fight you.

The fury ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache that takes its place in your chest. “If you’re so willing to erase love like it’s nothing, then do it for me, too.”

Charles’s brows knit together. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Logan doesn’t remember me. I walk into a room, and he looks right through me. Like I’m a stranger, like I never mattered. So tell me, what’s the point in remembering him if he’s already forgotten me?”

“I don’t believe forgetting will give you the peace you’re looking for.”

“Is that what you told him as well? Clearly, it worked out well.”

Touché.

“I’ve already hurt you enough,” he whispers.

“And you’ll keep hurting me if you don’t do this. I can’t carry this alone.” You kneel in front of him, clutching the edge of his wheelchair. “If you could take it away from him, you can take it away from me, too.”

Charles stares down at you, his mouth tightening, as if the weight of your words presses down on him. His hands, usually so steady, shift uncomfortably in his lap. It’s clear he can’t believe this is the second time he’s found himself in this situation, faced with the same desperate request. “Are you sure?”

You nod your head. “He wanted to forget me. Now, I want to forget him.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. “All right,” he says softly, though his voice carries a sadness he doesn’t try to hide. “But I need you to understand… once it’s done, there’s no going back.”

 “That’s the point.” You wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, as though erasing the tears could also erase the doubt creeping in.

“Then sit,” he counters, motioning to the chair Logan sat in days ago.

You hesitate for a moment, the finality of the act looming large. Slowly, you lower yourself into the chair, gripping its arms with all your earnest. Charles wheels himself closer, and the reality of what’s about to happen sets in.

“Tell me your last memory of him,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes, and the image surfaces instantly: Logan, holding you close, whispering that he loves you. No soulmates, no destiny—just love. You let out a shaky breath, your heart breaking all over again as you begin to recount it. “The last time he looked at me like I was his whole world.”

Charles nods, his expression unreadable, placing his hands on your temples. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I had to leave the next day, so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. My things were already packed. I walked into Logan’s room and asked him if he was busy. A week isn’t a lot, but ever since he moved here, we hadn’t been apart from each other. I was anxious about that. I thought it’d be so hard to fall asleep without him at night. What—oh, God, what’ll happen now?

“I need you to keep going, darling.”

Don’t call me that. 

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

I convinced him to lie in bed with me. I had my head on his chest, and he kissed my forehead. His beard scratched me in the right way. It never hurt or bothered me. I had once dated a guy who had a beard, and it was just so uncomfortable. But that wasn’t Logan’s case. He would kiss me and hug me, and it felt like the best thing in the world.

There was a question I’d been meaning to ask him. It was about soulmates, and the existence of them. I thought Logan was my soulmate, and I said it to him. I asked if he believed in them, but he laughed. He told me he wasn’t making fun of me or anything, just that he thought the question was funny.

Logan said he didn’t know whether soulmates existed or not, but he knew for a fact that he loved me. He didn’t care about anything else. He loved me. He really did. Do you think he loved me, Charles?

“Yes. I do believe so.”

Then why did you take that away from me?

“I’m sorry.”

I hate you.

“I know.”

Your head pounds, an ache that feels like it’s splitting you in two. It’s a pain unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink repeatedly until the world around you sharpens into focus.

Four blank walls. The stark, colorless void offers nothing but the oppressive weight of emptiness. This must be your mind, stripped bare. Somewhere in the depths of this space, Charles is at work, pulling threads and unraveling every memory of Logan.

You push yourself off the cold floor. A soundless shift disturbs the space—a door appears out of nowhere, its frame faintly glowing, and without hesitation, you reach for the handle and swing it open.

On the other side is a fragment of your past: that night months ago, sitting in the living room, watching a movie. Logan had decided to join you. The memory pulls you in, and suddenly, you’re no longer standing—you’re on the couch. Your clothes have altered to match that night. Logan sits beside you, the warmth of his presence impossibly real.

This moment feels untouched by time, but deep down, you know the truth. Charles is erasing it even as you relive it. Soon, this too will vanish.

The scene begins to warp. It’s no longer the movie on the screen. The couple has been replaced by you and Logan. You’re watching yourselves from a third perspective, your bodies framed by the flickering light of the TV. It’s deeply unsettling, but in this fragmented state of consciousness, it doesn’t feel worth questioning.

“Logan?”

“Tell me.”

You grab a cushion and smack him on the arm, the motion instinctive. “You idiot!”

“What was that for?” he asks, laughing as he takes the cushion from your hands, tossing it aside. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You erased me from your memory!” you accuse him, even as you know the futility of it. He’s merely a fragment, a faint echo of who he once was to you. A lingering shard of memory caught in the tangled wires of your brain, sparking as it teeters on the edge of a short circuit. “You’re not even real, are you?”

“No,” he admits, his voice tinged with something like regret. “I’m just in your mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’re just what’s left.” You lower your gaze, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How long do you think it’ll take Charles to erase you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. The words you long for, the closure you might crave, are swallowed up. His lips vanish mid-formulation, and then you’re staring at a blank void where his mouth used to be. The rest of his features begins to fade—his eyes dissolve into nothingness, followed by his nose, his brows, the lines of his face. All that’s left is the space where he once sat, and even that feels tenuous.

You’re on your own now. The memory of him—of that night, the first time you truly shared an intimate moment—has been swept away like smoke in the wind. You collapse onto the floor, trembling as sobs tear through you, your hands pressed tightly against your face, attempting to contain your anguish. “I don’t want to forget you,” you choke out between hiccupped breaths, the sting of tears burning your eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“I know,” a familiar voice murmurs behind you, and there he is—Logan. This time, he’s wearing his suit. His claws are unsheathed, gleaming. “I shouldn’t have done it first. I don’t know what I was thinking’.”

You push yourself to your feet, drawn to him. When you move to hug him, he takes a step back, raising his claws as if to protect you from getting harmed. “I can’t retract them. If I hug you, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, pressing forward and slotting yourself between his arms, ignoring the danger. Your face finds its habitual place against his chest, and you inhale deeply, inhaling his scent. “I just want you.”

His arms fold around you hesitantly, careful yet incomplete. You feel a sharp pain, a searing slice along your ribs that rips a scream from your throat. The agony is blinding, drowning your world into darkness.

When you open your eyes again, you’re somewhere else entirely. The bed feels soft beneath you, the sheets tangled around your legs. Logan is there beside you, his body warm against yours, both of you naked under the sheets.

“You’re lost in thought,” he says, his voice tender, taking a strand of your hair, twisting it gently before tucking it behind your ear. “You alright?”

His face won’t stay still. Beard, no beard. A moustache that fades as quickly as it appears. Hair long, then short. Sideburns one moment, smooth skin the next. He’s a shifting mosaic of himself. You realize you can’t remember what he looked like the last time you saw him.

“I’m forgetting you.” Your fingertips trace the curve of his cheek, memorizing each detail. “I don’t think I can stop it now.”

He’s seconds away from crying, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels both desperate and resigned. “Stay here with me,” he whispers against your mouth, his hands sliding over your arms, your stomach, your legs. “Don’t let me go.”

“You did it to me first,” you say, voice thick with emotion, pulling him closer, down until his body presses fully against yours. His weight feels real, but you know it’s not. Nothing about this moment is.

His voice breaks, repeating the same mantra. “Stay here with me. Don’t let me go.”

The touches multiply. It’s no longer just his hands on your skin. It’s as if the entire universe is reaching for you. The cacophony of touches, the overlapping voices—“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—swirls into a suffocating chaos.

Logan begins to blur, like a photograph left too long in the sun. His face fades first, then his body, until all that remains is a ghost of his shadow. Then even that is gone. The bed disappears beneath you, leaving you adrift in an empty expanse. You can’t tell if you’re still there, or if you’ve vanished with him.

You exhale slowly. Silence, at last.

The second first time you see him, he’s sitting alone outside on a weathered bench, his shoulders slightly hunched. He’s completely alone, and you pause a few steps away, studying him for a moment. He doesn’t seem like someone you would’ve missed at the mansion. Charles mentioned he’d recently joined the team, a mutant who had spent too long wandering the earth.

You clear your throat, trying not to overthink it. “Mind if I take a seat?” you ask, your hands clasped behind your back as you wait for his reply.

He shifts to one end of the bench, leaving you more than enough room, though his movements seem cautious. You sit down, exhaling softly as an awkward silence stretches between you. His demeanor isn’t exactly inviting, and you wonder how to bridge the gap.

After a moment, you stretch out your hand, offering a polite smile, giving him your name. He glances at your hand, then takes it. “M’Logan,” he says simply, though you already knew that from your previous talk with Charles. His fingers are rough, calloused, yet they linger a beat longer than necessary before letting go. “The other day, I was in the kitchen, and you walked in. You were acting… strange.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Really?” Your gaze flickers between his face and your hand that still feels warm from his touch. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?”

Logan hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought so… but maybe not.” His lips press into a thin line, shrugging. “Never mind. I could be wrong.”

Tilting your head, you study him. There’s something familiar that you can’t quite place. “Have we met before? Outside this place, I mean. It’s just… I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t figure out where.”

His eyes meet yours then, like your question has triggered something dormant. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxing as he lets out a low chuckle. “Funny you’d say that. I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but… I got the same feeling.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” His lips quirk into a smile, one that matches yours.

Inside the mansion, Charles and Jean watch the scene through the window. Jean folds her arms across her chest, her expression caught between awe and disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“Don’t get me started,” Charles replies.

“They don’t know what happened, but they still feel it. Like they’re connected.” She peers down at Charles, her voice quieter now. “You erased everything, didn’t you? Every memory, every trace.”

Charles keeps his eyes on the scene outside, his features softening as he watches the two of you talk. He sighs, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re asking me for an explanation I don’t have. I guess some things… refuse to be forgotten.”

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.

Friedrich Nietzsche.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[beezelbubbles]

She trudged along behind her girlfriend at a relatively safe distance. A full moon meant babysitting duty supervising her. This was decidedly less sexy than she thought having a werewolf girlfriend would be. Centuries of proximity to humans and civilization meant that werewolves had undergone a bit of domestication that they would never admit to and were now closer to weredogs. But she'd never tell Tessa that. Domesticated or not, she could still rip the throat out of someone before they got more than one syllable into "Who's a good girl? Who loves bellyrubs?"

Up ahead Tessa was snuffling at the brush. most months she just wanted to run, maybe chase some deer. Sue clamped down firmly on the thought, Just like Aunt Nell's mastiff. Suddenly, Tessa stopped, ears alert. Sue caught up to her and closed her eyes, and willed herself to hear what Tessa was hearing. Finally, for a moment, the wind dropped and she caught the cadence of what seemed like chanting from the direction of the cemetery. Oh no. Tessa took off at a run and Sue scrambled to keep up. The ground leveled out when they got into the cemetery proper and it was easier. The chanting had resolved from a murmur to clear Latin. Sue groaned. Latin being chanted in a cemetery at night was never good.

There was a deep throated "wuff" and Tessa leaped into the circle of candles. Fuck fuck fuck. Candles? No no no. Sue drew the machete she kept at her hip. The chanting turned into screaming.

"No! No! Bad dog! DROP IT!"

Tessa was shaking her head and gnawing at something, but there wasn't the sort of screaming that meant it was alive, so that was probably okay. As Sue came up to the circle, the robed figure whirled at her and pointed accusingly. "Call off your dog! Do you know what you have interrupted?"

Sue looked them up and down and then squinted at the runes drawn in white chalk. "A reanimation spell? Not like a good one though."

The robed figure gaped, then seemed to remember themself. "Call off your dog, or I will deal with it myself." They waved their ceremonial dagger. It looked silver, but Tessa was ignoring it, so it was maybe silver plated at best.

"Not a dog," said Sue absently, looking around the circle, "and if you like your throat where it is, you'll stop saying that."

The figure froze and stared at Tessa with dawning realization.

"Hey, how far were you into this spell anyway?"

"It was done," said the figure in an attempt at portentously. "I was just repeating for, you know, ambiance."

"Uh huh. Uh huh," said Sue. ''Babe, drop it, you don't know what this dummy coated that in."

Tessa looked up from the femur she was gnawing on and cocked her head questioningly.

"They were trying to raise that thing."

"I did raise it. It's just... inert because I haven't given it any commands yet."

"You missed a line on the third rune. It's never gonna work like that." She sniffed. "And are those Bath and Bodyworks candles?"

"There was a sale and they're the right color."

"Riiight. Okay, well good luck with this. Tessa, let's go before this dummy's consequences start turning up." She scrapped the missing line in on the rune with the toe of her boot and muttered the final line of the incatation.

The aspiring necromancer watched them walk away. "They'll see! They'll all see."

Behind them the bones rattled and began pulling together. The necromancer cackled in delight until the skull began to elongated into a wolf's skull.

"No no! Sit! Stay!"

And then there was only a brief scream before the were-skele-wolf raised its bloodied muzzle to the sky in a silent howl.

Sue and Tessa watched this from the treeline. Tessa growled.

"Don't worry," said Sue. "It'll fall apart when it leaves the circle. I didn't put that much into the spell. Let's go home. We'll come clean it up in the morning. After you make me pancakes."

I guess this is what would happen if a werewolf bit a skeleton.

[bbokicidal]

"What Happens When..." | [SKZ] OT8 | [FELIX]

You and Felix have a mutual agreement that having others in the bedroom is fun - but tonight you'd invited all seven of them to join.

Genre: Smut [18+ MDNI] Pairing: Felix x Fem!Reader Warnings: cosplay/roleplay, dom!felix, dom!skz, reader gets used like a toy/objectification, lots of jerking off lol, BJ mention, so much cum, there's no mention of who the reader is cosplaying so it's up to your interpretation !! Also little to no dialogue in this one oops

Notes: This IS a short fic and isn't anything really long. There's no plot - it's purely smut for your viewing pleasure and my mental peace, lol. <- And thank you to everyone who waited so patiently for this while I went through my writers block rut, hahaha.

Word Count: 1.2K

Divider by @enchanthings

Felix had told you he was having the boys over before all of this had happened. He'd come to you, said they were having dinner in your apartment, and then maybe having a few drinks while playing a really aggressive game of Uno. But they didn't even get quite that far.

With your boyfriend eager to show off your newly purchased and perfectly decorated (in his opinion) shared apartment, Felix had given the group a tour of the place. Which meant they'd all slowly piled into the room with widened eyes at the sight of you dolled up; Makeup done, wig on, costume snug to your form and ring light propped up with your phone. You'd smiled, shy. "Sorry! Just taking some videos. Am I being too loud...?"

Felix, not having thought too much of your cosplay, just giggled and expressed how much he adored you and how wonderful you looked. But the others shared a few glances behind the blonde, Jisung's hands rubbing over his thighs and Hyunjin's hands already eagerly unzipping his fly.

.

"I never thought this day would come. It's just like she jumped out of the game and into real life." Though maybe Jisung was saying that just because he was behind you and couldn't see your face all that much. He was enjoying himself regardless, tugging on his cock with a tight fist just like every other man standing around you. A pretty pink with a swollen tip and pre leaking down his shaft to slacken every stroke, Jisung's cock looked all the more appetizing any glimpse you caught of it. If you could you would've put it in your mouth immediately, but you were a bit busy as it was.

Chris and Minho had taken to standing on either side of you; Minho's cock heavy, weighing down even when you held it so carefully in your hand. Thick, warm, pulsing each time your thumb slid over his tip to tease at his slit and make him shiver. He'd grow impatient in little to no time, though it had been a good fifteen minutes that he'd let you stop and go with your hand around his cock - so he'd taken your hand into his, thick fingers wrapping over your own to guide you. And he's not gentle with the way he moves your hand along under his own, jerking himself off but to the softness of your own palm.

But to the other side of you, Chris was more willing, more sweet. He'd watched every movement you made for him, your opposite hand fumbling with Minho - and then his own length as you gently grabbed for it. Your fingers ghosted over his thigh before he nudged your wrist with his thumb, a gentle push to your destination. Your fingers wrapped around him so nicely and honestly? The gentle and soft squeeze you gave to the base of his cock every few seconds was enough for him to be happy; Unlike Minho, he was content with the subtle touches - and though you didn't know it, he almost saw it as a form of edging. Which he enjoyed more than he would care to voice aloud in front of everyone else.

Beneath you sat one of your closest friends from the group - The youngest. Of course they'd let him get the best seat in the house, let him indulge in the warmth and sweetness of your dripping walls. Jeongin's legs carefully crossed so he sat with them like a pretzel, letting you kneel atop his lap with your knees on either side of his thighs, pressing hard into the carpet below. He'd been careful, patient, cautious as you settled in his lap - then on his cock; With long fingers reaching down to spread you open for him, so careful of your costume and wanting to keep it clean just in case this ever happened again. You know, future use. He was watching with curious, dark eyes as his length disappeared into you inch by inch. His breath shuddered each time you let your hips roll down into his own before pulling back off, almost letting him slip out of your slick walls. And he whimpered each and every time.

Changbin sat back against the wall, lounging in a chair that you'd had in the corner of your room - just for events like this. You'd discussed it with Felix before, the two of you mutually agreeing that you enjoyed having someone else in the bedroom every so often. Changbin; He visited weekly by this point - that was basically his chair now. Sitting back, thighs spread, cock twitching in his sweats like it always did when he watched you. His chest raised heavy with each breath; slow, steady, calculated. He liked it this way - Not touching himself, not indulging. Just watching and letting his body react to the sight in front of him. And if you could see him he was sure you'd be foaming at the mouth, spit dripping from your lips in anticipation in want to get a hold of him. You'd done it before.

Hyunjin - Well. He'd already lost it. Sitting back against the edge of your bed, pants down around his ankles and body trembling with release, his hand was covered in not one but two loads of cum that'd leaked from his tip. He'd been the first to indulge in his guilty pleasures, lost in the sight of you bouncing on the youngest's cock while still managing to pleasure others around you. You let them use you like this - all dressed up and pretty for them, one of their favorite characters. He was spent by the time you even touched Jeongin or the others, one hand muffling his moans pressed over his mouth while the other continued to shakily tug and rub at his cock - always leaking for you.

The other two..

Felix had allowed his roommate the sweetest of luxuries; Your mouth. While he sat back and just enjoyed the scene, actually kneeling close to your side to keep one hand on the back of your neck and guide you - he tried to keep out of the way of Jeongin. Your boyfriend kept himself leaned in close, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as your mouth wrapped around his roommate's cock; How well you were doing, how you were perfect for Seungmin and how he'd never get over being sucked off by his favorite girl. "You should look up at him," He'll whisper. "He's told me before he loves it when his partners look him in the eye."

And sure enough when you glance up, Seungmin's already staring down at you; Eyes lidded, dark, heavy with lust and pooling with admiration. Despite the nonchalant and almost glaring look on his features, a soft hue of pink dusts his cheeks - proving he really was enjoying getting head from his favorite girl in the world. He let his hand come to your shoulder - then to your head, gently pushing down as his hips rocked forward. And as your throat filled with his cock, cum leaking for you to swallow down, you seemed to come to the realization that this was something you really enjoyed; Dressing up for them, letting them all in on the fun.

Maybe you'd have to do it again.

Tag List : @dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie @inlovewithstraykids @seungminsbest @edit-me-prettyplease @butterflydemons @satosugu4l @jeonginsleftcheek

[keeryhours]

please don’t go, i love you so - rafe cameron

Baby daddy! Rafe x Baby mama! Maybank! Reader

Masterlist

Rafe Cameron Masterlist

More Baby daddy! Rafe

Summary:

When you get in a serious accident, Rafe’s true feelings are left staring him in the face.

Requested

Warnings:

Lots of drama and angst, language, serious car accident, medical stuff, talk of TBIs, broken bones, and other injuries

Word Count: 4k

A/N:

Had to do research for this one, but I’m definitely no expert on medical stuff so forgive me if I get something wrong 🥲 Requests are open! BD Rafe requests can be anywhere in the timeline, past, future, smut, fluff, or angst :) Other OBX (or ST) requests also very welcome. I hope you enjoy this one!

let me know if you want to be on any tag lists :)

@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account

—

“Iris, please, baby, we’ve got to get your shoes on.”

“No!” the toddler yelled back, running circles around the living room.

You were out of energy. You sat on the couch, your face in your hands, as she continued to run and you tried to clear your head and just breathe.

It had been a long day. A bad day. Iris had been absolutely wild, endless energy and more attitude in her nearly 2 year old self than you thought possible. And it didn’t help that JJ was out with the pogues, so you didn’t even have any backup. It was 7pm, nearing her bedtime, and this had been your whole day. You were over it.

Everything had been a fight with her all day, but the current one was getting her dressed for pickup. It was Rafe’s weekend, and he’d be pulling up any second. You didn’t feel too thrilled about seeing Rafe right now, either.

Things had been complicated with Rafe. You felt like it was a constant back and forth with him, especially recently. Not about co-parenting, never about Iris - you knew you were lucky that the two of you got along so well when it came to parenting your daughter. It was feelings that got tricky.

You didn’t even know how you felt about Rafe yourself. On one hand, you knew you loved him. You’d always love him. But just because you loved him didn’t mean you should be together. You could never forget the toxic situation your relationship had been. Constant fighting, endless tears, trust issues and anger problems.

That’s not even to mention the way he would act around you lately. He was hot and cold. Sometimes he acted all affectionate, kissing and touching you, fucking you, like you’d never broken up in the first place. Other times he was cold and withdrawn. It left you feeling confused, like emotional whiplash, and you were honestly tired of it.

You debated on letting yourself have a quick cry, but quickly wrote that off as you thought of how humiliating it would be to answer the door to Rafe with your face all red and puffy from crying. You took a second to collect yourself, before putting the Mom pants back on.

“Iris Elaine Cameron,” you said sternly, standing from the couch.

The little girl came to a stop, looking up at you with a big grin on her face, totally oblivious to your frustration. The sight of her angelic face softens you immediately, of course. She had her light brown hair up in tiny pigtails, dressed in one of the many outfits Rafe had bought her. Some designer brand dress, not that you had any idea about that or thought it made much sense to dress a toddler in such expensive clothes. She looked cute, though.

You held up her Mary Jane shoes. “Are you gonna let Mommy put your shoes on so Daddy can come pick you up?” you asked her, raising an eyebrow.

Her little face lit up with joy. “Dada! Dada!”

Your heart clenched in your chest. Iris had been a total Daddy’s Girl since day 1 - and Rafe was completely wrapped around her little finger - but sometimes the reminder of him hit you especially hard.

At the promise of seeing her dad soon, Iris happily hopped over to you. You smiled as you lifted her onto your lap and slid her shoes on, buckling them. “There. See? All done,” you said. Iris held her palms out and twisted them, baby sign language for all done, which made you giggle. When you had read the articles and brought it up to Rafe, he had thought teaching her sign language as an infant was dumb. But it actually ended up being extremely helpful since she couldn’t communicate with words yet.

“Book?” she asked you, and you knew exactly what she wanted - her favorite book, Where the Wild Things Are. She’d have you read it 50 times a day if you’d do it. You smiled as you reached over to unzip the diaper bag, pulling the book out. She broke into a huge grin just at the sight of it.

You opened the beloved book and began to read to her, making her giggle with the different voices you’d do for the monsters. Her favorite part was always when you or Rafe would read the line “Oh please don’t go - we’ll eat you up - we love you so!” while attacking her with kisses and tickles. She laughed so hard every time.

When the book was finished, you closed it and slipped it back in the bag to go to her dad’s. She pouted like she was about to throw a fit if you didn’t read it again. “Uh uh. You’re gonna have to wait until Daddy reads it tonight.” You leaned in, rubbing your nose against hers, making her giggle.

You sat Iris down on the ground at the exact time you heard the front door opening. You raised your eyebrows knowingly at Iris, who’s eyes went wide in the direction of the hallway. You both knew perfectly well who it was.

Rafe sauntered into the living room, sunglasses sitting on his face despite the sun already beginning to set. His bored expression was immediately replaced by a huge grin as he saw his daughter.

“Hey, baby girl,” he said, lifting her into his arms as she squealed with delight.

You avoided eye contact with Rafe, busying yourself around the living room as you made sure everything Iris needed that he didn’t already have at his place was packed in her diaper bag. Once you were satisfied, you approached Rafe with the bag, handing it over. He took it from you with a curious expression.

“You’re being weird,” he said, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head.

You ignored him, leaning over to give Iris a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, baby. I’ll see you Sunday night, okay?”

Rafe doesn’t take his eyes off you, like he’s examining you inside and out. “What’s your deal?”

You sighed - you already felt defeated and exhausted going into this encounter, you didn’t really want to do this tonight. “Nothing. Everything is fine.”

But Rafe knows you better than anyone.

He bit the inside of his cheek as he looked at you. “This is because I took Briana on another date, isn’t it?”

You felt your skin turn ice cold at the accusation, your defenses building themselves high. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

The slightest smirk dances across his lips as he sits a wiggling Iris back on the ground, his eyes never leaving yours. “That is why you’re mad.”

You huffed an incredulous laugh as you crossed your arms and looked away from him, watching Iris start dragging everything you’d just cleaned up out of the toy box again, paying no mind to the two of you. “I’m not mad. And if I was, I have much better things to be upset about than who you choose to stick your dick into,” you hissed back at him.

Rafe barked out a laugh, looking up at the ceiling as he did like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. “You are so full of shit.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head. “Get out, Rafe. I’ll see you Sunday.”

He watched you for a minute longer as you both stood there in silence. Finally he let out a big sigh, running a hand over his face. “You’re such a bitch sometimes, you know that?”

You didn’t acknowledge the comment as he moved to lift Iris into his arms again, her bag slung over his shoulder. You followed him to the front door, ready to shut him out as soon as possible, but as soon as he stepped over the threshold, he turned back to you.

“You know, it’s none of your business who I see. We’re not together. You’re not my girl.”

You just looked at him, his words cutting far deeper and harder than you wanted to admit. “Same goes for you too, Rafe,” you said, thinking of the multiple times Rafe’s temper and jealousy had ruined one of your dates. Half the island was scared to even look at you because of him. It was fucking annoying.

Rafe scoffed. He shook his head one more time with that stupid grin on his face. “I’ll see you Sunday,” he said, and then he was walking off towards his truck.

You didn’t linger. You shut the door as soon as he stepped away, leaning against the wood as you took a deep, shaky breath. God, you hated that arrogant asshole sometimes.

You wallowed in your despair on the couch for a while that night, switching between various shows, none of them catching your interest. Eventually you think what’s the point, and decide to just go to bed early. You might as well take advantage of the sleep without having to worry about getting up early.

—

You hoped you would feel better the next day.

You didn’t.

You made breakfast for you and JJ, not something you typically do when Iris was at Rafe’s, but you felt like pancakes. And JJ certainly wasn’t going to complain.

“You look depressed,” JJ pointed out helpfully through a mouthful of pancake as you sat at the small dining table across from him.

You glared at him over your plate before eating a bite of your own breakfast. JJ held his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay. Touchy subject this morning, I see.”

As much as you loved your twin brother, you were relieved when he picked up his surf board after breakfast and told you he was going out. You didn’t exactly feel up to company.

With JJ gone, you attempted to stay busy around the house, but once everything was cleaned to perfection, you found yourself standing in the silent living room, feeling like you had no idea what to do with yourself. What was wrong with you, you thought. The place was always too quiet without Iris.

You needed a drive to clear your head.

You snatched your keys from the side table and left the house, still dressed in the tank top and athletic shorts you’d been cleaning the house in. You just wanted to drive around the island for a while, you weren’t really going anywhere, so you didn’t care how you looked.

You turned on your favorite sad playlist and sang at the top of your lungs to songs about love and broken hearts and pain. You felt pretty silly, but this was your time, your coping mechanism, and you weren’t going to feel bad about it.

Fuck Rafe Cameron. And not in the way you usually did.

You drove with the windows down, the salty breeze whipping through your hair, cooling your skin. You felt yourself starting to feel lighter.

You didn’t see the truck barreling faster than the speed limit around the corner. No one even had time to lay on the horn. You didn’t see or feel anything except a brief flash of pain and then - nothing.

—

“Wow! That’s beautiful, baby.”

Rafe lifted up the piece of paper covered in crayon scribbles, examining it like it was on display at The Louvre. It was the fifth one he’d been given since he sat on the floor with Iris, crayons and paper spread out all around them. Each piece of art went in a stack to be displayed somewhere in the house.

He watched his daughter as she picked up the green jumbo crayon and began roughly scribbling it across another blank page. The same big smile he always had around Iris was spread across his face. Nothing made him happier than spending time with her.

Rafe was caught off guard by the sound of his phone ringing loudly in his pocket. He sighed as he pulled it out, expecting to see either Topper or Kelce forgetting it was his weekend with Iris. But his eyebrows furrowed as he saw it was JJ calling him. JJ never called or texted him. They only had each other’s numbers in case of emergency.

Rafe felt a jolt of pure fear deep in his chest.

He answered the call, tentatively bringing the phone to his ear. “Maybank?” he answered.

He felt the nausea spread over him like a tidal wave when JJ spoke your name in his panicked voice. It was you. God, something bad had happened to you.

“S-slow down,” Rafe said, holding his shaking hand out in front of him as if JJ could see. Pure panic was spreading and growing through every vein in his body. “What…what happened?”

JJ’s voice was shaking too as he spoke. Rafe could tell he was pacing, probably pulling at his messy blonde hair as he did. “She- it was a truck. Guy was speeding and hit her head-on. Her car is totaled, they…they haven’t even let me see her yet. I don’t even know if she’s okay. Fuck, I shouldn’t have left this morning. Fuck!”

Rafe couldn’t even process JJ blaming himself for something that definitely wasn’t his fault, because he was doing the same thing. He had been a total asshole to you last night. The idea that that could possibly have been the last conversation he’ll ever have with you has him feeling like he’s going to be sick on the floor.

“I’m on my way,” Rafe said simply, and then he was hanging up the call, shoving his phone in his pocket and climbing to his feet.

Sarah was happy to watch Iris as Rafe grabbed his keys and sprinted to his truck, with promises to text her about your condition as soon as he knew anything at all. He probably would have been driving 15 over the speed limit if he wasn’t so disgustingly reminded of the dangers of the road. Instead he drove as fast as he safely could, a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel as he clenched his jaw tightly.

His head was spinning as he rushed into the hospital, looking around the waiting room for any sign of JJ. He didn’t see the blonde boy anywhere. He approached the receptionist desk instead, urgently giving your name to the tired looking receptionist.

“She’s in the Neuro ICU, room 5,” the receptionist said. Rafe felt his breath hitch - the fucking ICU? “We only allow two visitors at a time, and it’s immediate family only,” she continued. “You are…?”

Rafe hesitated. “Uh…I’m her boyfriend,” he said the first thing that came to mind. “But we have a child together. Please.”

The receptionist eyed him for a moment, before nodding, giving him a sympathetic look. She printed a visitor’s badge for him and handed it over. He thinks she said something about wishing you the best, but all he could hear was his own blood rushing in his ears as he mindlessly walked towards the elevators.

The last time Rafe had been in a hospital was for Iris’ birth, decidedly a much happier occasion. He felt out of place and awkward as he walked through the quiet, sterile halls, following signs pointing him where he wanted to go.

When he reached the ICU and approached room 5, he froze. He had never felt so scared in his life, he thought. He didn’t know if he could do this.

But you needed him.

He slid the glass door open, a flash of blonde hair peeking from around the privacy curtain where JJ was sitting. Rafe mustered all the strength he had to walk forward into the room. JJ looked up at him as he entered, but his eyes were immediately drawn to you as his heart shattered in his chest.

He clasped his hands behind his head as he took in the scene in front of him. He was holding off a panic attack as tears welled in his eyes. You were there on the bed, and you looked so utterly broken that it made Rafe feel like he couldn’t breathe. You were hooked up to an IV, about a million monitors mostly over your chest and head, a cast on an arm and one on a leg, a ventilator.

Rafe’s shaky legs practically gave out then, his body collapsing in the empty chair by your bedside. He was terrified to look at you, knowing he was going to start crying harder if he did. He looked at JJ instead, who looked equally wrecked, his eyes red from crying.

JJ gave Rafe the rundown the doctor had just given him. Traumatic brain injury, broken bones in your left arm and leg. You hadn’t regained consciousness at all since the accident. Things were still up in the air, nothing the doctors would say brought Rafe any comfort. They didn’t know about surgery yet, they didn’t know how long it would take you to recover, hell, they couldn’t even say if you’d be the same when you woke up.

When Rafe finally worked up the courage to be close to you, to actually look at you - he didn’t know his heart could break like this. Your normally smooth, perfect skin that he loved to trace his fingertips over because of the way you’d react to his touch, was now covered in deep bruises. Your face - that beautiful face he always adored so much, the one he fell in love with back in junior high - bruised and lacerated. He couldn’t even tell himself you were just peacefully napping. You looked like hell.

The next weeks were long and difficult. Iris stayed with the Cameron’s, and while Rafe spent every second he could drag himself away from your bedside spending it with her, he didn’t leave the hospital much at all. He grew used to sleeping in the world’s most uncomfortable chair.

Your recovery was truly a miracle. You didn’t end up needing brain surgery, but they kept you monitored for weeks. You did suffer a pretty bad TBI, and you had surgery to repair the broken bones in your arm and leg. The ventilator was removed first, which Rafe was the most relieved about, because that terrified him more than anything else.

When you finally woke up, Rafe was the first thing you saw.

The second he noticed your eyes fluttering open, Rafe was bolting up straight in his chair, his hand gently cupping your cheek with a barely-there touch as he whispered your name.

“R…Rafe?” you had croaked, voice raspy and dry from disuse and the ventilator tube being down your throat. Rafe called the nurses immediately, and multiple examinations, a plastic hospital jug of ice water, and some heavy pain meds later, you were feeling…okay.

JJ was there for most of the day like he was every day he didn’t have work. He actually cried when he showed up and saw you awake, which surprised Rafe because he didn’t even seem embarrassed about it. He just embraced you as gently as possible so as not to hurt you, and it was clear you were equally as happy to see him. There was that twin bond, something Rafe found a little weird (especially when the two of you would communicate without even talking) but also…endearing.

Recovery was a long road, and it was a lot of hard work, but the doctors were confident in your ability to return to normal in time. You had to work on your memory, your speech. Physical therapy took up most of your days. But Rafe knew you were strong, and you showed him every day. Even Iris got to visit as often as she could, but you didn’t want her in a hospital for too long so she wouldn’t get sick.

Rafe sat by your side late at night, gently brushing his fingers through your hair as you laid with your eyes closed, enjoying the feeling. Your hospital stay was finally almost over. You’d be coming home tomorrow, staying with the Camerons so you had the help.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him. You were happy, but his behavior was confusing to you at the same time. “You’re being weirdly sweet,” you said with a teasing smile.

Rafe looked away from your eyes. “Yeah…well.”

The two of you sat with that silence for a while. You knew there was plenty he wasn’t saying, and you wondered if he would.

Rafe reached forward and traced a finger along your cheek, over your jaw line. The cuts and bruises on your face were mostly healed now, and you were endlessly grateful when they told you they didn’t expect any lasting scarring. His light touch sent a shiver through your body.

When Rafe finally spoke again, he sounded different than you had ever heard him. His voice was weak, broken. “Don’t do that to me again.”

Your face fell as you looked at him - really looked at him - and saw the pain hidden deep behind his blue eyes. Obviously you knew none of this was your fault, but you felt terrible for what you’d put your loved ones through all the same.

“I’m sorry-“ you began to say, but Rafe shook his head.

“Do you understand that I love you?” he said, his voice choked up as tears welled in those deep eyes. The words hit you like a physical blow, you felt yourself moving back as you looked him in the face. “I don’t give a fuck about Briana, or any other girl on this island compared to you. And it’s not just ‘we were together for a while and you’re the mother of my daughter so I’ll always love you’,” he continued, like the words were spilling out of his mouth faster than he could control. “No, like, I love you.”

He was looking you so intensely in the eyes that it took your breath away. You felt tears in your own eyes, falling down your cheeks before you could do anything about it. “Rafe…” you breathed out, you didn’t know what else to say. You weren’t even sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Maybe we could…maybe we could try again,” he said, the hope audible in his voice. “A…relationship?”

You let out a long shaky exhale. “I…” You searched your brain for the right words to say, searched your chest for how you really felt. “We…it’s never worked, Rafe, we never-“

“Do you love me?”

The question caught you completely off guard. “What?”

“Do you love me?” he repeated simply. “I told you how I felt. I need to know how you really feel.”

You swallowed. “I love you, Rafe,” you said, your voice small. “I’ve always loved you. But it’s still never worked for us.”

Rafe clasped both your smaller hands in his, being gentle with your cast. “I’m serious this time, baby. This is…things are different.” He held intense eye contact with you as he spoke, and you could see the genuine emotion swirling behind his eyes. “I’ve had a taste of what life would be like without you, and I don’t wanna go through that again.”

You had no control whatsoever as the tears started to fall down your face faster, a sob escaping from your throat. Rafe pulled you into the tightest gentle hug he could manage, his large hand combing through your smooth hair as you cried into his chest. He was a little panicked, he didn’t know if he had said something wrong to upset you. He didn’t want to make you sad anymore.

When you pulled back, Rafe wiped the tears from your face. He traced his thumb lightly over your bottom lip. His gaze flicked up to your eyes, back to your mouth, and then he was leaning in to press the softest kiss to your lips. When he broke the kiss and looked into your eyes again, he could see the mix of emotions swirling behind them. He wished he could read what you were thinking.

He grabbed your good hand with his own, intertwining your fingers. “You don’t have to decide anything now. You have plenty else to worry about. Just…think about it for me?”

You nodded, squeezing his hand in yours, which gave him some reassurance. You didn’t know what your decision would be, but you wanted to make sure you made the right one. For you, for Rafe, and for Iris.

“I love you,” you whispered to him.

His lips turned up in a smile. “I love you too.”

[maybeelse]

"Pathetic mortals! Hear my demands," Corvina intones, feathers raised is a posture of challenge, "and despair, for the will of the night is unstoppable! Your compatriot has made a mockery of our alliance! You must," her voice shifts, a faint squawk betraying a feather-covered blush, "make her let go of me."

Maria, Halberd of Noon, peers up at Corvina. The villainess, once barely taller than her, has grown beyond all reason in the weeks since the Tremorlord ate the sun and plunged the world into an eternal and moonless night. "Is Anne being a problem?"

"Yes! I mean, uh," she tries to compose herself, "yes. Remove her, lest a worse fate befalls her! I will drop her in the ocean to freeze, see if I don't."

"Why don't you ask her yourself?"

"S-she just talks about wanting me to eat her! It's creepy! You deal with it!"

"… sure," Maria sighs. "Where is she, anyway?"

Corvina gestures vaguely towards her frankly excessive body. "Somewhere? I don't know. You find her."

Maria stares at Corvina, entirely unimpressed, and the former harpy hides her head under one of her wings. Another dozen wings flutter spasmodically along her body; her proprioception still hasn't caught up to the glut of power engorging her body. Perhaps it could be comical if it wasn't a reminder of how badly screwed they all are.

"Anne! Get out here!"

"don't wanna," the distant reply comes.

"Got you," Maria murmurs.

It's not that easy, of course. Getting to her requires navigating more of their former and future foe's body than Maria every wanted to be aware of, and Corvina keeps on reflexively hitting her with her wings (tolerable) or trying to disembowel her with whichever foot is nearest (irritating). The worst part is Maria's allergies. Harpies generate nearly as much dander as pigeons, and Corvina has not been taking proper care of herself.

Her eyes are watering and her nose is running when she finally finds Anne, Sword of the Morning, curled up under one of Corvina's wings. Several of Corvina's clawed feet hold her aloft, cradling her as delicately as a fresh-plucked flower.

"Hey, sis," Anne murmurs, shifting slightly. "Sup?"

"… wait, I thought Corvina didn't want you here?"

"Yeah. She hates me, you know that."

"But—"

"But," Anne smiles, "her body doesn't. S' a good cuddler."

"… that doesn't make any sense, Anne."

"Does. Wanna join?"

"No, Anne. I want you to stop pissing her off. We really can't afford it."

"Mmm," Anne yawns, "Can't afford to stop either, though …"

"Explain?"

"Why should I? You already know all of it, and I'm tired."

The three Guardians of Day—two, now, since the Shield of Dusk defected to the Tremorlord's forces—have never liked talking about the exact details of their powers. They wax strongest during the hours they are bound to (as does Corvina, their villainous reflection), and wane as time's passage draws them away, but …

The fact that they still have some power during eternal night raises questions with indelicate answers. Questions like, well, "where does it come from?" And "how do we get more?"

Dusk's defection came after she asserted one specific answer, and rejected it entirely.

"… you can find someone else to cuddle, Anne."

"Don't wanna. Besides," she moves to flop onto the ground and Corvina's claws close around her—wrapping tight around her waist, her neck, and her thighs, pinning her in place like the delicious morsel that she is. "Don't think 'vina will let me."

"Yeah, okay," Maria grouses, "fuck this. Just stop asking her to eat you."

"S'not my fault that she's such a prude."

The villain decides to do the classic "team up to defeat a common foe" trope but it's been taking a lot longer than they had expected,the heroes are getting emotionally attached and it's starting to get weird.

[purifiedclitoris69]

Breaking point

a/n: Finally got to the nat version of silent comfort. It’s a little short tbh so sorry about that. hope you enjoy!

pairings: Natasha Romanoff x supersoldier reader

warnings: violence

You’d been with the Avengers for almost a year now, and in that time, you’d managed to carve out a space for yourself on the team. Sure, being the former Hydra experiment wasn’t exactly the most inviting introduction, but you didn’t let that define you. It wasn’t who you were anymore. You were the team’s go-to for a laugh, always cracking jokes, lightening the mood, and making it easier for everyone to handle the high-stakes pressure of their lives. What you didn’t talk about, though, was your past. Not because anyone had told you not to, but because you didn’t want to relive it.

Especially not now, when things were starting to feel... normal.

Normal was spending late nights on the couch with Natasha, arguing over which movie to watch but never finishing them because you’d get caught up in teasing each other. Normal was training together and catching her smiling at you when she thought you weren’t looking. Normal was her throwing playful jabs about how you talked too much, only to call you out on being unusually quiet when something was bothering you.

You weren’t sure when things had shifted, but somewhere along the way, the time you spent with her had become the highlight of your day. And judging by the way she always seemed to find excuses to stay close, you thought maybe—just maybe—she felt the same way.

Neither of you had said anything yet, though. It was comfortable, whatever this was, and you didn’t want to ruin it.

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

The quinjet hummed softly as the team prepared for the mission. Hydra remnants were regrouping, and the team had been sent to intercept a high-level target.

You were double-checking your gear when Natasha sauntered over, a sly smile already playing on her lips.

"You know," she said, leaning casually against the wall beside you, "I’ve noticed you spend an awful lot of time fussing over that utility belt. Got a secret stash of candy in there or something?"

You snorted, pulling a strap tighter. "Jealous I don’t share my snacks with you, Romanoff?"

"Please," she shot back, tilting her head. "If I wanted candy, I’d just take it," she shrugged her shoulders, "I always get what I want."

You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try."

She stepped closer, her green eyes glinting with mischief. "Careful, or I might have to prove it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You’re all talk."

"Am I?" She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of your belt, and for a split second, your heart skipped a beat. But instead of taking anything, she smirked and stepped back, clearly enjoying the way you were watching her.

"Tease," you muttered, pretending to focus on your gear again.

"You make it too easy," she quipped, crossing her arms.

Before you could come up with a comeback, Steve’s voice cut through the moment. "Gear up. We’re heading out in five."

Natasha straightened but didn’t move immediately. Instead, she leaned in just enough for only you to hear. "Try to keep up out there, rookie."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. "Try not to get distracted, Romanoff."

She laughed softly as she walked away, the sound lingering in the air long after she was gone.

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

Though successful the mission had been thoroughly chaotic, to say the least. Things had been going smoothly until Natasha went off-script.

You hadn’t even known what was happening at first. One second, you were covering her six, and the next, she was gone, chasing intel Fury and Maria Hill had deemed critical. It left you in a tight spot, trying to hold your ground without her, and you’d taken a few hits you shouldn’t have.

By the time the mission wrapped, you were sore, bruised, and too exhausted to joke around like you usually would. The tension on the jet ride back to the compound was thick, everyone keenly aware that Steve was seething.

The hanger was suffocatingly tense as the quinjet’s ramp descended with a mechanical hiss, and everyone piled out, the weight of the mission hanging heavily in the air. Conversations were sparse—exhaustion mingled with the unspoken tension. You were still catching your breath, the fight replaying in your mind, when Steve’s voice broke the silence.

“Romanoff, we need to talk.”

You glanced at Natasha, who was walking beside you. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t stop, striding toward the hangar floor like she hadn’t heard him.

“Natasha.” Steve’s voice carried more force this time.

She stopped, turning around slowly, her face calm but her eyes sharp. “What?”

Steve’s expression was stony as he marched toward her. “What the hell was that back there?”

“The part where we got the job done?” Natasha shot back, her voice icy.

“The part where you ignored orders and jeopardized the team,” he countered, standing toe-to-toe with her now.

You stepped closer instinctively, but for now, you stayed silent, your fists clenching at your sides.

“I didn’t jeopardize anyone,” Natasha said, crossing her arms. “I prioritized the bigger picture. Fury and Maria needed that intel, and I got it.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Fury and Hill aren’t the ones in the field. We are. And when you decide their priorities are more important than this team, you’re not just making a bad call—you’re making a selfish one.”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t look away. “I made a call that benefited everyone in the long run. You might not like it, but it worked.”

“Did it?” Steve snapped, gesturing toward you. “Because they almost didn’t make it out thanks to you.”

Your chest tightened as his words hit. “That’s not fair, Steve,” you said, stepping in now.

He turned on you, his voice rising. “It is fair. You wouldn’t have been in that position if she hadn’t dragged you into her little side mission.”

“That’s enough,” you said, your voice low.

But Steve ignored you, his focus still on Natasha. “You know, it’s always the same with you. You play both sides, keep everyone guessing. It worked for you in the Red Room, maybe even with S.H.I.E.L.D., but here? That doesn’t fly. We’re supposed to be a team, but you’re still looking out for yourself first.”

The mention of the Red Room made your blood run cold. You saw the flicker of something in Natasha’s expression—a crack in her armor.

“Watch your mouth,” you said, stepping in front of her now, your voice dangerously calm, as you met Captain America eye level.

Steve’s gaze snapped to you, his frustration redirected. “Stay out of this.”

“No,” you said firmly. “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”

“Or what?” Steve challenged, jaw tightened, his temper bubbling over as took a step closer, eyes blazing with anger.

The moment he moved, you acted. Your hand shot out, gripping his wrist and twisting with precision. With a sharp pivot of your hips, you flipped him over your shoulder. The impact reverberated through the hangar as Steve crashed into a nearby crate, shattering it into splinters.

The hangar went silent, the sound of the crash echoing in the vast space.

Steve was already scrambling to his feet, his eyes blazing with disbelief and fury. Bucky intercepted him, gripping his shoulder and holding him back

“Steve, don’t,” Bucky said, his voice firm but calm.

Natasha was in front of you before you could react, her hands pressing against your chest as she pushed you back. “Enough,” she said, her voice low but forceful.

You froze, the reality of what you’d just done hitting you like a freight train.

You glanced around the hangar, catching the wide-eyed stares of your teammates. The expressions on their faces weren’t just shocked—they were scared. Of you.

Your gaze landed on Natasha last. Her green eyes were glassy, her brows furrowed with confusion and something that looked too much like hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, your voice barely audible. Then you turned and walked away, your boots echoing in the silence of the hangar as you disappeared into the compound.

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

The rooftop felt like the only place you could breathe. The cool night air bit at your skin as you sat on the ledge, your hands gripping the metal railing.

What the hell had you done? You’d spent so long trying to prove you weren’t the weapon Hydra made you, but one moment of anger had torn that facade apart.

“Hell of a move back there.”

You didn’t have to look to know it was Natasha. Her voice was light, but there was an edge of something else—concern, maybe.

“Didn’t mean to wreck the crate,” you muttered, still staring out at the city lights.

She walked over, her steps soft, and leaned against the railing beside you. “The crate’s fine. Steve, on the other hand…”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, bet he’s thrilled.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just studied you with that piercing gaze of hers. “Why’d you do it? he was right, I left you out there."

You sighed, finally meeting her eyes. "I would've been fine Tasha, and I know you know that," you looked down to your lap, "besides I couldn’t stand the way he was talking to you. Like you haven’t done more for this team than anyone.”Her expression softened, and for a moment, the world felt a little less heavy. “I don’t care about your past, Nat,” you said quietly. “And I’ll be damned if I let anyone throw it in your face.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile as she reached out, her hand brushing yours. “You’re not who they made you either, you know.”

You looked at her, and for the first time all day, you felt like maybe you hadn’t completely lost yourself.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t have to fight for me," her gaze dropping to your lips as you both began to lean in, " but thank you for doing it anyway," her breath fanned across you. Before you could reply, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was well over do. Her lips were soft against yours, warm and grouding in a way that made everything fade away.

When she pulled back, she smiled—a real, genuine smile. “Now let’s go figure out how to apologize to Steve.”

You groaned, but for the first time that night, you felt like everything might just be okay.

[monstersholygrail]

What happens if someone is in a relationship/marriage whilst in Free Use City? How would that work?

As another day winds down in Free Use City, you and your Monster Husband move around your shared room with ease. Working as though you are two cogs working in a perfect machine. The deep familiarity between you both is evident as your husband slides your lotion to the edge of the sink right before you walk in and grab it.

You lean into his side and his arm naturally winds around your waist as he brushes his teeth. The height difference between you both is comical yet the way you two fit together is utter perfection. Uncapping your lotion you barely even think as the words slip out of your mouth.

“Some Tentacle Monster fucked me in the bathroom today at work. Was pleasantly surprised by the tentacle dick.”

Your husband snorts in amusement, quickly closing his mouth to stop the toothpaste from flying. Your mouth quirks up as you dot some lotion on your arms.

Living in the city, when proposing to fuck someone, the act is always shared and discussed between you two beforehand. Whether it’s a group activity or solo. But if someone comes up to you to fuck, well, that’s more than fair game.

“Really?” He asks once his mouth is rinsed. You hum in agreement, leaning down to rub lotion up and down your plush legs. An act your husband can’t help but watch with rapt attention. “A Tentacle Monster actually fucked me too, today. At my desk!”

You whip back up, looking at your husband with wide eyes and a smile.

“No way! Think it was the same one?”

“That would be hot.”

You hum in agreement once again, nodding along as you imagine a Tentacle Monster purposefully going out of their way to find you and your husband just to know they got to fuck you both. A shiver runs down your spine and you meet your husband’s eye in the mirror. His gaze reflects your own, a burning heat of lust as similar thoughts race through your mind.

In a flash you two are jumping each other, mouth classing in a heated kiss. Your limbs tangling as you practically climb him like a fucking tree. Your husband lifts your plush body up with ease, settling you on the sink and standing between your thick thighs. He growls into the kiss, his tongue diving deep in your mouth.

His hands feel like a blur on your skin as he rips away the clothes standing in the way of him finally having you again. He doesn’t break away from your lips, uncaring that you’re running out of air. He needs you like you’re his air and isn’t that more important?

He finally breaks away from the kiss as he sinks into your slick heat to throw his head back. A long groan leaving his lips now. Your moans mingle with his like a perfect melody as his fat cock stretches your walls beyond possible. Your sopping hole welcoming your husband’s cock back inside you with relief.

Your body tingles as his claws sink into your flesh, keeping you steady as he starts pounding away into your pussy as if he’s been waiting for this all day. By the way your core sucks him back in with every thrust it’s clear it’s hurt you to wait just as much. Neither of you can get enough of each other, your hands scouring the other, clinging to the person you crave more than anyone.

“F-fuck, baby. Nothing feels better than this. Sweet pussy was fucking made for me, wasn’t it?” Your husband growls, his hips snapping harder and faster. Finding the act of not being inside you near unbearable.

You cry out, nails clawing at his back. Desperate to get him as deep inside you as possibly. No one wills you the way he does, no one knows your body and how to so perfectly make you feel good like he does. His words send tingles down your spine. A familiar relief sparking through you as you know nothing a doubt your husband would chose you over anyone.

“Yes! Fuck! This pussy was made for your cock. Fits so perfect. So, hnghhh, good…”

Monster Husband roars, more than pleased by your words. He gets impossibly bigger within you and you scream, your hips pushing back to meet his every thrust. He rolls his hips into you at an inhuman speed, hitting every spot along your walls that has you seeing stars.

“That’s it— aughh— dammit, cum for me. Need to feel you baby, please,” your husband begs, his thrusts quickly growing sloppy as he chases release for you both.

His words weave into your ear and shoot straight down to your core. Your body jolts and seizes in his embrace and a second later you’re violently thrown into an earth shattering orgasm. Your screams rival a banshees as a deep pressure snaps and gushes out of you. Your pussy milking your husband’s cock for all it’s worth. Your slutty cunt sucks him back in as he tries to grind his length inside you and it has him following you into climax. Shooting thick ropes of cum as far inside you as he can possibly reach.

You two sag against each other. Holding onto one another with everything you have. Comforted by your mere presences and the knowledge that no matter who chooses to fuck you, you’ll always choose each other first.

[yournightmary]

Vi NSFW!Alphabet

content warning:: nsfw obviously, not proofread because it’s painful, badly written maybe idk?

AN:: i’ve had 42 hours on cai last week. i am not okay

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she’s the sweetest. it’s like all of her tough girl walls are crumbling and she becomes a literal teddy bear. cuddling and talking is a must, a shower if you’re up for it.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ on herself she likes her arms the most, it’s a simple decision. it’s the strongest part of her body. she’ll stand in front of the mirror and just flex with a shit eating grin. also loves the way her muscles and veins pop out when she’s fingering you.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ on you- and i’ve already talked about this- she loves your thighs and ass. could not pick one or the other, they come as a package. she’ll kiss, bite and lick your thighs every time she goes down on you. and if you wear clothes that accentuate your curves? get ready to get your ass slapped every time she walks by you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ i don’t think she’s a squirter. not matter how many times you try, how much water she drinks or the position- she just won’t. which is totally normal!! she does get really wet really easily though.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she would really like it if you got a tattoo specifically for her. maybe her name or a few of those cogs she has herself. not so everyone could see it and know you’re hers, nuh uh- she’d want it to be somewhere hidden, like on your ribcage or low on your hips. just for her to see and know about it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

��� ˗ˏˋ she definitely missed out on a lot of things when she was younger, maybe had a few hookups or a prison wife along the way. she might stumble around, not really knowing what to do- but what she lacks in experience she makes up with enthusiasm.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ either something where she can see your face or see your ass, depends on what you want more in the moment. ideally though? cowgirl in front of a mirror so she can look at both of her those things.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ it all depends on the mood. you were play fighting and it turned into fucking? she’s giggling and throwing jokes left & right. you were away for some time and she finally gets to touch you? there isn’t a single word coming out of her mouth (other than praise maybe) because of how focused she is on making you feel good.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ HAPPY TRAIL.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she’s not really the one to shave or even trim. she’s got good hygiene and it’s not like hair=dirty or disgusting. the hair is a darker than the one on her head, obviously, but it still has that fuchsia undertone.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ very, very romantic. it one of her ways to show you just how much she loves you, so she tries her best.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she doesn’t really masturbate, which is surprising with how horny she is. if she’s really desperate and you’re away or not in the mood, she’ll just rub one out- nothing else.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she’s not really that kinky… she does like to manhandle you a bit more than she would like to admit. it’s just the way she can turn you into putty (and that you trust her enough to do it) that gets her going.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ anywhere in your home. she isn’t really into the idea of getting intimate outside of her own space.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ everything and anything about you. just the idea that she’s the one making you feel this good, pulling those sounds out of you, that you trust and love her enough to do those things- it’s the best she could ask for. her goal in life is to make you happy and she will achieve it.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she hates the idea of doing something to intentionally cause you pain. she hurt enough people in her life- she’s not gonna do it to you, even if you beg.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she’s getting the ‘best carpet muncher’ award, no questions asked. she loves to give, doesn’t mind receiving. she gets messy with it- i’m talking kissing, licking and even slurping. if you’re up for it she’ll even properly fuck you with her tongue.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she’ll give you whatever you want and she’ll give it good. to her it’s all about pleasing you, so her needs and wants go to the back of her mind.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ sure, why not? if any of you feel the need but don’t exactly have the time, she’s more than fine with it. she does like to take her time though, so they’re not more usual than normal sex

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ experiment- yes. take risks- ehh, not really. she doesn’t want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable by accident, so usually she’ll stick to what she knows. but if you want to try something she’s more than willing.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ do i even need to say anything? she can go at it until your legs are shaking, your face is stained with tears and there are no legible thought in your head. she herself doesn’t last very long. she was deprived of that kind of touch for so long that she can cum from the simplest things.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she has a strap and she will not let you use it on her. she just doesn’t find that comfortable. maybe has a small bullet vibrator she received as a gag gift or bought out of curiosity- it’s for both you and her.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ oh my fucking god she’s such a tease. literally the book definition. loves to hear you beg and to see your hips chasing after her touch. but if you try to do the same to her? oh- she’s blushing and shying away from you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ usually she tries to hold back her noises but does a shitty job at it. and when the strap comes in? she’s whining like she’s actually fucking you with her dick

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ in my head she is not a sub i’m so sorry guys. i just can’t see it. at all. she’s a switch leaning dom at best.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ she is strapped the fuck up, you cannot convince me otherwise. but i feel like she would wait and buy the strap once she’s actually with you, just so you could pick exactly what you wanted. she chose the color though- it matches her hair.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ very high, but in a giving way, not receiving. she can do it all day, every day. not even letting you get out of bed.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ it all depends on the day. sometimes she’ll fall asleep right after taking care of you, sometimes she’ll stay up for hours cuddling and pillow talking with you.

i’m a virgin