#thank you for the kick in the teeth

[angstandhappiness]

Interesting

GWitch ep 19 thoughts

Every episode is a kick in the teeth with candy boots. A sweet misery you've known like no other. This episode was no different and I relished today's destruction as Mio and Prospera take center stage

That's a loaded statement if I've ever seen one. Really enjoyed this brief intro segment. We get Guel's thoughts on Kenanji; uninspired and suspicious, which are a vast change from his once admiration of the man. Guel also seems surprisingly chill about returning to Earth, but cryptically comments he wants to check the situation there and aid in negotiations. I like how Mio and him have fallen into this friendly rapport after everything. We'd like to see him apologize formally ofc, but it's not necessary for Mio. She's focused on greater concerns than the petty school days of Asticassia

Meanwhile, Suletta is a wreck. She's completely fallen apart after her mother and sister dumped her in space like hot garbo. She can't even plaster on a smile and lie to herself any longer. Earth House just thinks she's upset about the break up, so she isn't confiding in anyone at all. Suletta.exe has stopped working :(

Hilariously, Counselor Secilia has decided to make Martin her servant after listening to his confessional. It's great they make a distinct parallel to Miorine here, with Martin explaining he thought the best way to protect Earth House was to give up Nika. The show is filled with instances of people taking away another person's agency in the misguided belief they're doing 'what's best'. So good!

Real Elan finally gets more dialogue and he makes an excellent point, for once. The quickest and dirtiest way into Benerit's graces would be to forcefully suppress the earthian protests. A gundam, let alone one like Aerial, is a powerful statement of supremacy after all. Shaddiq is convinced Miorine would never allow it, and he's partly right. She wouldn't if she was the one truly calling the shots.

Feng is so cool for a spook. She successfully preys upon Belmeria's cowardice and gains her begrudging compliance. Really enjoyed the dynamic here at this little tea party. It was almost like a date 😳 Love me two older women with some tension. Is this the newest gwitch ship to take flight?

I love how Mio recognized these are peaceful protesters immediately. It's another instance of her demonstrating empathy on a greater level than she once did. Her initial ignorant comments about Earthians in cour 1 seem a distant memory, and much of it has to do with her exposure to Earth House. If not for them and Suletta, her pov would be just as narrow as every other spacian's.

And it's off to a terrible start lmao. I think Mio expected an uphill battle but those are some steep demands. A worldwide ban on spacians is unfeasible but absolutely warranted considering everything the spacians have done. Mio doesn't quite know how to counter, and it's so funny Guel left her here without help after previously saying he doesn't trust her diplomacy skills. I doubt he'd be much help tbh, but I guess he trusts her more than he said? Which is, uh, somewhat appreciated? It's the thought that counts.

Sad widow moment. Norea grieving Sophie's death and expressing her fear of death explicitly has been a long time coming. 5lan bearing witness as the floodgates open and she reveals they share this core dread? God this hit so good. You can't help but feel for these kids. Nika continues to watch on in bafflement as the drama unfolds. When is she gonna leave this level of purgatory?? Only Okouchi knows...

OMG, I AM SLAIN. Defeated. This sad husk of a girlboss misses her (ex) wife so much. Normal people would just have a wallet photo or a locket, but she's reduced to watching this goofy ass promo wistfully. I would find it hilarious if it wasn't so sad. It does give her the strength to continue negotiations so that's neat

More importantly, it reminds her of GUND's ideals and the people who've banded together because of that dream; Earth House. She cleverly points out that fulfilling their demands would also mean removing earthians from space, but she won't because they're her partners at GUND-ARM. Her showing them the medical achievements they've already made together was smart and tips the scales in her favor

I keep saying I love Mio but I really do. She's inspired to grasp the presidency for her own goals, rather than just as a tool for Prospera. She found a path of peace in spite of everything against her. It's bittersweet to know, in a kinder world, this would be the end of her struggles. But Prospera won't be satisfied with peace.

This shot was gold. Suletta raiding the fridge like an unwashed raccoon is perfect on so many levels. We finally get unbound Suletta too. Ugh she looks so good 😭

LOOK AT HER!! Babygirl. She looks like such a sad scruffy mutt here. I love it 🥹 Adored Earth House supporting her in her hour of need and giving her a boost with goat milk too. Really cements the rebirth imagery they had in the last episode.

Martin decides to slink home too and reveals everything going on with Nika. This bit from Lilique says it all. There are times when you are left with only so many options. While you may not choose the objectively best path, you can only pick what YOU feel is best. Miorine, Martin, Aerial. Even Delling and Prospera (Perhaps DoF and Shaddiq as well) It fits all the way across the cast.

I didn't expect to get the Shaddiq real name drop from this shakedown, but I'll take it. Kenanji may be a cop with blood on his hands, but he's a keen one. We learned that 'Prince' is a longstanding nickname and it implicates Shaddiq wholly in the terrorist attacks. 'Whoopsie, all my nefarious plans undone by one kid's rambling!'

(I also think the implication was Shaddiq or Jeru Ogul rather, is the 'heir apparent' to Ochs Earth virtue of his dead family. Not entirely certain tbh)

Looks like Guel will be Asticassia bound next episode along with Kenanji. No idea why Kenanji had to tag along but I guess Mio has enough of an escort. Let's hope this detour leads to Suletta using the Schwarzette! Fingers crossed

You saw it here, everybody. Prospera shot first! I'll admit I didn't fully expect her to go this route but it makes sense. I anticipated her gaining Mio support somehow, but she just cut the BS and said let's do this dirty. Controlling Earthian artillery to mask her intentions and provide an excuse is devious and brilliant

Destroying DoF's secret stache of gundams even more so. She really cut Shaddiq's plan for a cold war at the knees and Guel/Kenanji are on track to expose his duplicity entirely. He'll be lucky to not be jailed let alone president of anything. It's amazing that everything works out for Prospera no matter how many risks she takes or gambles made. Lady Luck must love her nonsense as much as the audience

Cut back to Bel and Feng, their date did not end as well as I hoped. While Bel spilled some details about Quiet Zero, Prospera's second hunts her down and interrupts this powow. Can't risk QZ leaking to the corpo spooks after all. We did learn that SAL is not as unified or well intentioned as we might have thought. Their high council was revealed to be backing Ochs Earth of all corps. Feng seemed to be an outlier in yet another shady corpo-controlled faction. I'll miss her, but maybe she somehow escaped this dire situation? I won't hold my breath. RIP Feng, you were a real one!

Elan Prime seems so smug to be right, even if it means their horse in this race has some real competition. He really is a little shit just like 5lan. That MS shot though. Damn evocative. War journalists eat your heart out. It's visual reference too, I believe?

This is the funniest thing he could've said. Shaddiq is malding just like a pathetic incel. Remember when everyone thought he pulled mad game because he's surrounded by women? But the sad reality is he's the most maidenless person in the solar system. The best outcome tbh.

Beyond the laughs, this line speaks so much about how he views Miorine. He views her little better than a prize only he's deserving of; a 'pure' princess to match his crusading prince. He repeatedly disregards her agency, seen in episode 9 when he acts like Suletta controls Mio and here when he blames Guel for what's happening on Earth. He's such a salty little worm.

Finally, we're left with Suletta and Earth House as they react to the chaos. Suletta recognizes instantly Miorine's innocence and her mother's culpability. This was why Aerial sent her away. This was what everyone is trying to shield her from. It was a moment of clarity I hadn't expected, but a very welcome one. Hopefully, this means she'll be spurred into action now that Mio is in very real danger. Schwarzette time? We can dream~

That next episode is incredibly ominous though. End of Hope? Considering they have that promo where GUND-ARM/earth house are the ray of hope... yikes. Let's hope I'm just reading into things and it's not that grim

Edit* additional musings:

A segment was deleted somehow so here it is

Miorine... You know, I've seen people having a bit of schadenfreude at her expense. 'she's so stupid, ofc this happened!' - that flavor of criticism. My counter to this is what could she have realistically done? She was strong-armed into this agreement and manipulated onto Earth. She dared to imagine a peaceful solution based on ideals she slowly grew to believe wholeheartedly. This isn't her fault, much as she thinks otherwise. I can see her willfully remaining on earth to try and correct this atrocity. Girl needs a big hug from her wife ;-;

[qoldenskies]

i think a lot of people pretty openly acknowledge that leo is someone that self-aggrandizes and acts reckless in order to compensate for his insecurities, which is true and it's very clearly spelled out especially in the movie, but i don't really see people acknowledge the fact that donnie is the EXACT same way (outside of people who specifically like to write a lot of angst for him. leo is forever designated sadboy of the fandom). which is sad, because i think it's the most twin-like thing about them!!

it's a trait they share pretty openly. same flavor of daddy issues, although leo is always wanting to look down, to be the BEST at something, to be admired and respected and trusted, to be above other people, while donnie is always wanting to look up, the whole approval from a parental aged adult thing is the largest example but i also think about his desperation for CAMARADERIE in the purple jacket, and also like, lol the entirety of mind meld. he wants to be understood and acknowledged and praised and he practically begs for it with everything he does.

both of them desperately want to impress! but i kind of interpret it as leo trying to make a point to himself more than to other people, because he is so caught up in his own self-judgement. it's why he can act rude or try to step over the others (raph especially, although early on there is some mutual toxicity in that relationship) in order to prove that point.

but donnie has a lot more self-security because he knows what he does! he knows he's good at it, i don't think there's any denying that. but under real praise he gets starry-eyed or he softens. he makes a big point out of presenting new things because that's what he's looking for. and i think that makes him so averse to the potential of failure. it's why he'll shrug it off or outright deny it when its brought up to him. he sucks so bad at taking responsibility lmao.

i think mind meld in particular is a very telling episode, especially the beginning of it. he gets rash and upset when he feels like he's doing too much on his own. he feels ignored and disrespected for his efforts, and makes bad decisions as a result. and between that and donnie's gifts it's very very obvious he is projecting the fact that he equates his usefulness, his role, to his self-worth as a person. a lot of that crowing confidence is not real. he is MAJORLY overcompensating just like leo is. (and i would also like to point out the kind of things he makes shelldon RESPOND to in smart lair before he's reprogrammed, like leo's ribbing)

idk, i just feel like donnie wants to be seen and leo wants to be able to see himself, although there is some overlap there and the two problems can bleed into each other.

(and i do think a big point of leo's arc in the movie is for him to genuinely stop being selfish. his insecurity gets in the way and he's thinking about himself when he acts, and that's what hurts people. all of them have the potential to be self-centered, but leo's behavior was putting people in danger, and he had to look past all of that because he has ALWAYS been a strong and capable person and a good leader, but he was afraid of it because he was setting the goalpost for himself too high, and it was RAPH'S thing. it all felt too daunting. he's never going to feel ready if he only thinks about himself. at a point it's just not about him. as dubious as his sacrifice at the end was, that was the point. get him some therapy for that blunder though)

and i think it has a lot of potential to make them clash in a really interesting way. donnie's like,,, got his THING!! leo is not CONFIDENT in his thing!! and he can't ever be better than donnie at his particular thing, so he LEAPS onto any chance to get one over on him, which clashes very badly with donnie's issues of easily feeling dejected or unappreciated. he's going to take that personally, and then leo is going to take donnie's bad interpretation of that behavior personally, because like... why doesn't donnie trust him? :((

anyways they are majorly twinning they are both dramatic unconfident bitches with self-worth issues and they both get louder and meaner when they feel hurt about something. its why i keep accidentally writing angst of the other when i try to write angst of one. ahaha lol oops

sorry ive had this blog for only a few hours i just needed to get my thoughts down mostly for myself. for writing purposes

[wiskiemonk]

"Monk just watched Gintama episodes 320 and 321" moodboard

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

Just want to add to your mv x er madness that I think the Millicent questline would also be an extremely impactful one for both Arthur and John (if they could even survive to do it). Just the thought of another young girl that is cursed by forces out of her control. Dying. They would attempt to aid her in a heartbeat after talking to Gowry. Then later trying to take control over her life and learn about her mother only to be turned on for some predestined ascension and rebirth. One she did not choose. That would hit pretty hard I think. Then her pulling out the needle in the end...There would be no argument about killing Gowry in the end if they find out his part in that.

GOD, FUCKIN... YEAH...

they'd be so fucking pissed about the worship, i think. i mean, everything about the situation, but it's the fact that she's infested with this thing that is slowly destroying her and causing her so much agony and they want to prolong it. they think it's holy. that hurts them both SO badly in different ways, i think. the second they hear about that they're like oh we NEED to get her out of there.

i can't decide if they would be sympathetic towards or suspicious of gowry. like, on the one hand, the guy seems to be... trapped in his home? maybe? and claims to be her father, or as close to one as she has, and seems to worry after her and, outwardly, be much more motivated towards her safety than any of the rot worshippers do. but. there's just. there's just Something about him.

god, also, his dialogue after millicent visits and leaves the shack. "Please make certain that little Millicent goes unharmed. Like her mother, she has the stuff to be a great warrior, but commands only one arm, and is yet preciously young." how much further can we twist the fucking emotional knife into arthur here. she's so young and small and fragile and has suffered so much and won't you keep her safe? won't you promise? please? please?

and the end of the questline... the overwhelming sense of failure. wanting to honor her choice and not force her onto anyone's path of fucking godhood but torn against the knowledge that the only other path she can choose is death. that she'll die either way, in some capacity. they tried so hard and in the end all they did is give her some different kind of final suffering.

i feel like arthur would ignore the risk of rot, just to hold her as she died. if that's the only thing left he can do.

also they totally cheese o'neil into the rot geysers right there's no way they fight that dude fair and square

[nerdgirlnarrates]

I was feeling like I did so much during night shift right up until signout. When I was forced to realize the vast majority of the pages I’ve answered were for melatonin, tylenol, cleaning up orders, lab checks that were normal, etc.

[tiny-chubby-bird]

you're welcome, astarion :)

[maximumkillshot]

Welcome back! ❤️☺️ I hope life has been treating you well! Now I can’t speak for everyone but I know I personally will NEVER be tired of reading Dean/Jensen x reader fics(if you’re comfortable with them) angst, fluff, smut or all of the above! Your fics are AMAZING so I’m sure whatever you put out now will be amazing as well!

Thanks so much nonny, I'm sorry I was gone for so long. I made a fic about one of the problems I faced in the last 2 years and I'm still getting the courage to post it. But that fic is what unlocked my love for writing again. Hopefully I can keep it going.

[gojosconsort]

to add on for the oblivious wife fic w nanami (when she was trying on the bathing suit) u should do one when they’re finally at the beach

𓂃୨ৎ mdni. freaky nanami

“isn’t it gorgeous?” you call out to your husband kento, twirling in the sand, arms wide. the bikini top strains, triangles shifting, a sliver of nipple teasing the edge, and kento’s cock throbs painfully, tenting his swim trunks.

the beach stretches out under a merciless sun, waves crashing lazily, and your husband is already regretting this vacation. he’s sprawled on a towel under an umbrella, sunglasses fogged with sweat, gripping a book so hard the spine creaks.

you, his sweet, oblivious wife, are the problem—prancing around in that neon pink bikini he bought in a haze of desperation at the store, the one that barely contains your curves and has been torturing him since you stepped out of the hotel room.

every jiggle of your ass, every bounce of your tits, is a fresh assault on his sanity, and now you’re out there, glistening with sunscreen, drawing every eye on this damn beach.

kento shifts, book slamming over his crotch, a pathetic shield against the wet spot blooming dark from his leaking tip. fuck, he thinks, jaw locked, teeth grinding. he wants to pin you to the sand, rip that scrap of fabric off, and fuck you raw until you’re sobbing his name, public be damned—but he can’t, and it’s killing him.

you’re oblivious to his problem, laughing as you kick at the waves, ass rippling with each step. the thong bottom rides up, exposing more of that plump, perfect curve, and his eyes track it, feral, imagining sinking his teeth into it, spanking you red, then burying his cock deep until you’re dripping with him.

his balls ache, heavy, and he presses the book harder, the pages crumpling under his grip. every giggle, every sway of your hips, mocks his control, and he’s one deep breath from losing it.

then you come back, holding a dripping ice cream cone, vanilla soft serve already melting in the heat. “got a treat!” you chirp, plopping down cross-legged on the towel, thighs spread just enough to make his vision blur.

you lick the cone, tongue swirling slow, and a thick drop of cream slips free, landing square on your chest, right above the swell of your tits. it slides, slow and obscene, down the curve, pooling in the bikini’s pathetic triangle, and your nipples harden under the cold, poking through the fabric.

“oops!” you giggle, looking down, and the sound—fuck, that sound—sends a jolt straight to his cock. you wiggle, making your tits bounce, the ice cream smearing further, a sticky trail glistening in the sun.

kento chokes, a strangled groan trapped in his throat, and he’s picturing it: licking that cream off, tongue dragging slow over your skin, sucking your nipple into his mouth, biting just hard enough to make you gasp.

his cock leaks again, precum soaking through his trunks, and he presses the book so hard it’s practically embedded in his lap.

“lemme get that,” he rasps, voice raw, reaching for a napkin with a trembling hand. he leans closer—too close—your scent hitting him, coconut sunscreen and sweet vanilla, and his mouth waters, aching to lap up every inch of you. his fingers brush your shoulder as he dabs at the mess, napkin shaking, and you shiver, all innocent, smiling up at him.

“thanks, honey!” you say, taking another lick of the cone, and another drop falls, this time landing right on the swell of your breast, sliding toward the nipple he’s dying to suck. his control snaps like a frayed thread, and he freezes, napkin crumpled in his fist, fighting the urge to throw you down, lick you clean, and fuck you into the sand until the whole beach hears you scream.

“it’s so sticky,” you pout, swiping at it with your finger and popping it in your mouth. your lips close around it, sucking slow, and kento’s vision whites out. he’s imagining those lips around his cock, your throat full of him, gagging as he fucks your face, cum dripping down your chin onto those perfect tits.

his book’s a lost cause, pages warping under his grip, and he shifts, thighs flexing, trying to hide the huge bulge.

“stay still,” he growls, low and tight, grabbing another napkin. he dabs at your chest, every brush of his fingers against your skin a test of his restraint. he’s so close to saying fuck it, to dragging you behind the umbrella and stuffing you full, consequences be damned. your tits jiggle with each swipe, and he bites his cheek, blood sharp on his tongue, to keep from groaning.

“all clean?” you ask, tilting your head, eyes wide and sweet. you take another lick, ice cream smearing your lips, and he wants to shove his cock past them, make you choke on it until you’re crying. his trunks—thank god for the book—are a prison, cock throbbing, balls tight, and he’s leaking so much it’s soaking through to the towel.

“yeah,” he lies, voice cracked, tossing the napkin aside. he leans back, book still clamped over his lap, and exhales hard through his nose. he can’t watch you anymore, not without breaking, so he stares at the horizon, counting waves, willing his cock to calm down. you hum happily, licking away, and every slurp is a dagger to his control.

the beach is too public, too crowded, and he’s too close to ruining you right here. he needs to get you back to the hotel—now—before he cums in his trunks or does something he’ll regret.

“we’re leaving soon,” he mutters, already picturing you bent over the bed, bikini shredded, screaming his name as he fills you again and again, his cum dripping down your pussy, pooling on the sheets, only for him to fuck it back in, deep and relentless, until you’re so full it leaks out with every thrust.

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is. 

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[spikedfearn]

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

[goaskangel]

nanami really loving you on valentine's day!

cw : aggresive, perv nanami, groping, dry humping, breeding(?), alcohol mention, yummy asfff

word count : 1.8k

you may have gone overboard with the cleaning. your apartment doesn’t look lived in, more like an IKEA showroom. it’s not like nanami’s an inspector, he’s your boyfriend. new though, you’re not very close and it’s only been a couple of months but he was manly enough to ask you to be his valentine, how could you resist!

he’s just so perfect, you daydream while flattening the creases of the couch’s pillow. golden and groomed blonde hair, ironed suits, old fashioned manners. how his voice goes softer when he’s speaking to you, his strong teeth and subtle smile only coming out for you. it feels like you’ve won a national prize every time you break his calm and collected attitude and manage to make his pale complex warm up. you dimmed the living room since you planned a casual movie-night with him, hopefully not too casual for him. 

god knows he’ll show up in his signature suit and sit up-right while you play a stupid rom-com. that would be kind of nice. finally all alone, together, on a comfy couch. you could crawl onto his lap, tug on his tie, lick on his collared neck. kiss him like you mean it, no fear of the public. 

you squint at your suddenly changed thoughts and get up with a sigh, knowing him, he might not make a move. but he’s only a man…?

you wait for the door’s bell. when it comes, you give yourself a few seconds and fix your hair before walking to the door. you can’t make it seem like you’d been waiting, that’d be ridiculous. suddenly your thoughts of changing your clothes because it’s a bit too chilly pass your mind when you see him. like lava streams in your blood, you warm up to a casual nanami. a pretty man dressed in a gray sweatshirt that painfully compliments his skin showed up timely to spend time with his girlfriend on valentine’s, you could faint!

“hello. picked up flowers on the way, these are for you.” he tilts the bouquet, your favorite, towards you gently, grinning warmly, making his eyes squint. you swear you could eat his face. 

“thank you, thank you!” you’re handed the flowers as he steps closer to you, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead as you take them, inhaling the floral aroma mixed with his peppery and woody cologne.

“i love them, but you didn’t have to, really.”

“it’s valentine’s day and the least i could do.” same soft smile on his lips. 

you smile, too hard, at his gesture and move to the side to let him in. he kicks off his shoes as you quickly close and lock the front door, placing the flowers on the kitchen counter. 

“it’s not too hot in here, i hope.” 

“it’s just fine,” he offhandedly observes the room, an appreciation for what you’ve done to the place. he tugs at his sleeves and rolls them up, revealing strong forearms. jesus christ. you snap out of your gaze and rush to sit at the couch, a thick blanket and a couple of fluffy pillows decorated the comfy space. rich chocolate and drinks already set at the coffee-table, and his favorite desserts from a bakery? you pat at the spot next to you and hold back a giggle when he sits next to you. his black pants spreading neatly over his thighs, your eyes carefully wandering to the seam of the zipper, your mouth pooling. 

“here, get comfy.” you toss the large pull-over on the both of you, taking in the sight of him, shuffling closer to you and warming up to the blanket around him. 

“quite a fine home you’ve got, it’s extremely cozy.” he throws an arm over you. 

“i try. it’s not usually this… tidy.”

“what? you’re trying to impress me?” he teases. 

“it’s your first time over, i wanna make you feel good an’ comfy.” 

“well, it’s working.” he smooths his hand over your hot cheek, the metal of his ringed index finger brushing over you.

you spend the remaining time opening chocolate and bakery boxes, feeding each other and occasionally kissing while a movie plays in the background. you hope for any move during the time he’s with you, any move at all. maybe a lingering kiss. it’s so distracting the way the shadows of the dark room and light source from the tv brighten his sharp features. you’re leaning into his warm chest as his fingers graze over your exposed thighs, sipping the wine you bought that he surprisingly, and thankfully, really enjoyed. 

another scene of the characters just talking and spilling lore, he sets the half-full glass down and focuses on you. eyes on the screen but his palm has splayed to soothe and grope over your thigh. he notices your obedience, spreading your legs just by the tiniest bit. his slips his hand into your inner thigh and that’s where you roll your body slowly. 

his eyes are now on you, and your bodies mingled under the sheet as you watch the movie. mmm, thank god you wore thin shorts and a random t-shirt. you feel as his fingers graze over your thinly covered cunt, tips coming down to rub your clit. your gaze stays straight but you don’t focus, you’re unable too.

“c’mere,” nanami fixes your slouched posture so you sit with your back on his chest, your legs open and pliable for him to touch and grope at your body. 

“kento.” you mumble, dazed, when his hand slides underneath your damp panties to tease at your folds. 

“mhm, you’re so beautiful.” he sniffs at your hair as his other hand grips under your bra to hold and fondle your breast. the wine was really getting to you both. a sudden pulse at your lower back as he grinds gently into you, how tight had his pants gotten? 

finally, finally, he got his hands on you. even under a blanket, you look down to watch the fabric move in waves as he rubbed your most sensitive parts, the alcohol heightening your senses. skilled hands pacing gentle but greedy circles on your buds as you gripped the remote. you appreciate his sexual activity, it’s just so much more aggressive than you thought he ever could be. his sweet words and gestures all hid his intrusive and perverse actions.

“god, i need to feel you.” he highlights his eagerness with an extra squeeze. you pathetically push the blanket off the couch and with trembling hands, you move yourself to face him. he lays himself down as you sit on his lap. you moan quietly when you feel him against your soiled shorts, bucking your hips down to get more of the twitching sensation below his belt. humping the fat chub under his pants, you craved it more than anything.

“uh-huh, that’s good. baby, you’re so good to me. that’s it.” his hands hold a bruising grip on your hips as you grind slowly but firmly on his hard cock. 

“couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he groans when you rub your fat cunt directly on his tip, “this pretty body on mine, you’re so fucking hard to resist.” his cursing going right to your achy clit. you hop off and watch him violently take his belt off, switching your spots and filling the void between your legs with his hips. pulling his sweater off and tossing it as you do the same with your top. his pale skin so handsome and soft with his softer muscles and a layer of fat on his stomach from eating all his favorite breads. so sexy, you wrap your legs around his waist. you shake your head at the condom he pulls out from his pocket. 

“needa feel you, your cock in me, please. don’t want anything between us, kento, please please. it’s valentine’s, let me do this for you.” 

“perfect girl, you’re gonna kill me.” but he complies, gladly tossing the latex and pulling the confinements of his cock down. you whine at his contents. big and hard, the first time you’ve seen this part of him. you love it, he hasn’t even fucked you and you already love it, love him. 

you nod aggressively when he lines his chubby, weeping tip against your soppy pussy. letting it catch a few times as he rocks back and forth, the moves of his sexy hips making you throb. he fulfills his own fantasies of his raw cock on his beautiful girl’s wet cunt whilst she begs for him to fill her up and make her his. 

“you want it, sweetheart?”

“more than anything, yes yes yes.” 

“no protection, nothing protecting you? you sure, love? it’s risky.”

“don’t care. i’ll have your babies if you want to, if i have to – jus’ give it to me.” 

“mmm, babies, huh… you sure that’s not the wine talking?” sick, even if it wasn’t the lust from being slightly tipsy, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, stop himself.

you could cry with all the teasing he’s doing but you lose your breath when he pushes himself into your perfect, tight cunt. all his. he takes your limp and delicate upper frame to his advantage and undoes your bra. nanami rolls himself deeper into you as he watches your pretty tits bounce with every move. 

“so good, ken, thank you..!” as he presses himself into the depths of your cunt. you're unbelievably tight and so warm when he bottoms out as far as he can without really breaking you in. 

he’s slow, eager and certainly not collected as he usually is but he takes his time to fuck you. you’re so drunk on lust and sex that you just agree to whatever he says. his pretty girl wants to be all his? have his kids? marry him and be taken care of and fucked so good daily? you nod and babble to all of it. as he speeds up, his sloppy kisses and skilled tongue on your nipples slow and he concentrates on making you both come. the movie ended a while ago and the rooms filled with groans and moans, sloppy and slippery squelches and slaps. 

his kisses his thumb wet and massages little circles into your sensitive clit. you writhe at not only the delicious friction but how you tighten up again around his cock, stretching you out all over again. 

“close, i’m close. keep fucking me, kento, yes, mhm. yesyesyes..” you jump at the overwhelming, intense orgasm and milk out every single ribbon of creamy cum into you. growling and furrowing his dark brows as he creams directly at your cervix. 

“good, good girl.” he snaps through his teeth as he finishes inside you. smoothing his hand over your pelvis and under your naval. gasping and panting as you both collect yourselves. he sinks down to rub his sweating face into your neck, kissing you gently again as you pull and stroke his blonde locks. ending such a day with all his love! <3

happy valentine's day you FREAKS

masterlist

[satoruxx]

normally toji prides himself on being the perfect guard dog—not that he would ever tell you that. but you never have to worry about guys coming up to you when your hulking monster of a boyfriend remains at your side, continuously glaring down his nose at everyone he sees.

this usually works pretty well.

on adults.

but now, as you and him wait in line at the counter of the grocery store, he can only let out a huff of irritation as he watches the little brat in front of you both stare over his mother’s shoulder—big wide eyes locked on you.

at first you don’t really notice, too busy blabbering about something silly as you look around the store. but when you finally lock eyes with the child, you notice the way he seems to go shy, pressing his cheek deeper into his mom’s shoulder. his eyes flick away from your face for just a second, before timidly looking back. as soon as he does, you break into the sweetest, most giddy smile.

(toji would move mountains for a glimpse of that smile—and yet here this kid is just getting it without a shred of work.)

you tilt your head, raising a hand to gently wave at the boy, who flushes further under your attention, but lifts his cheek a little more. chubby fingers come up to meekly wave back, and you hold back a silent coo of affection, eyes filled with honey-like sweetness. with every little giggle and silly face you make at the boy, he seems to get more and more comfortable—toji watches you melt.

the unlucky little brat then quickly peeks at the giant man looming beside you, and toji can’t resist. his face pulls into a evil smile, teeth on full display as he wiggles his fingers sinisterly. the expression has its desired effect—the kid recoils, eyes going wide before burying his face into his mother’s neck. in a few minutes, the boy and his mom are heading out the store and you and toji start loading the groceries onto the belt.

“i saw that, you know?”

toji glances up, seeing your semi disapproving frown, and he cocks his head in faux innocence. “saw what?”

“you’re mean,” you shake your head, crossing your arms. “scaring little kids like that. quite literally the object of their nightmares.”

“ah, he’ll be alright,” toji grunts, taking the bags from the cashier in one hand and reaching for your palm with the other. “it’ll build his character.”

you snort. “he’ll have trauma.”

“like i said,” he grins, a canine display. “character.”

you roll your eyes as he tugs you out of the store—your grip on him unwilling to falter.

toji lives just like this, successful in scaring off any other person who considers giving you attention, whether that’s an adult or a little kid. and despite your exasperated complaints to at least lay off the children (they’re harmless), toji has known for a long time that he can be nothing but selfish when it comes to you.

so forgive him, if he quickly turns to this evil little tactic to scare away kids—it’s all he can really do. besides, it always works.

until now.

you’re sitting under a tree at a small park, working on some dumb assignment for one of your lectures. toji lays on his back next to you, arm draped over his eyes in a momentary respite from the normal danger of his life—eerily content.

the peace is broken by the rustling of tiny footsteps in the grass.

“here you go.”

toji pulls his arm away to peer at the owner of the voice. a boy stands there, hair tousled as he waits in front of you with his arm outstretched—in between his chubby fingers is a singular dandelion.

your eyes widen, cheeks splitting into a wide smile as you coo out your affection. “aw for me?”

the boy nods mutely, cheeks flushed as he thrusts the flower further into your view. you delicately pluck it from his hands, inhaling the fragrance with a grateful smile. “well thank you. it’s beautiful.”

he shyly kicks at a spot of grass, lips pulling up into a giddy smile under your sweet praise. “just like you,” he mumbles under his breath and you squeal softly, giggling at how adorable this kid truly is.

toji sits up before you can say anything else, lips pulled into a displeased frown as he crosses his bulky arms across his chest. “hey.” his voice comes out low and tense, even as he stares down his nose at the boy. “what are you doing?”

you turn to look at your boyfriend, at the exaggerated sneer that normally works wonders in scaring kids away, and you hold back an exasperated sigh. “toji—“

“who are you?” the boy frowns, sass appearing out of thin air as he looks toji up and down like he’s nothing but dirt under his colorful sneakers. you gape at him, eyes darting back and forth between the two as a smile threatens to make its way into your face. toji’s lips part in surprise, a tingle of heat crawling up his neck as he hears your hushed gasp of held back laughter.

“her boyfriend,” he grunts back, eyes narrowed in a way that’s oddly similar to the expression on the kid’s face.

“no way!” the boy huffs, pouting indignantly. his cheeks flush as he glares at toji—unfazed.

“uh, yes way.” toji realizes how petty he sounds, but he’s adamant—unwilling to stand down in anything that involves you.

the boy crosses his arms, mirroring toji’s pose. he rolls his eyes emphatically, lip curling as he sneers down his nose.

“isn’t she too pretty for you?” he asks bluntly. you smother another disbelieving gasp, and toji suddenly feels an unfamiliar thrill rush through his veins—this kid had guts.

“what do you know, brat?” there’s a smirk evident in toji’s voice now, and he uncrosses his arms to lean back on his palms, eyes shining with feral mirth.

“i have eyes,” the boy snaps back, putting both hands on his hips to appear more intimidating—it doesn’t work, he just looks cuter. “i can see her.”

“well quit it,” toji huffs in return. “not yours to look at.”

the kid narrows his eyes. “you’re mean!”

“and you’re nosy!”

“how am i nosy?”

“you’re comin’ over here and givin’ my girl flowers!”

“she deserves flowers!”

“of course she does! from me, you little brat!”

“you suck, old man!”

“what did you just call me?!”

a shout from across the park disrupts the heated bickering, and you all turn to see an older woman waving the boy over. he looks down at you, a sweet smile washing over his face as he tilts his head innocently. “that’s my mom. i have to go home now.”

“heh, sure thing. get home safe, okay?” you shoot toji an amused glance as you speak, and he sends a displeased glare back as he stubbornly crosses his arms again.

the boy nods, beaming at you. “okay! see you later!” he chirps. but just as he’s about to leave he turns back, eyes fixated on toji. “i hope your boyfriend learns how to be nice!”

and then he runs off.

you snort out another laugh, which only gets louder when you catch a glimpse of the way toji is practically sulking in the corner—scowling at the kid’s back with narrowed eyes.

the whole thing is so unbelievably endearing, and you can’t stop grinning as you pack up your things and stand up.

“let’s go home, toji.” you hold your palm out for him, and you’re rewarded with a pointed glance—he takes your hand anyway. even as you both exit the park, toji has an unamused pout on his face, glaring ahead.

you can’t resist.

“don’t tell me you actually feel threatened now,” you giggle, grabbing his bicep and pressing close. toji glances at you from the corner of his eyes, unamused—which only seems to make you laugh harder. “oh come on! he was so cute!”

“little brat,” he grumbles in return. “couldn’t take a hint.”

“you’re mad because the eight year old kid at the park didn’t want to believe you were my boyfriend?”

“the fuck do you think? of course i am. what do i look like if not your fucking boyfriend?”

you chortle, practically falling on him with the weight of your amusement. he sighs, disgruntled.

“it’s not funny, kid.” toji rolls his eyes at you—internally, he’s trying not to grin.

“it’s so funny, toji.” you straighten up, smiling at him with stars in your eyes. “you’re ridiculous and it’s so cute.”

he scoffs, giving you a sidelong glance before reaching up to tug at your cheek. “i’m definitely not the cute one.” he murmurs offhandedly before internally smirking at the way you seem to be caught off guard by his statement.

“whatever,” you mumble, holding his arm as you both continue walking home in relative silence. from the corner of your eye you can see toji’s expression as he mutely stares ahead, deep in thought. you decide not to disturb him, content on just feeling his warmth bleeding into your palm—always at your side.

toji replays the incident in his head multiple times as you head home. the bickering, the sass, and the unfiltered adoration that little brat seemed to have for you.

something clicks.

as you’re pushing open the door of your apartment, you hear toji quietly chuckle from behind you, and you turn to look at him over you shoulder. “what?”

he shakes his head slowly, eyes shut even as an uncharacteristically soft smile tugs at his lips. “just thinking…”

“about what?” you ask curiously.

toji grins at you, cocking his head fondly. “when we have a kid, i want the little brat to be just like that.”

[movjazz]

I’m reading all reblogs/comments/replies with your HC’s and yes all of them are right I can see all possibilities. He’s a nepo baby. He’s a street rat who faked it till he made it. He was a terrible magistrate. He was actually a great magistrate and that was what got him murdered. He was actually Kuzco from Emperor’s New Groove. Yes. I love my scrunkly.

You know how his background was changed from “noble” to “charlatan”? Yeah what if he faked his way to be a magistrate lmao

[matrixfangs]

cradle and all

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You can't keep any blood that you drink down, and that leads to a shocking realization. based off this request!

word count: 3k

warnings: pregnancy, blood, vampire baby

tags: @moobell55, @eternalstrigoii, @wpdarlingpan, @manyimaginativemuses, @boywivlove, @zatarias-pandora, @herccfs, @depressed-and-horror-obsessed, @jakesullyswhore, @resurrectionist3, @minaxcarter <<3 (i forgot to add the taglist until after i posted it, so sorry if you've already seen the fic!)

a/n: hello, hello! i would first and foremost like to thank all the people that helped me write this oneshot when I was getting terrible writer's block!! @spikedfearn, @eternalstrigoii, @hyoscyxmine, and everyone else in our cutesy little discord! rosie specifically gave me the "shootin' blanks" line which I giggled at for a long time, and the idea of reader craving things like blood mixed with grape jelly. they were especially such a huge help to me! cheers to the anon who requested this! i hope you enjoy!

Sick.

In your twenty years of being undead, you’d never felt sick before. 

Your latest victim sat in the corner of the alleyway you’d followed him into, hand pressed into the bite wound on his neck. The small remainder of his blood trickled through his fingers and into the white collar of his shirt. He was half dead, his dull eyes drifting to things that weren’t there. 

And you were hunched over in the other corner, hands pressed against a brick wall as his blood came back up, and splattered onto the dirty pavement. The intoxicating taste of his life was gone, and all that was left was a coppery burn in your throat. You pressed your forehead against the wall as you spat the last of it out. 

You knew bad blood, tainted with disease or substances. It was bitter and thin, it didn’t fill you up. This blood had been as pure as all other mortals, sweet and full of memories. Children’s laughter, a sunny day perched on a dock, clear skies. But your body was rejecting it, and if you couldn’t feed, you couldn’t live. Your body was wracked with shivers as you left your victim.

Remmick was reading when you got home that night, the edges of him all soft and pliant in your bed. His eyes brightened when you walked in, the book immediately forgotten in his lap.

“You smell hungry, sweet thing.” He held out his arms, his hands making grabbing motions for you. The lamplight next to him caught the light of the gold ring around his finger, the one matching yours. “C’mere.”

It took no time for you to kick off your wet boots and crawl on top of the sheets and quilted blankets older than your immortality, your head finding solace on Remmick’s lap. You pressed your face into him, breathed in his scent. Something much older than you, but familiar and warm.

“Thought you went out to feed.” Remmick hummed, drawing shapes into your scalp with his fingers. “But you still feel cold.”

“I tried.” You huffed, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his touch. “I couldn’t keep it down.”

Remmick’s hand stilled, and he grabbed your head gently, turning your face to look at him. The muddied, ancient red of his eyes made him look so devastatingly pretty in the low light. You resisted the urge to rub out the crease between his eyebrows. Instead, you found the gold chain that rested under his white t-shirt, the one he’d had since before you knew him. Your fingertips ran over its indent. 

“Couldn’t keep it down?” He looked into your eyes like he was examining you, his thumbs running over your cheekbones. His lips parted, and his teeth elongated and sharpened in his mouth. “Let me taste you. I’ll find out what’s wrong.”

You nodded, allowing Remmick to brush your hair from your neck. The pain of his fangs puncturing your skin was nearly nonexistent from how many times he’d done it before. His tongue licked over the wounds - tasting, not drinking. He hummed, pulling back with red-stained teeth.

“Nothin’ is wrong, sweetheart, but…” He leaned down again, tongue lapping up more of the blood that’d trickled down the expanse of your neck. “It’s off. Thinner, like somethin’ is draining you from the inside.”

Remmick’s tongue, long and serpent-like, ran over his lips. His hand splayed over your body, rubbing your skin like he was trying to feel what was underneath it. 

“Rem,” Your cold hand covered his, rings clinking together. “You’re making me nervous.”

He hummed low in his throat, hands continuing their exploration. Squeezing your thighs, running across your sternum, and ghosting over your chest. When his large palm reached your stomach, he paused, his face an expressionless mask. 

“Remmick,” You said, a bit firmer.

He looked at you then, and his eyes had turned a brighter red. “Impossible.” He said quietly, his accent twisting into something older. “It looks like I ain’t shootin’ blanks after all, darlin’.”

Your eyebrows raised. “Remmick, what the fuck are you talking about?”

His hand moved to your heart, undead and unbeating for the past two decades. “No heartbeat.” His hand slid back down to your stomach, pressing gently. “One heartbeat.”

You fell silent. You didn’t have to think about what he was saying, it made complete sense. But it couldn’t be real, not with how long you’d been dead. And Remmick, he was centuries old. How could the two of you create life?

“A baby.” He confirmed, his lip curling. “Our baby.”

“Our baby,” You repeated, the words a ghost on your lips. Your hands found his on your belly. “How are we going to have a baby?”

“Same way anyone else does, I reckon.” His lips pressed to the top of your head, his nose nuzzling into your hair. He wouldn’t move his hands from your stomach, his fingertips feeling the steady, tiny heartbeat underneath your skin. He’d made that heartbeat. He thought he’d never have a family, and here one was growing right in front of him. 

You slept in the same coffin that morning, Remmick’s arms tight around your stomach, legs intertwined with each other like long begonia vines.

—

Your hand tightened in Remmick’s grip as you looked over the small, decrepit cottage. The wood was rotted and coated in moss, a big willow tree hung over the collapsed roof. Your hand instinctively found the barely perceptible, 17-week-old bump of your stomach. You felt the small heartbeat, and it calmed you.

“Where’d you hear about this place again?” You asked nervously, looking to Remmick. The moon cast shadows over his face, coating his sharp features in a gray haze that made him look all soft around the edges.

He lifted your hand, kissing the knuckles. “Oh, I’ve known Mother Dierdre since before your time, belonged to a coven I was in for a time. She’s old, older than me.” His eyes slid down your body, over your stomach. He smiled, prideful. “A midwife, before she was one of us.”

Your nose crinkled as you looked at the cottage again, nestled in between a swamp and an ancient forest a few miles away, with branches that twisted out like they were reaching to grab you. “Doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

Remmick’s hand untangled from yours to find purchase on your hip instead. He pulled you along, nestled into his side, as you walked down the long path that led to the cottage’s door. He didn’t knock, just twisted the moss-covered doorknob. 

The inside, surprisingly clean and cozy, smelled like something older than time itself - clove and cinnamon and moldy leather. A hearth held a crackling fire inside of it, and the rest of the cottage was lined with herbs hanging on hooks, books with pages falling apart, and old furniture that looked like it’d collapse if one person sat on it.

“Dierdre?” Remmick called, accent shifting into something more native to his being. “Cá bhfuil tú?”

A breeze blew through the thin walls of the cottage, brushing your hair against your shoulders. The door behind you closed, and when you turned, an old woman stood there. She was beautiful in her old age. Cascading gray hair, dark eyes, wrinkles carved into her olive skin that only prolonged her beauty and made her look wise. 

“Remmick,” Her voice was sweet and airy, like butterscotch candy on your tongue. “I was wondering when you’d bring her to me.”

Remmick’s thumb rubbed up and down the sliver of skin between your jeans and shirt. “Dierdre, this is-”

“I know who she is, darling.” Deirdre laughed, and it sounded like bells ringing. “Just didn’t think it’d be this soon.”

She stepped forward, hands reaching out with long, transparent nails that looked like glass on her fingers. She looked between your stomach and you with permission, and you nodded. The trust in her was something inherent in your chest, something you couldn’t explain.

Her hands were gentle on your stomach, pressing with only the slightest pressure. She nodded, eyes gleaming, moving back and forth as if she were listening to someone speak. 

“How lovely it is,” She whispered, looking at your stomach as if it were a miracle unfolding before her. “To create something so lovely out of such a horror.” She looked up at you, raising an abnormally long finger. “You hunger all the time now, don’t you?”

Your stomach nearly growled at the mention of it, your body growing feverish at the thought of hot blood running down your throat. “Yes,” You nodded, swallowing the drool that threatened to spill over your lips. “But I can’t keep any of it down.”

Deirdre nodded, lifting her hands from your belly. She looked at Remmick and pulled something from the pocket of her tattered, faded dress. A small blade, gleaming in the darkness of the cottage.

“Your hand, Remmick.” 

Something protective flooded your senses, your body moving to shield Remmick from her view. Your teeth felt longer in your mouth. “You’re not touching him.”

“I only try to help, dear.” 

Remmick’s hand was gentle where it landed on your shoulder, fingertips grazing the skin at your neck. “Let her help.”

Your eyes remained narrowed at the old woman as you stepped away, watching her grab Remmick’s hand. There was no flinching or hissing as she ran the blade over his palm, deep enough to create a small pool of blood in his cupped hand. As the smell lingered, you felt the hair on your body begin to stand up.

“The child,” Deirdre hummed, raising the blade coated in Remmick’s blood. 

The speed of your hand was inhuman, snatching it from her. Your hands trembled as you raised it to your tongue to taste the sweet, coppery essence of your partner. 

“Needs its father’s blood to survive. As well as the mother’s. Not just any mortal blood will do.” Deirdre continued, watching you like a lion slaughtering a gazelle. She nodded to Remmick, wrinkled hand pushing his own toward you. “It’s alright. Feed your child.”

Something animalistic had taken over you as you cleaned Remmick’s hand entirely, until all that was left was the small cut, fresh blood beading at the edges. Remmick was smiling, watching the color return to your skin. Watching your face become fuller before his very eyes. 

“She’ll need more as the child grows,” Deirdre said, patting Remmick on the shoulder and kissing his cheek like a grandmother would her grandson. You had released his hand, licking at the remnants of his blood at the corner of your mouth. 

“Will it survive on its own?” You asked, voice raspy and thick from the blood. “The baby…”

Deirdre hummed, crossing the cottage floor to peer out of the cottage window.

That, my dear,” She replied, eyes glowing when they moved back to look at you. “Depends entirely on the horrors you’re willing to commit for it.”

—

By the five-month mark, Remmick had obsessively warmed up to the baby more than you had. There wasn’t a night that passed where he wasn’t kissing the bump, talking to it, pressing his ear to your skin to hear the tiny heartbeat.

But your body, that had been dead and unchanging for twenty years, was now growing at a rapid rate. Your feet were swollen, elevated on a chair in your humble living room. Remmick had just gotten home from feeding, his lips stained red in that irresistible way that made something stir in your chest.

 He kneeled, pressing his cheek to your stomach.

“What’s that lil’ terror want, huh?” He pressed his ear against you as if the baby could talk back. “What’s she craving?”

You smiled, fingers coming up to brush the dark hair from his forehead. “She?”

Remmick’s eyes closed at your touch, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Just a feeling, mama.”

“Mm,” Your fingers left his hair, and Remmick’s eyes opened to look at you. “Well, this little terror is craving something bloody and sweet.” Your smile widened. “Do we still have that grape jelly?” Remmick’s nose crinkled, his body rearing back in disgust. “You can’t be serious. I was hoping that was a one-time thing.”

“It isn’t so bad.” You pouted, reaching for his hand. “And it’s for me,” You pulled his palm back to the growing bump of your stomach. “And for her.”

“For her, huh?” He asked, lips stretching into a smile, showing off his pointed white teeth. 

“Just a feeling, Rem.” You said, echoing his words. Referring to him as a father always made him giddy, and he stood, walking to the kitchen with a grin that threatened to split his face in two.

—

Warm water trickled over your hair, Remmick’s hand against your forehead to shield your eyes. At eight months pregnant, your belly couldn’t even be fully submerged in the steaming bath water that he’d prepared for you. Rose petals floated around your naked form, the only light provided being a few candles that Remmick had perched on the edge of the tub. You watched his flickering shadow on the wall, his hands gently moving to take care of you.

“You look so beautiful like this.” He hummed, setting down the pitcher he used to rinse your hair. His voice was sweet molasses falling from a spoon, slow and heavy. “Round with our lil’ terror, glowing…” The washrag in his hands found your shoulder. He moved it gently down your arm, quiet and worshipful. “Ain’t nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you carry my child.”

Despite the warm water surrounding you, your body shivered at his words. You tilted your head, the damp skin of your forehead finding his arm. “Nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you become a father, I’d say.”

Remmick’s lip twitched, his soft eyes crinkling with a faint smile. “It’s been twenty centuries since I had a family of my own…” He lifted his hand, pressing the rag to the back of your neck. The warm water trickled down your spine, tickling your skin. “To have one with you, if I had to -  I’d wait twenty centuries more. Longer, even.”

The candle flames flickered, and in the low light, you saw it - something shining in the corner of his eye. A small, bloody tear, falling down the side of his perfectly sculpted nose. It was all his immortal body could produce, but it was there. Your chest ached at the sight of your monster, crying by your side. In the two decades you’d been by Remmick’s side, hunting and killing and running - you’d never seen him weep before. Not when he talked about where he’d come from, not when he sang songs that he’d learnt as a boy. 

Your hand left the bath, coming up to cradle his face. He didn’t care that your skin was wet and clammy; he nuzzled into your touch anyway, cheek finding your slick palm as he closed his eyes. 

“Didn’t think I could cry anymore.” He chuckled, eyelashes fluttering against your skin. “Certainly not over somethin’ good happening to me for a change.”

—

The baby slept, her little body nestled in a small, rocking bassinet that Remmick had carved a few weeks before her birth. She was so small, so impossibly fragile. You watched her little chest rise and fall, her little hands opening in closing as if she were dreaming.

And though Remmick liked to say that she looked like her mama, you were happy to disagree. She had Remmick’s nose, his little curling, mischievous lip, his goofy, big ears that peeked out from dark hair.

Her name was Sorcha. Light. Brightness. A name chosen in defiance to any danger that dared to come near her.

You turned to look at Remmick’s sleeping form on your bed, his arms crossed against his chest as he lay on his side. He’d promised he’d only sleep for twenty minutes - you’d let him sleep longer.

When you had met Remmick, he’d been so weary. Mourning for a time long lost, ghosts pulling him down and making him drag every footstep. His eyes held the grief of every person he’d lost, or who’d left him. He’d been like that for a long time, a figment of his past. 

Now, he was entirely his own. 

When you awoke later that morning, curtains drawn to shield the cruel sun, you could hear wood creaking. You opened one eye, senses coming to life as you readjusted in bed. Remmick was no longer beside you, but instead across the room in an old rocking chair, cradling your child in his arms. His long legs stretched out before him, in knitted, mismatched socks, no less.

His hands, so capable of violence and destruction, held her like he’d burn down the world for daring to hurt her.

And then - his voice, lighter than you’d ever heard it. He was singing, low and smooth. His voice was quiet, so as not to wake you.

“I will build my love a bower, by yon cool and crystal fountain… and on it I will pile all the flowers of the mountain. Will ye go, lassie, go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather… will ye go, lassie go?”

You remained still, not wanting to interrupt the moment. But your heart flooded with warmth as you watched them, your little family that you’d never expected to have. Sorcha was different, something not quite human, and not quite vampire. She craved blood already, in such a small body. Not just any person’s, but yours and Remmick’s. It brewed something ancient in her, something dangerous.

Remmick’s voice drifted off as his eyes met yours. You smiled at him, sitting up in bed. “I’m sorry,” You stood, crossing over to him in bare feet. One hand found his shoulder, the other cradled your child’s head. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“She was cryin’...” Remmick said in a hushed tone. “Just got her back to sleep.”

Your pointer finger found Sorcha’s hand, and she instinctively squeezed it, little fingers wrapping around yours. You could feel her - her contentment in her father’s arms. Her full belly. Her strong nature.

Your little Sorcha. Your light in the dark.

------

Irish Gaelic translations:

Cá bhfuil tú? - where are you?

[mooningningg]

ᴊᴊᴋ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ - Notes, in loveee with softie ryo, ty anon.

★ Drummer!Sukuna calms down only for you.

It started with a snapped drumstick.

And not the usual “he went too hard in the bridge” kind of snap — no. This was deliberate. Sharp. Cracking wood and tension alike as Sukuna chucked the broken stick across the room with a guttural, “Fuck!”

Rehearsal came to a standstill.

Suguru paused mid-riff, blinking slowly as he adjusted a tuning peg. Toji leaned back on his bass stool, chewing gum like this was nothing new. Gojo muttered a breezy, “Here we fucking go again,” into the mic. And Choso… well, Choso just sighed and started organizing his synth cables, clearly preparing for another ten-minute tantrum.

Sukuna was pacing behind the drum kit now, shirt already off, tattoos on display, jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might shatter. No one dared ask what exactly pissed him off this time — maybe the sound engineer fucked up the levels, maybe Gojo had made one too many jokes, or maybe Sukuna was just in one of those moods where his rage needed a place to land.

“Sukuna,” Suguru called, tone dry. “Just grab another stick, man.”

“Shut the fuck up, Geto.”

Choso glanced at you from across the room. You just raised your brows and kept sipping from your water bottle. You weren’t in the band, Sukuna had invited you over, yes... you're his girl.

Sukuna didn’t acknowledge your presence. Not yet.

He was ranting to no one now, pacing harder. “You think I’m gonna play when the fucking kick sounds like it's underwater? And Gojo’s off-key screeching over it? Don’t waste my fucking time.”

“Y’know I’m right here,” Gojo chirped.

Sukuna flipped him off without turning around.

“Sukuna,” Choso tried, gently. “Just—”

That was when it happened.

The smallest thing.

You stood up from your corner of the studio, walking slowly over to the drum kit. You didn’t say anything dramatic. No scolding. No begging him to chill. You just tilted your head slightly and said, voice low, even:

“Ryo.”

And like someone yanked the emergency brake on his whole body — Sukuna stopped.

Like muscle memory, his head whipped toward you. The look in his eyes changed instantly. From fire to smoke. From wreckage to warmth. His breath slowed. Jaw loosened. And for a solid three seconds, it was dead silent in the room, the tension flickering out like a blown fuse.

“...What?” he muttered, lower this time. The venom was gone.

You blinked innocently. “You done being dramatic?”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you.

Toji snorted behind you. “Holy shit.”

Gojo leaned into the mic, still holding his guitar. “That’s all it takes? One little ‘Ryo’ and suddenly he’s not breathing fire?”

“Shut up,” Sukuna grumbled, grabbing a fresh pair of sticks like nothing happened.

But he still glanced your way again. Like he needed to make sure you were still watching. Still there.

And you were. You always were.

The rest of the band took the cue. Suguru counted the beat. Toji gave a low hum of amusement. Gojo said something about getting a new nickname for himself (“What if I called you ‘Sato’? Will you behave then?”). Choso, bless him, just hit play on the metronome.

And Sukuna?

Sukuna played like nothing happened. But when he sat behind the kit again, he tapped the stick twice on the edge of the snare. A signal.

For you.

And then, to you—so quietly only you could hear, just before he sat back down and started warming up again—

“...Thanks, baby.”

[akisteahouse]

sigh,,,,,,,, thinking about your newly wed husband…

Floyd Leech! Who never kicked the habit of being the worst person alive to sleep next to, not even in your many years of being together >:( Waking up blanket tossed aside to the floor with his back pressed against yours, fully ensnaring you in his freakishly strong grip, despite numerous complaints about overheatin’ in the morning thanks to ya - jackass. Kissing you before leaving for work so obnoxiously loud you can hear the smack of his lips leaving yours, teeth exposed by his devilish grin - “Don't miss me too much, ‘kay?” Always coming home with his suit suspiciously mussed up, smelling of old copper coins, practically tackling you every time he sees you, eyes crinkling and mouth opened in a toothy grin, singsonging five words - “I'M BAAAACK ~ didja miss me?” :) Dragging you all the way to the Coral Sea for the Leech family’s monthly family meeting, though everyone knew Georgina just wanted an excuse to see her son and her dear child-in-law, pinching your cheek and cooing about how she wanted to fatten you up, only for Floyd to pull you close, complaining about how you were his to squish - well, you did sign up for this <33

Vil Schoenheit! Who never let you have a lazy morning in your entire relationship, waking you up with smoothie bowls and invitations to joining him in pilates - you never say yes, but you’re always willing to watch your dearest as he works out :)) Subtly hinting at his engagement in interviews, getting married in a small but picturesque chapel, close friends only - soft launching your marriage with a single caption less photo on Magicam, both of your fingers entwined, rings glinting in the almost dreamlike sunlight <3333 Spending his off days hate watching the odd soap drama together on the couch, so close you can smell your precious lover’s scent - the fragrance from his expensive body wash, the smell of the real Vil Schoenheit, something his hundreds of followers would never get to experience :)) Going on lengthy press tours, only to come home late to the sight of you, asleep on the couch, clearly waiting for him - “You ought to listen more to me, my sweet potato - sleeping on uneven surfaces can cause back problems, you know.” Still joining you anyway, after bringing a pillow to properly support your head and a blanket to cover the both of you <3

Ruggie Buuchi! Who moved into a neighbourhood suspiciously close to the slums he used to live in, your backyard even having a granny flat in case of Grandma Buuchi’s surprise visits, signature donuts and grin in hand <333333 Clinging on to you in the morning before work, grumbling about five more minutes before caving to having responsibilities and forcing you awake as well - married couples should go through troubles together right, shishishishishi >:))))) Never missing the opportunity to start a neighbourhood barbecue even in the blistering summer heat, always giving you the best cuts of meat straight from the grill - what a gentleman :)) Monthly date nights spent anywhere from your living room, watching cheesy chick-flicks to the beach, rubbing sunscreen on each other’s backs(“Like what ‘cha see?” He’d snickered, on one such occasion, after watching you ogle his toned back muscles - cocky bastard, but he’s cute, so whatever ;))

BONUS:

Trey Clover! Who ends up taking over the family business, apologising about dragging you into it - but you’re repaid handsomely back, getting a front row seat about seeing your dear husband knead dough with those big, strong arms of his <3

Jamil Viper! Who had no qualms about taking your last name, and most certainly never will <3333 Dependable to a fault, always cooking Michelin-star worthy meals for dinner, wiping away any leftover crumbs from your mouth with that adoring look in his eyes - yeah, he definitely isn’t leaving any time soon :)))))

Silver! Who even during his so-called bachelor’s party(a glorified sleepover with his friends) couldn’t think about anything but you, dreaming about your future, your smile, your adorable laugh… and if he broke tradition by visiting you earlier than he was supposed to, he was sure you wouldn’t be too mad <333

Rook Hunt! Who everyone else was sure had kidnapped you to some faraway land due to never seeing you two again after your wedding, when in reality, your newly-wed spouse had simply whisked you away to a year-long honeymoon, visiting every inch of land Twisted Wonderland had to offer - ah, what wouldn’t he like to experience with his dear amour?