#the chair leg of truth

[victusinveritas]

Some bits from Transmetropolitan by Warren Ellis and Darick Robertson.

[found--family]

they couldn't let cesar and jesse return bc they would've taken one look at dean and cas interacting and known they had it bad for each other

[quietwingsinthesky]

🌹:O

:3c

Lucifer doesn't care how the labcoats say it works; he knows there's no such thing as a clean break from a drift the minute the plug is pulled. Instead, Michael goes from a second consciousness beside his own to being dragged out of Lucifer the further Lucifer gets from him, both of them gripping tight to the connection until it slips, until it snaps, with a violent recoil that knocks Lucifer's brain out of alignment and reminds his legs that they don't work. His next step falls too fast, too heavily, and refuses to take his weight. It's only Michael, now only a voice outside of Lucifer's head yelling his name, catching him from behind that allows Lucifer to collapse to the floor with his dignity intact.

[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!!! :)

[inknopewetrust]

𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠

When the Emperor summons you, you always answer the call. [Emperor Geta x Fem!Reader] [wc: 3.38k]

Warnings: minors DNI, smut, 18+, slight exhibition kink, pinv sex, unprotected sex (this is Ancient Rome, whores), Geta be a little submissive and possessive, corruption, dirty talk. I do not take responsibility for satan causing me to write this.

When you were summoned to the coliseum after dark, there was no questioning what be the cause.

The corridors of the great arena were near silent; distant growls and scratching claws filled its catacombs with a crawling anticipation: when the Emperor called, world at his feet quieted to hear his presence. Feeling the sands of the stage shift and meet the seats of the empty audience, there was nothing but the moonlight and wind to greet you.

You were not alone in Rome’s greatest achievement. The ghosts of the gladiators watched over the wicked as they fed off the suffering of the poor.

But when the guard left you to your devices upon the imperial seat looking over the arena, you forgot the evil that took over the man who called.

“It is quite the sight, no?”

In the silence of the amphitheater Geta’s words were quiet yet threatened to bounce off in echos. You ran your hands over the marble ledge. It’s once smooth nature lifting in bumps every inch of the glide your hand made. A gust of wind fluttered the fabric of your chiton to dance around your legs.

Geta dismissed his most loyal guard at the sight of you.

“It is different in the light,” you answered. The sand below you was not stained of blood and there was no chanting of what the Gods would decide of fate. “Peaceful… if I dare say.”

“If you were not to speak freely I would not have let my men go.”

“So there is no fear to be had here?” You turned your head over your shoulder. Barely capturing him in your vision, Emperor Geta leaned against his brother’s seat. The edge of the stone resting his body as his eyes traced you against the backdrop of his arena.

“There is no one to fear, my lady,” he spoke.

Emperor Geta was a man you had known for a long while. As children he often sought you out as a companion of play while his father helped prime himself and his brother, Caracalla, for their ascent to the throne. You, on the outskirts of royalty within a wealthy family of semi-relevant status to the Caesar, were allowed in their court as a potential wife.

The status of wife never came but it did not stop Geta from perusing you into adulthood.

It was on nights like these when the clouds floated to cover the moon and the poor laid soundly on the gravel on the outset of the building that Geta felt a need to see you, to have you for himself before the reality of morning came tumbling upon him. Weakened by his thoughts of want and bruised from a victory turned sour, his eyes shimmered in the darkness while the necessity grew.

But you knew the intent.

The one guard, never different from the last, summoning you from your villa with a coded message of: vi et animo, with heart and soul. Descend upon the place where he shall be waiting and when the act is done, as always, the same guard would see you home and little would be said between the next occasion. An invitation to sit behind him at a fight always went unanswered; the feasts in a Senator’s name would go uneaten.

You always had something to fear when a man, whom you had grown to be so utterly conflicted in lust and hatred, reigned unfairness from his palace on top a hill. The shining city of Rome was not what it once was but Geta cared for nothing except what he wanted.

And while you never accepted the invitations beyond these, the jewels around your neck, the ones that hung from your ears, and the pulsing of your heart spoke wonders for the truth within you.

Geta watched as your head turned back around and your hands curled over the balcony’s edge. His fingers rapped against the back of the chair; rings clashing against the golden adornments at the bristle of your objection.

“What summons me here?” You prompted. “Are the others not enough for you? Do they not fill your cup on nights as brutal as these?”

You were not to call the women he sought whores. They made their choices, or, they had none, but their actions did not relegate themselves to lesser. How were you any better than them? With your gold and your home and your money? You believed yourself, on the worst of nights, to be a wealthier version of what they had been subject to but unlike many of them, you let this linger beyond the reasonable time.

“I wish to think you know better than to question the call of your Emperor. You showed, after all.”

“I do not question your wants… what keeps you ticking,” you turned to rest your back away from the arena. Geta admired the wrap of your gown tightening against the stone. “You should be celebrating the conquering. Rome has just expanded. There is a celebration at the palace and yet you are here amongst the prisoners and the animals.”

“And you,” he looked pointedly.

Geta’s makeup was gone from the day. He wore a tunic of red and white with the golden laurels weaved in its fabric. The orange of his hair had gone muted in the dark.

“And me,” you agreed. “You have me here, Caesar—“

“Geta.”

You eyed him.

“Why are you playing a game tonight? You denied my invitation—“

“It is not my place,” you cut in. “I am no wife, I am not a… woman of a man’s delight. I did not wish to be an object on an arm.”

“I could have your head for such an implication,” he warned.

“You wouldn’t,” you affirmed. “No one else would be dragged here to kneel before you so willingly.”

“You want to be on your knees?”

You shook your head at him with a tick. No one would dare to speak to him like you. But you knew it bothered him in ways he couldn’t manifest. The blood rushing through his body—you challenged him in a way only he would allow you.

Geta removed his arm from the back of the seat and stepped down to you. Each step closer and closer until he came to rest directly in front of you and caged you like the animals below. Arms expanding on either side of you; his breath invading your space as his nose nicked yours. You shuddered; back piercing into the travertine not in fear but anticipation.

To be the lover of a corrupted Emperor… you had him in the palm of your hand.

“You speak so freely,” he hissed. “And yet you tremble in my presence.”

In an instant, your breathing had gone staggered. His hands drew into you. Feeling up the sides of your body as he pushed himself on you.

“The tremble is not you. It’s me.”

“I am the only one to make you feel this way, yes?”

His hands roamed freely. Geta’s thumbs rumbled up the fabric of the front of your body while his fingertips hardened against you. The plushness of your skin was melting to him. His nose tipped against your chin to turn your head upwards.

“Your Emperor asked you a question.”

“If I said no,” you breathed in as his fingers groped harder. They cupped your breasts from above and back down again. “What would become of me?”

“I’d lock you away,” he wouldn’t. “I’d see to you myself in the cells below the palace. You’d wear nothing,” you scoffed and his lip quirked up. You could feel his lips change against the column of your neck. “And when people would ask of you, they would not be allowed to see you.”

“So you would not want them to see us like this?”

He let out a low, bemused chuckle. “This is for me, us, to enjoy. But if you imagine the whole of Rome watching us, then please, my dear, listen to them.”

Geta rose his lips to your ear as his hands fell to your hips and then one of your legs. He maneuvered to grip the back of one of your thighs and opened up space for him to fall further into you. You could feel his excitement; the prodding of his want against your clothed self. His hot breath and lips danced across your cheek.

“Can you hear them? Gasping at the sight of you. It is the most beauty they have ever seen. So wet and glistening for their ruler.”

“And what of their Emperor?” Your hand came to clutch the extra fabric of his chest. His heart under your hand was picking up in paces. Beating against his ribcage while his eyes blew lustful.

“They should see their Emperor on his throne,” you commanded.

He dropped your leg and with a push from your hand on his chest, Geta stepped backwards until you pushed him to meet his throne. The seat wide for his liking, he sat upon it and grasped at the loose fabric of your dress at your hips.

“Further.” He pushed himself further back into the seat. Using the small step at the base of Geta’s seat, you lifted yourself onto him with your knees on either side.

“While he’s on his throne,” you let him pool the fabric into his hands and draw it upwards. You sat atop him and relished the way you could feel him grown underneath. “They shall see his weakness.”

“I do not have a weakness,” he growled, one hand clasping the back of your neck and forcing your face an inch from his own. You rolled your hips on him. His fingers adjusted the grip on the back of your neck and he hesitated. “I-I do not have a weakness.”

“Then what am I here for?” You asked against his lips and through his hesitancy, he gazed into your eyes before capturing his lips with yours. You sucked in a breath; cupping his head with both of your hands in strength.

Your fingers raked through his hair with a tug as his lips refused to separate themselves form yours. So desperate in want, he clutched himself on to you and your tongues melted together as one the longer he held you. One of his hands pulled on your dress and moved you forward, then tugging backwards to encourage you to grind above him. You needn’t a command to roll your body onto his.

Where your core rested on him, his erection formed against his tunic. You lined up, dragging yourself along the length of him and back. He pulled his lips away with a tug on your bottom lip. Geta bunched up your dress and watched as your cunt glided as best it could along his clothes. Each thrust painting the fabric a shade deeper he could see even in the night.

He was mesmerized. Entranced by your body—no different than the times he had taken you in the light or dusk of a day. You pussy glistened in the moonlight. Dripping with ecstasy as you only felt the outline of his cock above the thin piece that separated you.

Geta, annoyed the the amount of fabric that was your gown and released it roughly.

“Take it off,” he ordered. You huffed, unfurling it from the ties in on the side and letting it fall to the step below. Fully nude on his throne, his hands groped your ass to kiss you again.

“What of you?”

Geta simply pulled up the tunic on his chest and his cock sprung up in response. “You should know conscience now.”

“Us women do not see the same pleasures,” you meant in the form of clothing being simply. Geta quirked his head to the side and leaned it back against his seat.

He sat an awkward angle but was semi-sitting up with you on top of him. You lifted on your knees and palmed at his member with purpose. Remembering the lines and curve like the stones outside of your home, you pumped him as a grunt left his throat.

“I see that you do.”

“Not that anyone would know,” you snided.

Again, he furrowed his brows. “Do you want people to see? All of Rome to see what a woman of your stature does to me?”

“They don’t need to see, Geta,” you sighed and moved up on him. “If you wish to take a wife, that is already implied.”

“You are far too beautiful to be a wife. You are a goddess.”

“Who can only be sought in darkness.”

“That is when you come alive,” his eyes closed at the feel of his tip at the entrance of you. Moving back and forth along your slit while the wetness gathered to make his intrusion easier. The pull of your walls making room for him as you sunk down to take him whole; the claw of your fingernails into his chest at the sensation.

Your knees dug into the harshness of the chair as its girth, and his own, sent you ascending. Your back arched as his fingertips drove goosebumps along your spine. You started grinding on his cock slowly. Clit rubbing against his pubic bone, gently caressing your most sensitive bit as he gripped your hips tightly. You looked down at him prompting his stare to reach through you. It grabbed your soul and reminded you of all the reasons you kept answering his call.

Geta filled you completely. The stretch of him long and wide, your hands fell back to his knees and propelled you as you bounced on him the best your body could. He trusted up to you as the matched inside of you both struck hot and heavy. The burn of your body, the pulse of heat between your legs grew while the slick of your arousal coated his dick every time you sunk back down.

His hands bruised. They tightly gripped you as though you would slip away into the darkness should he let go. He needed to feel you in more ways than one. The digging of your nails into his skin transposed by the burn of his palms on your waist, hips, thighs, and wherever else they could touch.

“Look at you,” he praised breathlessly. “A God to a King.”

A Venus of Rome.

“My Venus,” Geta cut between his teeth. “Mine.”

His own pace superseded your own. Geta’s hips snapped up, racing a high that hit him like Cupid’s own bow straight to the heart. His pace was parading his strength he did not often show beyond words and measures. Your hands failed you on his knees and forced you forward.

Geta grabbed at your jawline, hand crushing your chin.

“You are mine,” he repeated. “No other man shall have you—as a wife nor lover.”

Your silence maddened him. He was relentless in his mission to send you to the edge. You could barely catch your breath and your chest, naked as the day you were born, rose and fell rapidly as the faint sheen of sweat washed over you.

“Do you understand me?” Geta stopped his movements and your shoulder jolted uncontrollably. He was the only one who had ever sent your body’s muscles into overdrive.

“Yes,” you nodded with his hand still grasping your jaw. “Yes, Geta.”

His eyes flicked back and forth between your own. You were truthful even if you hated him some days.

“Good,” he agreed with his own nod. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around,” Geta ordered again. “Your Emperor commands you.”

He released your jaw dismissively and let his hands fall beside his legs. You lifted yourself from him with a shiver and maneuvered yourself front facing. The arena before you, the empty spectator seats still viewing you freely in coitus. Geta’s hands roamed over your ass and up your back as you turned. He grasped himself at the base of his cock and lined up his head to you again.

“Come down,” he commanded.

You joined together as one again and you were quick to realize you had no bearings. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to support you except what little resistance your knees could gather against the harsh seat.

As though Geta could read your mind, he drew you back. He leaned you all the way against him to where you were nearly laying as though on a bed yet still angled as though lounging on a chaise. The new angle pushed his cock to the sweetest pull, pushing against your plush walls and letting a gasp escape you in turn. Geta smoothed the sides of your body while your feet turned under you and you let your weight lay on him.

He ran over your breasts slowly. Nipples long pebbled, he squeezed the flesh and brought them up before releasing them again. Geta brought his head to incline into yours as he thrusted into you once more.

“I see their jealousy. All of them—“ the non-existent spectators “—wanting to fuck a woman like you. If they saw an Empress so bare, so exposed, what would they do?”

Geta’s tone had become selfish. His pace returned to an unrelenting finish. He pounded into you. Each snap hitting your most pleasured spot perfectly as his hands cradled you and his words filled your mind with him.

“How would they feel seeing their Emperor defile the most exquisite creature that has ever graced Rome?”

“They would all wish to be you,” you admitted. His words of praise hit you as hard as his cock. Your head tossed back onto his shoulder.

“Open your eyes, darling. Head up.”

You did as commanded—like any good subject would do.

“This will be yours,” he guided one of your hands into his and brought them both to your bud as the other wrapped around your waist. With his finger atop yours, he helped circle your clit as his end was near.

“This land, Rome, can be ours. Just ours.”

That was, if he would ever be given permission to marry and the match was fixed.

“Gladiators in your name, fighting to see your beauty. Feasts and splendor for the sake of our children…”

The familiar heat in your core began to bubble like the markings of a volcano. You turned your head to his and kissed him deeply at the thought, rubbing your clit furiously with the help of his hand and relishing the way his cock completed your body.

“I will marry you,” Geta reaffirmed as his words caught every second his hips threatened to stutter at his release. “I will marry you I swear to the Gods if it is the last thing I do.”

Maybe you believed him, maybe you did not. Yet you would feel nothing but him and only him and everything he gave you in that moment. The utter devotion and the most raw form of his propensity.

If the night were not already fallen, you saw the waves of Heaven wash over you as the eruption of your orgasm shakes you to the core. The blinding hues of what Venus had brought upon you leaving you gasping for breath. Thoughtless and wordless of promises that carry on with the shaking of your thighs and soft whispers of marriage from his lips. Geta’s own release was missed by you. Mere seconds after your own, he stilled as his hips stuttered into you and the legacy of his spent began to leak beyond where he filled you.

Geta released his hand from your own and rubbed your arms soothingly as you laid heavier on him than before. The wear of your brilliance forging his content sighs. He closed his eyes as your head knocked into his own and the two of you sat there, in the empty arena, alone as one.

“I swear to the Gods,” he assured once more. “I will make you my wife.”

And if the Gods were fair, you would know it to be true. But they have never been fair in the life you knew. So, how could they be true now?

A/N: couldn’t help writing for Geta. The men of gladiator have me in a chokehold. Thanks for reading and while it isn’t required, reblogs and comments help writers the most! ♥️ [not proof read yet]

[misswynters]

༘⋆♡ Arcane characters reacting to having you be a vs bombshell model

featuring: vi, sevika, mel, cait, ekko, viktor and ambessa

warnings: kissing, heavy touching, implied nsfw themes

inspired by my fic XOXO w/ jinx (which is why she isn’t included)

a/n: might of went overboard with some (let me know if there any mistakes)

Sevika

Sevika leaned against the wall, her eyes sweeping over you as you entered the room, the curves of your body accentuated by the form-fitting outfit you were wearing. She didn't say anything at first, her gaze intense as if she were appraising you, testing you. "You look good," she finally said, her voice husky. "But l've got a better idea.

Want to show me just how good?" She stepped closer, her hand grazing the side of your cheek as her fingers gently trailed down your neck. "I want to see you in that lingerie of yours-the one you always wear when you want to really make an impression. The one that drives me wild," she added, her lips curling into a half-smile.

You swallowed, feeling the heat rise between you both. She didn't need to say it twice. The way her eyes burned into you told you everything.

As you slipped out of your clothes and into the requested set, she took a slow, appreciative breath. "Damn... Now that's what I'm talking about." The hunger in her eyes was unmistakable, and you could tell she was ready to claim this moment as hers.

Sevika leaned back in her chair, the low light of her quarters casting sharp shadows across her face as her piercing gaze locked onto you. Her usually composed demeanor faltered slightly as you stepped closer, the lingerie she had insisted on seeing clinging to your figure in all the right ways. She let out a low hum of approval, her scarred lip quirking into a smirk as she rested her elbow on the armrest, her metal fingers tapping rhythmically against her knuckles.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days, y’know that?” she drawled, her voice husky as her eyes roamed over you, lingering on every detail of the delicate lace and silk.

“You said you wanted to see it,” you teased, stepping between her legs, your confidence wavering slightly under her intense scrutiny.

Sevika’s smirk widened as she reached out, her human hand brushing over your hip while the cool metal of her prosthetic traced your thigh, sending shivers down your spine. “Didn’t think you’d actually listen,” she admitted, her tone rough but tinged with amusement. “But damn, you wear it better than I imagined.”

Her grip tightened, and in one swift motion, she pulled you onto her lap, her lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was all heat and hunger. Her hands roamed boldly, one sliding to your waist to pull you closer while the other cupped the back of your neck, anchoring you to her.

“You’re mine tonight,” she growled against your lips, her voice low and possessive. “Every damn inch of you.”

The tension in the air was electric, her touch igniting a fire under your skin as she kissed down your neck, her sharp teeth grazing your skin playfully. You could feel her smirk against your collarbone as her hands continued their exploration, leaving no part of you untouched.

“Sevika,” you gasped, your voice trembling as her lips and and hands sent your senses into overdrive.

She chuckled, the sound rumbling through her chest as she leaned back slightly to admire the effect she had on you. "Relax," she murmured, her thumb brushing over your cheek as her eyes softened ever so slightly. "We've got all night." And knowing who sevika is with you, you knew that she was telling the truth. It was going to be a rough night.

Vi

Vi was already leaning against the wall when you stepped off the stage, her arms crossed and a cocky grin plastered across her face. The moment she saw you in your intricate wings and delicate lingerie, she couldn't hide her pride-or the heat in her gaze.

"Damn," she drawled as you approached, her eyes shamelessly raking over you. "How am I supposed to share you with the whole world when you look like that?" Your cheeks warmed as you stepped closer, unable to keep the smile off your face. "You like it?" you teased, spinning slowly to give her the full view.

"Like it?" she repeated, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between you. Her hands found your waist, pulling you flush against her. "Babe, I love it. But now I can't stop thinking about getting you out of it." She whispered, her breath warm against your ear, the promise of more heat to come in her voice.

Before you could answer, she reached out, pulling you toward her with a strength that made your heart skip a beat. Her lips found yours, firm and passionate, a kiss that left no room for hesitation. Her hands slipped down your back, pressing you flush against her, grinding your hips together for just a moment, enough to send a thrill through both of you. Hands roaming from the soft silk of your waist to the small of your back, where she hooked her fingers over the straps of the wings.

"You're incredible up there," she murmured against your lips, her voice husky. "But I think I prefer this view with just you and me."

You laughed softly, your hands sliding up her chest and locking behind her neck. "So, no complaints about my job, then?"

She smirked, leaning down to nip at your jawline. "None. As long as I'm the only one who gets the private shows."

"Jealous much?" Her grip tightened slightly on your hips as she kissed a trail down your neck.

"Nah," she murmured, her lips brushing against your skin. "Just possessive." Your breath hitched as her hands dipped lower, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What do you say we head home? I wanna see you take this off."

Mel Merdarda

The evening air was heavy with the scent of candles and sweet perfume as you stepped into Mel Medarda’s private quarters. Her golden eyes lifted from the glass of wine in her hand, and the moment they landed on you, the room seemed to still. She was lounging on a chaise, her regal posture radiating authority, but the flicker of surprise and desire in her gaze softened her otherwise impenetrable demeanor.

“You’ve outdone yourself tonight,” she murmured, her voice like velvet, her lips curving into a knowing smile. She set her glass down and stood, her silk gown cascading around her as she crossed the room with an elegance only she could command.

Her hands reached out, brushing against the edges of your robe. Slowly, she pulled it aside to reveal the intricate lingerie beneath. The golden embroidery glimmered in the candlelight, hugging your figure perfectly. Mel’s fingers grazed your bare shoulder, her touch light but electrifying.

“You’re a vision,” she whispered, her voice dropping an octave as her lips found yours in a kiss that was both reverent and insistent. Her hands traced your waist, pulling you closer as her warmth enveloped you.

Breaking the kiss, she looked into your eyes, her smile soft yet mischievous. “Tonight, you’re not just mine to admire,” she said, her voice sultry as she led you toward the chaise. “You’re mine to worship.” And worship you, she did, with all the precision and devotion you’d come to expect from her.

Caitlyn Kiramman

Caitlyn had always been composed, but the moment you entered her bedroom, the shift in her demeanor was undeniable. She stood by the bed, her eyes never leaving you as she slowly approached.

"You're looking stunning, as always," she said softly, but there was something more to her words— something loaded with desire.

Before you could respond, she moved quickly, her hand finding the back of your neck, pulling you into a passionate kiss. Her lips were gentle at first, almost hesitant, but that hesitation faded quickly as she pinned you to the bed, her body pressing you down.

Her hands roamed, tracing the curve of your body as her lips trailed down your jaw, your neck, each kiss leaving you breathless. "You're mine now," Caitlyn murmured, her voice filled with possessiveness and longing, as she kissed you with renewed fervor.

Caitlyn's weight pressed you gently into the soft mattress as her lips moved hungrily against yours, her usually refined and composed demeanor unraveling in the privacy of her dimly lit bedroom. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a silver glow over her tousled hair and sharp features as she kissed you with an intensity that sent heat rushing through your veins.

Her hands roamed your sides, her touch firm but reverent, like she was mapping every inch of your body for the first time. As her lips left yours, you barely had a moment to catch your breath before they found their way to your jaw, then lower, to the delicate skin of your neck.

"You're incredible," Caitlyn murmured against your skin, her voice husky and filled with awe. Her hands slid under the hem of your shirt, her fingers grazing your bare skin as she drew closer, her hips flush against yours. "How did I get so lucky?"

Your breath hitched as she grabbed your wrists harder above your head with one hand. She tilted her head up, her sapphire eyes locking onto yours, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips. "Do you want me to continue?" she asked, her tone soft but teasing as her free hand traced lazy patterns down your torso.

You nodded, unable to form words under the weight of her gaze, and she leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Good," she whispered before trailing kisses down your neck, her hand releasing your wrists to cup your cheek.

Her kisses became slower, more deliberate as she moved lower, her touch grounding and unhurried, savoring every reaction she pulled from you. You arched into her, your fingers tangling in her hair as she found the sensitive spot just below your collarbone.

"You're breathtaking," Caitlyn said softly, her voice raw with emotion as she pulled back for a moment to admire you. She leaned in again, her lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss before she smiled, her thumb stroking your cheek. "And you're mine."

It wasn't just the passion in her touches or the hunger in her kisses that left you breathless, it was the way Caitlyn held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The quiet devotion in her every move.

Ekko

Ekko was nervously tapping his fingers against his leg as he watched you enter, his eyes wide. He'd always admired you from afar, but seeing you now in that revealing outfit-it was too much for him to handle.

"U-uh... can we... can we do a private show? Just for me?" he stammered, his cheeks flushed. His fingers fidgeted as he tried to gather the courage to ask, his voice full of a mix of excitement and nerves. You could tell he was flustered, and a smile crept onto your face. You approached him slowly, giving him a teasing wink.

"Of course," you said softly. "Just for you, Ekko." His eyes lit up, and the look of wonder on his face made your heart flutter. You moved into the center of the room, giving him a slow, sensual dance, letting the rhythm flow through you.

Every movement you made seemed to take his breath away, and when you finished, he was speechless, his eyes wide and full of admiration. "That... was amazing," he whispered. "I-I can't believe you did that for me."

Ekko leaned against the wall of the hideout, his face still flushed from your impromptu “fashion show.” His wide eyes darted between you and the floor, his words stumbling over themselves.

“I-I didn’t think you’d actually—”

“You asked for a private fashion show,” you teased, stepping closer, the soft fabric of your robe brushing against your legs. “I just delivered.”

Ekko swallowed hard, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually…” His voice trailed off as he gestured vaguely toward you, his fingers twitching.

“You didn’t think I’d wear something like this for you?” You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You really underestimate me, Ekko.”

His gaze flickered to yours, the usual sharp confidence in his eyes softened by his clear awe. “No, it’s not that,” he muttered, his voice dropping. “I just didn’t think I deserved to see you like this.”

That caught you off guard. You stepped closer, reaching out to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against his warm skin. “Ekko,” you said softly, “you’ve done so much for me. For everyone here. You deserve a lot more than just this.”

His hand came up to cover yours, his touch steady despite his flustered demeanor. “You don’t have to do anything special for me, you know?” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “Just… you being you is enough.”

You smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. His breath hitched, but he quickly melted into the kiss, his hands hesitantly finding your waist. The tension in the air shifted, the nervous energy giving way to something warmer, more intimate.

As your fingers threaded through his hair, Ekko pulled you closer, his grip firm but gentle. The kiss deepened, and you felt his heart pounding against yours, fast and steady like the rhythm of a drum.

When you finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, and his lips were slightly swollen. “You’re really trying to kill me here,” he joked breathlessly, his hands still resting on your waist.

“Not at all,” you teased, trailing a finger along his jawline. “But I do like seeing you flustered. It’s cute.”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder to hide his embarrassment. “You’re such a tease.”

“And you love it,” you quipped, wrapping your arms around his neck. Ekko chuckled, the sound muffled against your skin. “Yeah,” he admitted softly, his arms tightening around you. “I really do.”

The moment lingered, the hum of the hideout fading into the background as the two of you held each other. For all the chaos and danger in your lives, this was a rare moment of peace. And neither of you wanted to let it go.

Viktor

Viktor's lab was cluttered with papers and equipment, but as soon as you stepped in, the clutter seemed to disappear. All he could focus on was you. You stood before him, your usual elegance replaced by an undeniable confidence, as you slowly peeled back the layers of your clothing. Viktor's breath caught in his throat as you revealed what lay beneath. The way your eyes met his, made his pulse race.

You leaned casually against the counter, but the smirk playing on your lips betrayed how much you enjoyed his reaction.

"Well?" you teased, your voice soft yet challenging. "Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to say something?"

Viktor blinked, his lips parting as if to form words, but they didn't come. His gaze flickered downward to the lingerie you wore, all delicate lace and sheer fabric, a stark contrast to the sterile and utilitarian environment of his workspace. "You're... truly something," he finally managed, his accent curling around the words.

You tilted your head playfully. “Something good, I hope?"

He took a cautious step closer, his cane clicking softly against the floor. "You know exactly what I mean," he murmured, his voice lower now, tinged with awe. His hand reached out, hesitating for just a moment before his fingers brushed the fabric at your hips. "You've outdone yourself."

Your heart skipped at the reverence in his tone. "I thought l'd surprise you," you said softly, leaning into his touch.

"You've done more than surprise me," Viktor admitted, his golden-brown eyes locking onto yours. "You've... completely distracted me."

You chuckled, looping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. "Is that such a bad thing?"

Before he could answer, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. Viktor stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but then his hands found their way to your hips, hesitant yet firm. He kissed you back, slow and deliberate, as though trying to savor every moment. When you deepened the kiss, sliding your fingers into his hair, Viktor groaned softly against your lips. His grip tightened, his fingers brushing against the bare skin beneath the lace. The cool touch of his metal prosthetic sent a shiver down your spine, and he immediately stilled. "Did I hurt you?" he asked quickly, his brows furrowing in concern.

You shook your head, smiling up at him. “No. You could never hurt me."

Relief washed over his face, and his grip on you grew more confident. He leaned in again, this time guiding you backward until the edge of the counter pressed into your lower back. The hard surface contrasted sharply with the warmth of his body as he kissed you again, more fervently now.

His hand roamed upward, tracing the delicate straps on your shoulder before cupping your jaw, tilting your face so he could explore the curve of your neck.

You gasped as his lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

"I have a pretty good idea," you teased, your hands slipping under his shirt to trace the lines of his torso.

He groaned again, his lips finding yours once more. The lab faded away, the hum of the equipment replaced by the sound of your shared breaths and the soft clink of his cane as he shifted to pull you impossibly closer.

For once, Viktor allowed himself to forget his work, his experiments, and the ever-looming weight of his ambition. In this moment, all that mattered was you-and the way you made him feel alive.

Ambessa Merdarda

Ambessa reclined back in her chair, her gaze heavy and consuming as you finished your slow, deliberate movements across the room. The rich velvet curtains framing her private quarters swayed slightly with the night's breeze, though the air felt anything but cold under her watchful eyes. You stood before her in the intricate lingerie she had requested, the delicate pink fabric accentuating every curve of your body in the flickering firelight.

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, the powerful general seemed at a loss for words, a rare vulnerability slipping through her commanding exterior. At nearly twice your height and with shoulders that could carry entire armies, Ambessa always made you feel small in the best way. A stark contrast that clearly did something to her now as her gaze grew darker.

"You've outdone yourself," she finally said, her voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "I knew you'd be breathtaking, but this..." Her words trailed off as her golden eyes roamed over you. Feeling emboldened, you tilted your head with a playful smile. "Is it everything you imagined, General?" you teased, your voice soft yet sultry.

Ambessa smirked, the slight twitch of her lips only emphasizing her predatory demeanor. "More," she admitted, rising from her chair with a deliberate slowness that made her seem even larger. She approached with the precision of a lion stalking prey, her heavy boots clicking against the polished wood floor. When she stood before you, the top of your head barely reached her chest.

Her broad shoulders eclipsed the firelight behind her, casting you in her shadow as she placed her massive hands on your hips. She pulled you forward effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing to her, the size of her hands spanning nearly your entire waist.

"You've got my attention," she murmured, her voice rumbling against your smaller frame as her fingers traced the delicate diamond straps of your lingerie. Looping it around her fingers, letting it fall off your shoulder.

"Now, what will you do with it?" Your breath hitched as her lips brushed the shell of your ear, her warm breath fanning your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. Her hands roamed your body, the stark contrast of her rough, calloused touch against the soft silk of your lingerie making you tremble.

"Ambessa," you whispered, your voice trembling as her kisses moved lower, trailing along your neck and collarbone with an intensity that left you breathless.

She chuckled softly, her hands tightening their grip on your waist, her fingers brushing against your lower back as she pulled you impossibly closer. The difference in your size only seemed to spur her on, her gaze filled with an almost possessive hunger as she loomed over you. "Careful," she teased, her tone a mix of amusement and warning. "I might start thinking you enjoy being at my mercy."

Then ambessa made her way back to her chair, sitting down while manspreading, with her arms laying of the arm rest. Looking at you with a feverish expression. "Come here," she commanded softly, her voice velvet. "Since you're looking even more irresistible than usual."

You hesitated for just a moment, the air thick with unspoken desires, before walking towards her.

"Dance for me, darling," Ambessa purred, eyes darkened with intent. "Let me see you move."

With a small smirk, you began to dance, slow and seductive, your body swaying to an invisible rhythm. Her gaze followed every movement, and you could feel her heat from across the room.

As you moved closer to her, her hands caught your waist, pulling you in for a slow, deliberate kiss. "You going to kill me with the way you move," she murmured against your lips, and you couldn't help but smile at her words, feeling the tension between you both become even more palpable. “How about you use those skills for a different purpose.”

taglist: @iwanttoberich420 @pluhhbabyy

banners: @anitalenia

[reilemon]

𔘓 Let's Break Up, Sylus! 𔘓

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ Reason for the breakup? You got tired of chasing Sylus’ shadow.

♡︎ pairing: Sylus x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: brief mention of blood and wounds

♡︎ tags: angst, fluff, smut, dry humping, oral (female receiving), multiple orgasms

♡︎ word count: 6.5k

♡︎ a/n: idk, i don't like how i wrote the breakup fics, but i'd feel bad if i never posted them. so, if you don't like how i wrote this, especially the breakup part, then pls don't say anything.

♡︎ Thank you to my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @anitalenia

The faint hum of the car does nothing to soothe your nerves. If anything, it only serves as a reminder of today’s plans, the source of your anxiety. You sit in the driver’s seat, the plane tickets trembling slightly in your hands. You glance toward the house—the lights shining through the bedroom window suggests he woke up. You exhale slowly, staring at the tickets again.

This isn’t how you imagined your vacation. This was supposed to be your time to recharge, to take a step back from the chaos of work, but instead, you’re about to board a plane to a place you hadn’t even known existed. All because you couldn’t stay behind.

The irony isn’t lost on you. Hunters aren’t passive. The words you planned to say to him when he sees you holding up the tickets, rehearsed in your head with all the conviction you could muster. But now, sitting here in the quiet, you can’t help but wonder if bravery is just a mask for recklessness.

Would it really have been so terrible to let him go alone this time?

Your gaze drifts to the empty passenger seat.

Did he expect you to follow him?

You glance at your reflection in the rear-view mirror, the faint circles under your eyes a proof to the sleepless nights that have become all too familiar. Staying behind would’ve meant another string of those nights—lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was alive, injured, or worse.

But this... this is no better.

The front door of the house creaks open, and you sit up straighter. Sylus steps out, his tall frame moving with its usual confidence, his silver hair catching the early light. He looks like he always does—calm, in control, untouchable. And you’re supposed to be the same.

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The room is dimly lit, the single overhead bulb flickering faintly like it might give out at any moment. The walls are bare, the furniture is sparse and the air is heavy. The faint metallic tang of blood lingers, mixing with the sharp bite of antiseptic.

Sylus sits on one of the chairs, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his shirt discarded and tossed over the backrest. Blood-stained rags lie on the table beside him. His torso is marred with fresh cuts and bruises, deep gashes standing out against the taut muscle of his abdomen. You kneel in front of him, wrapping clean bandages around his ribs. Your forearm is already bandaged—a sloppy, hurried job. He’d insisted you patch yourself up first, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The quiet between you is oppressive. The only sound is the rustle of bandages and the faint hum of the overhead light.

Sylus watches you carefully. Usually, by now, you’d be berating him for getting hurt, but he knows that you always mask your worry with irritation. Or you’d be recounting the mission in vivid detail, your energy buzzing with lingering adrenaline. But tonight, you’re silent, your gaze focused on the task at hand, not meeting his.

“You’re quiet tonight.” he says.

You don’t look at him, your fingers securing the bandage. “I’m tired,” you reply curtly, your voice flat.

It’s a half-truth, and you both know it. He stays still, letting you finish your work, though his gaze never wavers.

Your mind won’t stop racing. The mission plays over and over in your head, the close calls, the mistakes, the weight of Sylus’ injuries.

“There.” you say quietly, standing up and turning away to gather the discarded rags and put them into a plastic bag, your back to him as you fight to steady your breathing.

Behind you, Sylus shifts slightly in the chair, his eyes following you.

“You handled everything well.” he says, his tone soft, almost coaxing. “Better than well. You were incredible out there.”

You freeze mid-motion, your fingers still gripping the bag. You swallow hard, trying to stifle the frustration bubbling in your chest, but it’s too late. When you turn to face him, your expression betrays you.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “What’s that look for?” he asks with the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You take a step closer, arms crossing over your chest. “Sylus, we barely made it out. I don’t think anything about this is ‘incredible’.”

His lips quirk in a wry smile. “A few scratches. I’ve had worse.”

That does it. “Wha - Do you even hear yourself? ‘A few scratches’?!”

His smirk falters, replaced by a flicker of confusion, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You didn’t even want me to know about this mission!” you continue, your voice rising. “I had to dig through your phone, beg my colleague for help, buy plane tickets, and then throw myself into danger just to keep up with you!”

Sylus’ jaw tightens, but his gaze stays fixed on you.

“And now you’re sitting here, acting like this is normal, like this is fine. Like it’s okay that we’re both bandaged up in the middle of nowhere!”

You don’t realize your hands are trembling until you feel the sting of your nails digging into your palms. Sylus stands, almost carefully stepping closer to you.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” he says, his voice low but firm.

“Too late for that,” you snap, your breath coming faster now. “Do you have any idea how exhausting this is? How much I—”

You cut yourself off, your throat too dry to continue. Your chest heaves, your heart pounding as you glare at him.

Sylus stays silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours. Then he speaks. “You didn’t have to come with me. You could’ve stayed behind.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “Stayed behind? And what? Spent another week staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re dead or alive?” You take in a shaky breath. “I didn’t come because I wanted to, Sylus. I came because the alternative was worse. It’s always worse.”

His expression falters for a split second, a flicker of something—surprise? Hurt?—crossing his face before it hardens again. “I knew you could handle it. I’ve always seen you as capable—more than capable.”

“And that’s part of the problem!” you fire back, your voice trembling now. “You always expect me to be right there, don’t you? Always catching up, always bending my life to fit yours. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

For the first time, Sylus doesn’t have a ready response. The argument stumbles into silence. The adrenaline of your frustration fades, leaving behind an aching exhaustion.

“I can’t keep doing this, Sylus,” you say quietly. “I can’t keep choosing you over everything else. Over my own sanity. Over my own life. I need to be on my own.”

His expression doesn’t change, but your eyes know his too well to be deceived – you know your words hurt him. He doesn’t argue, though. Instead, he steps toward you. You don’t pull away as he stops in front of you, his fingers brushing gently over your cheek. His touch is so tender that it takes everything in you not to lean into it.

“You’ll always have a place with me.” he murmurs.

His words pierce straight through you, and your chest tightens as you see the quiet acceptance in his gaze that makes it so much harder to walk away. Your throat constricts, but you manage a small nod. Stepping back, you feel the loss of his touch immediately, a hollow ache spreading through you as you turn to leave.

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Returning to work feels refreshing. That’s what you tell yourself. You smile through the questions about your bandaged forearm - “Just a stupid accident.” you brush them off with a rehearsed laugh and no one presses.

You take every mission they throw your way. You linger in the office long after everyone has left their desks, filing reports and analyzing cases until your eyes burn. When you’re not at work, you’re training. You work your body until your muscles shake, until your lungs burn. Exhaustion becomes your companion, the only thing that lets you collapse into bed.

And when you give your muscles a breather, you throw yourself into social plans. Nights at the bar with friends blur together into a haze of laughter and drinks. You keep the conversation light, deflecting whenever someone asks about your love life.

But you can’t always stop your mind from wandering.

On your walks through the city, where you tell yourself you’re just stretching your legs, just enjoying the scenery, the truth peeks through. You’re looking for him. A glint of silver hair in the crowd, the flutter of dark feathers overhead—anything that might mean Sylus is nearby. But he never is.

The frustration comes in waves, sharp and bitter. Sometimes it’s anger at him—for the secrecy, for the danger he seemed so at ease with. Other times, it’s anger at yourself. For following him. For leaving him. For caring so damn much. And yet, no matter how busy you keep yourself, the memories slip through the cracks. The way he’d call you ‘kitten’ in that smooth tone. The glint in his eyes when he teased you. The softness in them in the quiet moments. How he made you feel like you were the only person who truly mattered to him.

As the days pass, the routine becomes second nature. You throw yourself into missions, into nights out, into silence. The wound on your arm heals, but others linger. And no matter how much you try to move forward, his shadow remains.

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You lie in your bed, staring at the ceiling faintly illuminated by the light of the tablet beside you. It’s paused on some show you weren’t really watching. The air feels heavy tonight. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, as if it could shield you from the thoughts creeping in, from the memories you’ve spent all day trying to push away.

Your focus is pulled towards your phone lying face down on the nightstand. You tell yourself to ignore it, to roll over and let sleep take you. But before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching for it.

The screen lights up, the harsh glow making you squint. Your tired eyes take a moment to adjust, before your finger taps the messaging app. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t look for his name. But tonight, you can’t help it.

Tapping the thread, the messages he sent a week or two ago fill the screen.

“The flower finally bloomed.” [Attached: A photo of a vibrant red flower, its petals unfurling.]

You skim through the words you’d typed in response.

“It’s beautiful.”

Further down, there’s another message—a photo of the same flower, wilted and curling in on itself. “Guess I should’ve expected this.”

You never replied to that one.

You scroll up, searching for happier times. Your thumb slows as you reach an older picture—one of the two of you. Sylus has your cheeks squished in his big hand, your face pouting in mock annoyance. Your eyes linger on his face. You gaze at his soft, genuine smile – an expression only you had the privilege to see.

And then there’s the voice note.

Your finger hovers over the play button, your chest tightening as you debate whether to listen. You remember the moment clearly—Sylus had sent it during one of his missions. You press play - his voice is quieter than usual, but the smile in his tone is obvious:

“I’ll be back soon, kitten. Don’t get too comfortable without me.”

Your vision blurs as tears gather in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them. Pulling the blankets tighter around yourself, you press your face into the pillow, letting the tears fall freely.

You lie there in the dim light, the sound of your own breathing filling the room as sleep creeps up on you. The tears dry slowly on your lashes, but the ache in your chest doesn’t fade.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

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Your breath fogs in the chilly air as you step outside a corner store, clutching a pack of noodles like a prize. You glance at the time on your phone and sigh. It’s late. Too late, actually, to be out in the cold hunting down instant noodles. But the craving wouldn’t leave you alone, not after the day you’ve had.

It had started early. You’d dragged yourself out of bed and decided to keep busy— run errands, go to the gym, deep clean the apartment. A pampering routine followed. Scrubbing the grime of the day away in a shower, leaving your skin soft and your mind momentarily calm. Wrapped in your fluffiest robe, smelling like heaven, you’d almost felt good.

Then the craving had started sometime after dinner. A silly little craving for a specific flavor of noodles you thought you had in your kitchen. You opened the cabinet and couldn’t find it, but you were determined, so you threw on a sweater and a pair of leggings and stepped out. The impulse led you further away from you building since your corner store didn’t have them.

Now, here you are.

You pass by the small park near your apartment, and your thoughts are more on getting home than on your surroundings.

But something catches your eye.

A figure with silver strands illuminated under the soft glow of a streetlamp. Your feet falter, your pulse quickening as your gaze zeroes in on him. Sylus.

He’s there, at the park, crouching with his arm extended toward a stray cat that eyes him warily. The sight is so achingly familiar —his careful, as-patient-as-possible approach, the way he stays still, letting the animal come to him. You don’t realize you’re staring, too focused on watching the scene unfold. The cat inches closer, sniffing cautiously at his outstretched hand. He murmurs something low, his voice too soft to hear from this distance. The sight is so disarming, so tender, that your chest tightens.

Slowly, you take a step forward, then another, careful not to startle the skittish animal. You approach from the side, your heart racing faster with each step. He must’ve sensed you before he sees you because his head tilts slightly, his attention shifting from the cat to you. His eyes meet yours, widening slightly in surprise. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The cat darts away, but you barely register it.

Sylus straightens to his full height.

“It’s been a while.” he says softly.

For a moment, you’re lost in his eyes – the tenderness his mesmerizing eyes hold when they’re on you.  You slightly shake your head as you catch yourself staring, your brain scrambling for a teasing remark, “I didn’t think you’d actually get the cat to—”

Your voice falters when you notice the cat again. It’s sitting a few feet away in the shadows, watching you and Sylus with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I think I scared it off.”

Sylus chuckles. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to feed it anyway.”

True to his words, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small can of tuna. He crouches again, flipping open the lid with ease. His eyes flick to your hands.

“Still on the hunt for those, I see.” he teases, nodding toward the noodles you’d been craving.

You chuckle, about to reply, when the faintest frown crosses his features. Your eyes dart to his hands, and you notice the thin red line on his finger, a bead of blood welling at the tip.

“You cut yourself.” you say with tone sharper than you intended.

“It’s fine.” he replies casually.

Sylus places the can on the ground before stepping back to let the timid cat approach. As expected, the cat approaches, its tiny nose twitching as it investigates the food. You’re about to smile at the sight, but your focus snaps back to him when you catch the bead of blood rolling down his finger. Before you even think about it, you step closer and reach for his hand.

“Let me see.” you say softly, taking his hand in yours.

His fingers are cool, the faint roughness of his skin familiar under your touch. You tilt his hand, inspecting the small cut. Sylus doesn’t say a word, but you feel the weight of his gaze on you, the way his red eyes soften as he watches you carefully inspect the cut.

You clear your throat, letting go of his hand. “It’s not bad.” you murmur. “But it should be cleaned. And you’ll need a band-aid.” You glance around, as if a store might magically stay open just for you, but the quiet streets and locked doors tell you otherwise. Before you can stop yourself, the words slip out:

“You should come to my apartment.”

The moment the invitation leaves your lips, you freeze, realizing what you’ve just said. A habit developed of all the times you’ve patched him up before. And it still hasn’t died, no matter how much distance you’ve tried to put between you.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The cat crunches happily on its meal, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air.

Sylus tilts his head, studying you, then shrugs lightly. “If you’re offering.”

You nod, more to yourself than to him, convincing yourself it’s no big deal. He’ll come up, you’ll clean the cut, and he’ll leave. That’s it.

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Even though you were in your apartment minutes ago, now it feels completely different with Sylus standing in your entryway. You catch how he glances around, his eyes taking in every detail. Then he notices a particular pair of slippers near the door, and you quietly nudge them toward him with your foot.

“These are yours.” you murmur.

Without a word, he slips off his shoes and slides into the slippers.

You motion for him to sit on the sofa while you retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom. When you return, Sylus is already seated, relaxed as always, his eyes following your every move. Sitting beside him, you set the kit on the coffee table and take his hand in yours again. You focus intently on cleaning the small cut on his finger, trying to ignore the awkward silence. The alcohol wipe stings, and his hand twitches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. You press the band-aid over the wound carefully, your fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

"There," you murmur softly. "All done."

But neither of you moves. His hand lingers in yours, and when you glance up, his gaze is already on you. Sylus shifts slightly, leaning forward just enough to brush his knee against yours. He lifts his free hand, his knuckles grazing your cheek.

His voice, low and soft, breaks the silence. "Can I hug you?"

Your chest tightens, the lump forming in your throat almost unbearable, but you nod, and it’s all the invitation he needs. Sylus shifts closer, his arms wrapping around you carefully, as though you might slip away if he moves too fast. The warmth of him envelops you as you rest your hands on his back, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt, taking in his scent. You press your lips tightly, willing yourself to remain calm, but a single tear escapes, trailing down your cheek before soaking into his shirt.  Sylus holds you tighter, his hand moving slowly, soothing you. Neither of you speaks, the silence filled only with the faint sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

When you finally pull back, his hands linger on your waist. His touch is light, uncertain whether you’ll allow him to keep holding you. His eyes trace the faint streak of wetness on your cheek, and with unbearable tenderness, his thumb brushes it away.

Your gaze flickers downward, just for a moment. A fleeting glance at his lips. But it’s long enough for him to notice.

With a quiet inhale, his thumb drifts, trailing from your cheek to your jaw, then lower—grazing your bottom lip. He hesitates there, his fingers barely pressing against your skin.

His eyes search yours before he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath hitches, your heart hammering in your chest. A quiet sound escapes you—a barely audible hum of approval, “Mhm.”

He exhales, relief flickering in his eyes. The corners of his lips twitch, just slightly, before he slowly, carefully, leans in.

His lips brush softly against yours, your breaths mingling. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer. You feel the faint tremble in his fingers as they press into the fabric of your sweater. Without thinking, your hands reach for him—trailing over his shoulders, up the curve of his neck, until your fingers slip into the softness of his hair. A low, faint hum escapes his throat, vibrating against your lips.

When he pulls back, just enough to break the kiss, his forehead rests against yours. His breath fans across your face, warm and uneven.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” he’s whispers, “I thought I could give you space, let you find peace without me, but—” His jaw tightens briefly, the muscles flexing as he searches for the words. “But every day felt wrong. I left a part of myself with you, and I don’t know how to be without it.”

His hands slide down to your waist, “I don’t know if I should ask you this, but - ” his gaze locks onto yours. “Can I stay a little longer?”

The lump in your throat doesn’t let up. You know why you left – how keeping up with his lifestyle has taken a toll on your mind and body. But you also know that the man, whose eyes are filled with adoration and reverence as he waits for your answer, is the sanctuary for your heart.

You nod, “I would like that.” You take in a shaky breath, your hands settling on his neck.

Sylus stills for a second, like he needs to make sure he heard you right. His grip on your waist tightens, and his breath hitches when you’re the one who closes the distance. He angles your face gently in his hands, his palms warm against your skin. His thumbs brush featherlight strokes along your cheekbones as he deepens the kiss. As though memorizing the shape of your lips, the taste of your mouth, the way you melt against him. Then his hands find your waist again, pulling you closer until the hard plane of his chest presses against yours. You feel the faint shudder in his breathing, the tension in his body, like he’s holding himself back despite the way his lips devour yours. You sink into the kiss, your nails lightly grazing the back of his neck, feeling the way his breath hitches at your touch. But the hunger builds—his kisses growing deeper, needier.

His hand slides down, finding your thigh, his palm searing through the thin fabric of your leggings, the touch making your breath stutter as liquid heat pools low in your belly.

Sylus exhales sharply. “Tell me if this is too much.” he murmurs against your lips. His thumb strokes your thigh in small, soothing circles, a contrast to the possessive grip of his other hand still anchored to your waist.

You shake your head, pulling him back in. “It’s not,” you whisper, though deep down, there’s a flicker of hesitation.

Of course, he notices. He always does. He leans back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. Just this.”

Your fingers tremble slightly as they thread into his hair, tugging him back down. You kiss him again—with more urgency, as though trying to chase away your own uncertainty. And then you move without thinking, shifting onto your knees as you swing one leg over his lap, straddling him. Sylus groans softly as you settle onto him, his hands sliding to your hips, holding you there, and you can feel his cock pressing against your clothed core.

His breath is a ragged exhale against your skin, his lips trail down the line of your jaw, his teeth grazing just enough to leave a lingering tingle. His lips settle on the side of your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin. You shudder, fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck as warmth floods through you.

And then your hips move, feeling the hard press of him against the damp heat between your legs, the delicious friction making Sylus groan in response. His hands slide up, slipping beneath your sweater, palms skimming the heated skin of your back. Then his hips shift beneath you, pressing up to meet you in a deep grind. The motion sends a shock of pleasure straight to your core, your hands holding onto his shoulders as heat coils tighter inside you. His hands go back to your hips, guiding your movements, keeping you anchored to him as you find a rhythm together.

His lips unlatch from your neck, shifting his attention to you, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

The way he’s looking at you, the way his body moves with yours—it’s too much, too good, and the coiling pressure in your core tightens too fast. Your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt, your thighs trembling against his hips. You try to slow down, to savor it, but the pleasure builds too quickly.

The orgasm hits out of nowhere. A soft, breathless cry tumbles from your lips and your body tightens, your hips stuttering against him as the pleasure rolls through you.

Sylus stills beneath you, his grip steadying you, his breathing uneven as he watches you come undone. His expression is both hunger and devotion. The corner of his lips tugs into a small smile.

The heat creeps up your cheeks as the mortification sets in. Your heart still racing, you bury your face against his shoulder. “I— I didn’t mean to—”

His hands are already sliding up, cradling your back. His voice is low, soothing. “Don’t,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your temple. “I’ve missed seeing you like this.”

His hands drift lower again, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth moves down, lips grazing your ear.

"Can you give me one more?"

Your cheeks flush at the question, the residual buzz of your climax still tingling through your limbs. You answer by shifting your hips, experimentally rolling them forward. The motion pulls a deep, guttural groan from his throat, and the sound alone makes your core tingle.

"That's my girl." Sylus rasps.

He starts a rhythm for you, his grip firm enough to steer you but loose enough for you to take control if you wish. The friction is delicious, his cock pressing against your soaked underwear through the fabric of his pants, creating just enough pressure to. The layers of clothing feel like a tease, amplifying every grind, every roll of your hips.

"You're so sensitive." he murmurs, his gaze never leaving your face.

His words make you shiver, spurring you on to move faster, your hips gaining a mind of their own. You can feel his breath on your neck as he leans forward, his lips brushing your ear.

"I want to hear you again." he whispers, teeth grazing the delicate shell of your ear.

Your body reacts instinctively, your pace faltering as you gasp, the coil of pleasure winding tighter with each roll of his hips. Sylus doesn’t let you lose the rhythm, his hands guiding your hips again.

"Let go for me." he urges, his voice a low rumble.

His words, combined with the perfect grind of his body against yours, tip you over the edge. A broken moan escapes your lips as the pleasure crashes through you once more. Your thighs tremble, your body arching as you cling to him, his name spilling from your lips. He groans as his grip tightens on your hips as he presses you down against him, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm. His gaze locks onto yours, as he watches you come apart in his arms.

You slump forward, panting against him, your forehead brushing his shoulder as your arms wrap around his neck. His hands roam your back now, soothing as you catch your breath. You can feel the tension radiating from his body, the rigid line of his cock still pressing against you.

"Better?" he murmurs.

Your body feels like jelly, but you crave more. With a shaky exhale, you nod, nuzzling your face against his neck, the gesture earning a soft chuckle from him. You give yourself a moment to catch your breath before you sit up and move. Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off you as you stand from his lap, following your hands as they grip the hem of your sweater, lifting it over your head to reveal your bare skin. The soft glow from the living room lamp caresses every curve of your body, and his lips part slightly as he drinks in the sight of you. You hesitate briefly, heart pounding, before your fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings, sliding them down with your panties in one smooth motion, and now you stand completely bare before him.

Sylus leans forward, his breath warm as it fans over your skin. His gaze trails up your body, lingering for a moment, before settling on your face.

“You’re breathtaking.” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp.

You don’t have time to respond before his hands settle on your thighs. His lips brush against the curve of your hip, tender and sweet. He shifts forward, kissing the crease of your thigh, then above your pelvis, the attention making your knees weak. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, gently urging you closer.

He turns around to push stray pillows off the sofa, before turning back to you, “Come here,” he says. “I want to taste you.”

Your breath hitches at the words, but you follow his lead. Sylus lies back on the sofa, his hands guiding your hips to straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his head. For a moment, you hover above him, your nerves fluttering. But you find reassurance when Sylus looks up at you with a gaze so utterly devoted as he places a kiss on your inner thigh.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, his grip tightening slightly as he guides you down.

A soft gasp leaves your lips at the first stroke of his tongue against you wet folds. You grip the backrest with one hand, while the other one finds purchase in his hair and he pulls you closer, burying himself between your thighs. His tongue moves with expert precision, swirling and dipping, but then his nose presses against your clit, catching it just right, and a shiver bolts through you. The unexpected pressure makes your hips twitch, grinding against him instinctively. His tongue continues to lap at your entrance, tasting your juices, and the wet sounds of his mouth against you filling the room. You let yourself move, rolling your hips, the rhythm dragging your clit against the firm bridge of his nose while his tongue explores deeper, delving into you with an unrelenting hunger. Even lost in the haze of pleasure, you keep some of your weight off him, careful not to press down too hard.

“Sylus…” you whimper, the sound breathless, desperate.

He groans against you, the vibration coursing through your body and making you moan louder. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you steady but letting you control the movement, as though he relishes the way you’re using him to find your pleasure. Each grind sends sparks of ecstasy shooting through you, the friction of his nose against your clit and the way his tongue delves deeper, fucking you in shallow, filthy thrusts. He shifts slightly beneath you, the angle of his face changing just enough to hit a perfect spot, and your legs tremble as you chase another release, rolling your hips harder.

“Fuck - ” you gasp, your hands clutching the sofa like a lifeline.

Sylus hums again, his tongue and nose working in tandem to drive you higher, his hands kneading your thighs, encouraging you to let go completely. And you do.

You come with a shattered cry, hips jerking erratically as he drinks every pulse, every flutter, his grip tightening to keep you from pulling away from the overwhelming high. Your body slumps forward slightly, panting, thighs quivering as you try to gather yourself. But Sylus doesn’t give you time to recover. One moment, you’re perched above him, gasping in the aftershocks of your release, and the next, you’re on your back, the shift leaving you momentarily stunned.

You barely get the words out before his lips crash with yours. The moment your tongue brushes his, the taste of yourself coats your mouth. A shiver rolls through you, your thighs instinctively tightening around his waist. Sylus lets you kiss him like this, lets you taste what he’s done to you, but when your teeth graze his lower lip, teasing, claiming—his control finally breaks. Without breaking eye contact, he sits up just enough to swiftly take off his shirt before his lips are back on yours.

You hear the sound of his zipper, his hips shifting as he frees himself. His cock brushes against your drenched folds, the thick length sliding through your slickness, coating himself in your arousal. A shudder runs through both of you at the contact, the anticipation stretching unbearably between you.

Sylus exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours. “Can I finish inside?”

Without hesitation, you nod, your voice trembling as you whisper, “Yes... please.”

Sylus aligns himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and he takes his time, pushing in slowly, watching your expression. The stretch is deliciously intense, every inch of him filling you, making your walls clench around him. A strangled groan escapes his throat as he bottoms out, his cock twitching inside you. His forearms cage you in, the heat of his body surrounding you as he rests his forehead against yours.

He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, dragging along every nerve inside you. But even with his languid pace, just the feel of your pussy already has him trembling. You feel him pulse, his hips stuttering as he groans your name, his body shuddering above you. Sylus buries himself as deep as he can, his cock throbbing as his release spills inside you. The warmth spreads, and you can feel every pulse of his cock as he collapses slightly against you, his breathing heavy, his lips brushing your neck.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his hips jerk with the aftershocks of his first orgasm, he keeps moving, his cock still hard, still sensitive, as he rocks into you with slow thrusts.

“I can’t get enough of you.” he murmurs against your ear.

The sensation of his thick length moving inside you, now slick with his warm release, sends waves of delirious pleasure through you. Your hands cling to his shoulders, your nails pressing into his skin as his pace begins to pick up again. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, and his name tumbles from your lips in breathless gasps. Sylus leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his hips snap against yours. The pressure builds rapidly inside you, your body arching into his as his cock hits every perfect spot, the wet sounds of your connection filling the room.

“I missed you.” you finally confess, your voice trembling as the words spill out between moans.

Sylus freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, his thrusts faltering as your words hit him. “Say it again.” he demands softly, his lips brushing against yours as his hips begin to move faster.

“I missed you.” you repeat breathlessly.

His rhythm grows erratic, his breaths ragged as his second orgasm builds rapidly. His hips slam into yours, his cock throbbing inside you as he grips your hips tightly.

“Fuck - I’m gonna—” His words cut off with a strangled groan as he thrusts into you one last time, his release flooding you again. The sensation of him filling you, paired with the grind of his pelvis against your clit, pushes you over the edge, your walls clenching around him as your fourth orgasm tears through you.

Your breaths mingle as both of you come down from your highs. Sylus doesn’t move right away, his cock still buried inside you as you both lie tangled together on the sofa, your limbs wrapped around him tightly. His weight presses into you, grounding, comforting, his body a welcome warmth against yours.

His lips brush against your temple first, then your cheek, and finally your lips. There’s no urgency now, just a gentle savoring. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he pulls back slightly.

"I never want to lose you again," he murmurs, the sincerity in his tone making your chest ache. "I was a fool for not seeing how much you were struggling. I took your strength for granted and thought you didn’t need me to change."

You swallow hard, unshed tears stinging your eyes. Your arms tighten around him instinctively, your fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair. He meets your gaze, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

"I’m more than willing to compromise," he continues. "Whatever it takes. I don’t care if it means slowing down, changing plans, or letting you set the pace. Just... please. I need you."

A lump forms in your throat as his words sink in. The dam of emotions you’ve been holding back all night begins to crack, a single tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. Sylus notices immediately. His thumb brushes the tear away, his touch featherlight.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, though there is a small tremble in your voice when you whisper. “I need you too."

Relief washes over his face, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile as he leans down to kiss you again, his hands cradling your face like you’re the most precious thing in his world. The kiss lingers, his lips moving against yours with tenderness that leaves no room for doubt. When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, "Thank you."

You smile softly, your heart swelling as you gaze up at him. For the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest begins to lift, replaced by the tender hope cradling your heart.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@totallytaurus4 @ladyparamount @solifloris @withering-dream @yumii-34 @sapphic-daze @feuilledelis @cheesemachine44 @codedove @curiositykilledthecatx3 @sarangdipity @grabby-smitten

[fear-is-truth]

THE DARKER THE FRUIT, THE SWEETER.

━╋ CHARLIE MAYHEW x nun!reader

♱. content warning: mature content 18+・blasphemy・unprotected p in v・english is not my first language

a/n: i’m sorry i don’t know what possessed me

FATHER CHARLIE MAYHEW sits back in a wooden chair, dark eyes following you closely, but not with the sanctity one expects from a man of god. he’s holding a bible in his hand, fingers idly brushing the worn edges, but the words that come out of his mouth have strayed far from the expected teachings.

“celibacy,” he declares, “is a widely misunderstood concept. it’s not about abstaining, but about control. mastery of the flesh, not rejection of it.”

you’re sitting across from him, hands folded neatly in your lap as you tried to maintain a composed front. you don’t bother to mask the skepticism in your tone. “is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, father? that indulging a little bit isn’t breaking your vows?”

the soft mockery didn’t deter him. if anything, it fueled him. his expression does not falter; in fact, he smiles wider. “ah, but sister. did christ not spend forty days in the wilderness, surrounded by temptation, and come out stronger? his words are laced with arrogance, each one delivered as if it were irrefutable truth. the towel around his waist slips just a little, revealing more skin, but he makes no effort to adjust it. his gaze never leaves yours, and the audacity of it all strikes you.

“is it not written that to know sin, one must overcome it?

under current circumstances, charlie mayhew is a man of contradictions—utterly confident despite his obviously flawed reasoning. it’s impossible to tell if he truly believed what he was saying or if he simply liked bending the truth for his own purposes.

“so what you’re telling me,” your voice carried a soft lilt, lips curling as you meet his gaze, “is that celibacy is… negotiable now? sounds a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

slowly, you rise to your feet, deliberately turning away before bending down. the slit in your black habit parts slightly, revealing fishnet stockings, the round curve of your ass visible through the thin fabric.

“indulgence is sin when it lacks discipline,” he replies without skipping a beat, but there’s a new, raspy quality in his voice now.

“but when it’s controlled—when you allow yourself to feel something and rise above it—that’s where true strength lies. that’s power. that’s faith.” he’s idly stroking himself, slow pumps of his hand around the throbbing length. taking your own sweet time, you made a show of adjusting the strap on your high heels and allowing him to see the red lacy thong underneath as the slit falls open a bit more.

“besides,” he continues, “what’s the harm in understanding sin—up close? is it not our duty to learn the limits of our restraint, to test our strength?”

not answering, you simply sashay toward the priest, heels clicking softly against the floor, until you stop directly in front of him. his eyes follow your every movement as you free yourself of your garments, though the smirk on his lips never falters. you reach down and tilt his chin up with one finger,

“for someone who preaches so much about temptation,” you purr, “you sure don’t seem eager to resist it.”

he raises a brow, but before he can respond, you swing a leg over his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness. your hand slides down his chest, fingertips brushing against smooth skin. his breath catches as one of your hands grazes over his toned abs, while the other squeezes his face with a teasing pressure.

“tell me, father.”

leaning in, you press your lips to his. when he doesn’t pull away, you deepen the kiss, gently pulling his lower lip between your teeth. his breath shudders as you release him, eyes scorching with lust.

“is this what you had in mind when you swore to be devout?”

a stretched groan escapes his lips when you guided the tip of his shaft between your slick folds. carefully, you sink down onto him, relishing in the tight, hot stretch—inch by glorious inch. your eyelids momentarily flutter shut as you were fully impaled on his cock, and just when you thought he’s about to kiss you again, charlie dips his head down. you gasped when you feel his tongue tracing slow circles around the areola before finally wrapping his lips around your nipple.

“ooh,” you manage to breathe out, and you immediately feel him smile against your breast. charlie starts to thrust up into you, his girth stretching you out to the extent that you can practically feel every ridge and bump of the veins that scattered along his length dragging against your walls. ripples of pleasure course through your body, the cross pendant you wore around your neck bouncing between your breasts with the motion.

the small room is soon filled with the slapping sounds of skin on skin, coupled with the wet suction of your pussy swallowing his cock, occasionally punctuated by your whimpers and his moans.

it doesn’t take long for the hot coil inside of you to snap. a powerful orgasm tears through your body, inner walls convulsing around him. within seconds, his seed is spurting into your womb, triggering aftershocks that left you trembling like a leaf in high wind.

charlie’s head falls back to rest against the wall behind him, as his cock continued to twitch deep inside you, residual spasms in sync with the weak fluttering of your pussy around him. your body is still tingling, a pleasant, dizzy warmth spreading through you.

“jesus…” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them. he chuckles dryly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hand lazily trails up your back.

“no, sister.” he murmurs, toying with a strand of your hair, gently tugging.

“it’s ‘father charlie’ to you.”

masterlist

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[teaboot]

I've never had a cat before and I'm hoping to get one soon. Do you have any advice?

Treat a new cat as you would a new roommate. Give them space and time to settle, establish a pattern and a rhythm, and in time they may choose to become friends and spend time with you. Dont force a friendship.

Use simple words and repetition to establish communication. Words like breakfast, treat, snack, lunch, supper, dinner, food, and eat all basically mean, "I am feeding you; expect to be fed", but it's a lot for a little guy to remember. I just say "Dinner" when I mean "cat food is coming", and so my boy knows exactly what I mean when I say it. As a plus, using only one word for snack time means he has no idea what the other words mean, so I can talk about food in front of him without ruling him up.

Pay attention to body language. Cats all have different personalities, and you'll learn their likes, dislikes, and messages over time this way. Son boy here loves anything with plumbing but dislikes getting wet- his favourite blanket to chew and snuggle goes on his favourite chair, and he gives me a specific gesture when he wants me to kneel down so he can jump onto my shoulder.

Read into problematic behaviour. Cats pee in weird places when they're hurting, in distress, or have insufficient of unclean litter box space. Biting, attacking feet , and knocking things off tables often means they're understimulated and need you to play with them, or at least need some kind of enrichment or puzzle to tackle. Tail flicking can be frustration or irritation. Purring is usually good, but may also be self-soothing behaviour to alleviate pain, encourage healing, and relieve anxiety, like over-grooming.

Like children, "bad" behaviour isn't malicious- it usually means there's something you aren't seeing.

Learn how your cat expresses love. Loads of people think cats are uncaring, cruel, and indifferent, but the truth is, they're just not dogs. Spending time near you, showing an interest in tools you're using or projects you're working on, sitting the way you sit, laying on their back, rubbing on your legs, wiping their face on your shoes when you get home- these are signs that your cat is enamored with you. You're their family, they feel safe and protected around you, they're curious about things you enjoy and want everyone to know you're family.

Set reasonable expectations. Again, cats are not dogs.We bred dogs to desire our approval- cats walked into our lives themselves. They have no human-programmed need to fulfill a duty or perform a task to your standards.

Training cats to do tricks isn't as hard as people say, but the willingness or interest in doing the trick is more heavily reliant on personality and mood. Some cats will refuse all but the most basic requests- I'm lucky in that Ollie understands and is willing to do several, provided I don't abuse his trust and he's not crowded or overwhelmed or just bored of doing it over and over in a short period.

Ollie, for example, knows Up to stand on his back legs and hold my hand, Down to get to a surface I indicate, Out to emerge from a closed space, Come to find me where I am, Help? when I'm offering to let him use me as an elevator, Dinner when I understand he's hungry and am getting food, and when I put on his collar he knows to climb into his carrier 'cause we're going somewhere. And he'll do any of these about 90% of the time, either ignoring me or phoning it in when there's something interesting somewhere else, or if he's feeling anxious.

Lead by example. If you dread taking them to the vet, they'll see the anxiety in your body language and behaviour and likely learn to hate it, too. Again using my guy an example, I starred taking him on walks long before his first vet appointment, just to get used to his carrier and leash. Then his first checkup was relaxed and informal, with plenty of treats, and I let him explore the examination room with permission from the tech. Now he loves going, so I'm not stressed about taking him, so I don't stress him out in turn, and the vest doesn't have to deal with a stressed out cat slowing things down and fighting with them.

Make sure your sources are good ones, and also good ones for you. I will recommend Jackson Galaxy's YouTube channel for cat advice because a lot of what he does matches up with what I've learned and know to be true. I don't personally recommend Ceasar Milan because I personally find his methods distressing to recreate regardless of efficacy, so even if that advice was useful, *I'd* be miserable, and it'd just be trading one issue for another.

Have a person who can help. You never know when you might end up out of town overnight unexpectedly, or when your place may need serviced or fumigated, or if you may be called out of town. Before getting a cat, research reliable pet sitters, house sitters, pet daycares, whatever, just in case.

Consider pet insurance. No long spiel here, just think about it. Especially if you don't know your cats ancestry or potenyial health risks. An on top of that, fucking vaccinate them.

Dont let them free roam. At all.

I grew up on a farm with free-roaming barn cats. Do you know how many times child-me cried over having to bury them? Illness, disease, pregnancy, vehicles, other territorial cats, ticks, fleas, litter, poisoned prey, malicious humans, local wildlife, predatory birds, scrap metal, extreme heat, freezing temperatures, tainted water sources, poisonous or venomous critters, getting stuck in small or high places, tapeworms, loose nails, old equipment, falling branches...

I've seen some truly body-horror slasher-movie shit- just truly nauseating visual fuckery- and I'm telling you not to let your cat free-roam.

Leash training isn't hard. Supervised walks aren't hard. Even keeping your cat physically fit and entertained indoors isn't an impossible feat. Don't let your fucking cat fucking free-roam. Fuck

Also read up on foods and plants cats can't do, like every houseplant in existence is toxic it's insane

Anyhow yeah that's like. A couple things I guess

Here, have an Ollie Pic

[xosannie]

3:00 am

☆Genre: Smut 18+ MDNI

☆Pairing: roommate!Seonghwa x fem!reader

☆Word Count: 4.1k

☆Warning: pwp (?), gentle/soft Seonghwa, unprotected sex (be safe horny ppl), needy reader, fingering (f receiving), pet names (princess, baby), some dirty talk, praise, fucked from behind, (lmk if I missed anything) if you see any typos no you don’t

☆Summary: It’s late and you’re too horny to sleep. Luckily you find your roommate up late as well. Come to your surprise he’s willing to help you.

—————————————————————————

You let out an exaggerated sigh of annoyance, shifting on your back after tossing and turning for a while. You stare up at the dark ceiling, admitting defeat after trying to fall asleep and failing miserably. You checked the time, looking over at the clock on your bedside table.

 3:04 am

It was late at night, and here you are laying restless on the bed, aching between your legs. You didn’t know why, but you just felt so horny. Earlier you tried to do something about it, but your fingers weren’t enough to get you close. You tried to ignore the feeling between your legs, but every time you shut your eyes images of dirty scenarios pop into your head.

You kick the covers off you, the cold night air biting into the flesh of your bare legs. You slowly pull yourself off the bed, well if you couldn’t sleep might as well get yourself a little snack. You stepped out the room and into the hallway, quietly walking past your roommate, Seonghwa’s room.

 You cocked your head to the side when you noticed a small light emanating from underneath his door. Oh, Seonghwa is awake, why is he up so late? You knock on the door and slowly turn the knob when you hear a low “Come in”, from the other side. 

Seonghwa sat at his desk, lamp shining brightly beside him. He was wearing his black, silk pajamas, back facing you as he focused on the legos in his hands. You roll your eyes, entering his room and sitting on his bed. 

“Are you really building legos at 3 am?”

 “Yup,” he says popping the ‘p’ sound. 

“Why?” 

“Can’t sleep,” he shrugs.

“That makes two of us,” you mumble.

You plop backwards on his mattress, arms sprawled out on the covers and you hear Seonghwa chuckle deeply. 

“Why can’t you sleep?”

You pause for a moment, well you certainly can’t tell him the real reason. ‘Oh well I’m so horny, it’s preventing me from sleeping.’ Seonghwa doesn’t need to know that.

“Just… restless.”

You hear a small scoff coming from Seonghwa, he still doesn’t turn your direction. He was too fixated on attaching one of the Lego pieces together in the correct spot. 

“I don’t believe you.”

You propped yourself on your elbows to look at Seonghwa, shooting him a confused look.

“What?”

“You’re a horrible liar.”

He puts the legos down and finally turns around in his chair to face you. 

“What’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything.”

You seriously debate if you should tell the truth or not. I mean, you and Seonghwa have talked about personal stuff before. You guys have lived with each other for while now so you know each other like the back of your hands. Seonghwa raises his brows at you, watching you intently as you pondered.

You let out a sigh and sit up straight. Seonghwa turned his chair around so he could face you better.

“Well… ugh, don’t laugh okay.”

“I’m not gonna laugh, what’s up?”

You take a deep breath, cheeks started to feel warmer from what you were about to say.

“I’m just… horny. So I can’t sleep.”

Seonghwa blinked at you, a little taken aback by your words.

“Oh.”

You let out a groan, falling back on the bed and grabbing a pillow to hide your face in. You heard Seonghwa chuckle a little and you kicked him. 

“I said don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing at you. You have me worried for a second, I thought it was gonna be something serious.”

“This is serious!”

Your voice was muffled from the pillow, Seonghwa couldn’t help but find your embarrassment endearing. 

“Just go masturbate or something.”

“I tried, but I couldn’t get close.”

You finally sit up, throwing the pillow back on the bed. Your body slumped forward as you frowned.

“Don’t you have some sort of vibrator or something?”

“It’s dead and I lost the charger,” your mumbled.

Seonghwa laughs softly again, he reached up to ruffle your hair and you glared at him.

“Seonghwa, stop that.”

You shoo’s his hand away and he smiles.

“Well I don’t know what to tell you. Just try to ignore it.”

He sits back in his chair crossing his arms. You glare at him again, not enjoying the smug look on his face. 

“You want me dead.”

“So dramatic,” he rolls his eyes. 

Seonghwa thinks for a moment while you sulk on his bed. He bit his lip, taking in a breath before speaking.

“Well… I have an idea, but i don’t know how you’ll feel about it.”

Your head perks up, at his words. You felt like you were so desperate for release that you would do anything so you could sleep.

“What is it? I’ll do anything at this point.”

“Well… maybe you need a helping hand.”

You cock your brow up, what did he mean by that? 

“Helping hand?” You ask slowly.

“Yeah, a second person…”

Your heart started to race a bit faster. What did Seonghwa mean by that? And why was his request only making the ache between your legs grow stronger.

Seonghwa stared blankly at you, waiting for your reply. He rolls his eyes when you remain silent, he can see you weren’t fully grasping his words.

“I’m saying you need to be fucked.”

“I mean… yeah I do but I don’t necessarily have anyone. Especially since it’s 3 in the morning.”

“I can do it.”

Now it was your turn to stare blankly at him. You body froze and your eyes wide, but on the inside you were screaming ‘WHAT THE FUCK SEONGHWA? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’LL DO IT? WAIT, WHY DO I WANT TO SAY YES?’

Seonghwa snaps his fingers at you while calling your name. You snap back to reality, not realizing that you just short circuited. 

“Sorry for a second there I thought you said you would fuck me.”

“I did.”

“Seonghwa!”

“What?! I’m just trying to help. Look if you don’t want to that’s perfectly fine.”

Seonghwa waves his hands in defense, feeling a little embarrassed for suggesting such a thing. He was ready to just pretend like nothing happened and shrug off your rejection, but then you spoke.

“I never say I didn’t want to.”

Seonghwa looked back at you, feeling his heart race faster at your words. He clears his throat and stands up off the chair. You look up at him, suddenly feeling small while he towered over your sitting form.

“Then, let’s get started. The faster we finish the faster you get to sleep.”

Seonghwa sat on the bed, back pressed against the head board as he gestured you to come sit in his lap. Your body moved on auto pilot, crawling over to him and straddling his lap.

“Are you sure this is okay, Seonghwa?”

“It’s okay, I’m just trying to help my friend. If you don’t want this.. just tell me and I’ll stop.”

You felt his fingers graze your cheek as he cupped your jaw. You were already so needy that the gentle touch sent electricity through your body.

“No… I want this. I need this.”

“Alright then.”

Seonghwa smiles feeling relieved at your words. He looked down at your body, admiring how you looked in your oversized shirt and small shorts. His hands ran up your bare thighs, he chuckled when he sees the goosebumps rising up on your skin.

“You look very pretty like this. I always love it when you wear these small shorts.”

His hands reach up to grip your hips. The small touches make you feel more needy, and you couldn’t help it when a whine escaped your lips.

“Seonghwa, please I need you now. Don’t tease me.”

Seonghwa pouts at you, brushing your hair out of your face. He shows mercy, after all you’ve been needy for so long (he also couldn’t wait any longer, he needed to feel you.)

“Aww baby, don’t fret.”

He leans forward, placing soft kisses on your neck. You reach up, gripping at the silk material of his pajama shirt. You let out a sigh, enjoying the feeling of his plump lips on your hot skin. He gripped your hips to pull you closer and you let out a small yelp. 

Your pussy ached, Seonghwa swore he could feel you throbbing through the thin material of your clothes. That made him feral, he didn’t know what took over him when he gripped your shorts and pulled them down your hips.

You gasped, shifting slightly so Seonghwa could slide the shorts off your legs. You let out another whine when his long, cold fingers slid through your wet folds. Seonghwa groaned against your neck. 

“Fuck you’re so wet baby.”

“I told you I’m horny.”

“You’re so cute.”

His praises only make you feel even needier. His voice was so soft when he spoke to you and his warm breath against your neck sent shivers down your spine. You gently pulled at the hair on the nape of his neck when he licked a warm strip on your jaw.

You felt Seonghwa slowly rub circles on your clit with ease. You couldn’t help it when your hips started to grind down against his fingers, his digits sliding against your folds in the best way possible.

“Oh you’re such a needy girl grinding on my fingers like that.”

You nod and hummed in agreement. Never in a million years did you think your roommate would be touching you this way, but right now you didn’t care. All you cared about was Seonghwa and his gentle touches. The whole time you were enjoying yourself Seonghwa  was admiring you, you’re so beautiful it’s mesmerizing.

“Why don’t you say it for me princess?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me you’re my needy girl.”

You felt your core ache with need at his words. Subconsciously, you began to grind harder on his fingers, your hips moving faster the more you grew desperate. Seonghwa smiles to himself at the sight, feeling his own arousal building up in his pants.

“I’m your… needy girl Seonghwa. Please take care of me.”

Seonghwa groaned at the sound of your voice. He pulled his fingers away, grabbing your hips and gently moving you on the bed. Your body felt like putty at this point that you moved without resistance, letting Seonghwa control your body however he wanted. 

“You sound so pretty, I’m gonna take real good care of you okay? Then you can sleep so well.” 

The only response you could muster was a small whine and a nod. Seonghwa didn’t mind though, he knew you were probably already too lost to even form words.

Seonghwa had you laying on your stomach, you cheek pressed against the pillow and your legs spread wide. His hands slid down your body, cupping your ass while he placed a soft kiss on your shoulder blade.

“Can you move your hips up darling?”

You nod, moving your hips while Seonghwa pulled you up simultaneously. You were now ass up, legs spread wide and pussy on full display. What a sight for sore eyes. Seonghwa couldn’t feel his dick twitching in his pants just by looking at you.

He noticed the way your folds glistened with arousal, he moaned at the sight, taking two fingers and sliding them in with ease. 

You whine in the pillow, rocking your hips on his fingers. He slowly started to pump them in and out, holding your hips to keep your still.

“You’re so wet… and warm. What got you this horny in the first place?”

You shrug, turning your head to speak clearer.

“I don’t know…. I just started to feel this way.  But once you began to touch me…”

You let out whines between your word and Seonghwa watched you endearingly. He smiled at you softly as he continued to thrust his fingers as deep as they can go. 

“Did my touch make you more needy?”

You let out a long whine, nodding against the pillow. Seonghwa felt his whole body ignite with desire at your reaction. He needed you, badly. And the fact that you felt the same was doing something to Seonghwa. 

He wanted to keep touching you, and give you all the pleasure you deserve. But the more he looked at you and the more he played with you, he just grew too needy. And by the way your hips were desperately trying to fuck back against his fingers, he’s confident to say you were feeling the same.

“Oh god. I’m gonna fuck you now. Is that okay?”

You nodded eagerly, gripping tightly to the bedsheets beneath you.

“Yes yes please. I can’t wait any longer.”

Seonghwa chuckled at your neediness. He slowly pulled his fingers out, groaning when he saw the slick of your arousal glisten on them.

“I got you princess, I won’t make you wait.”

He pulled the waistband off his pajama pants down to his mid thigh. He grabbed hold of the base, his dick literally throbbing in his hand. He rubbed his red tip against your hole making him moan and you whimper at the feeling. 

“I can’t wait to feel you baby. I’m gonna put it in,” he warned.

Once he saw you nod against the pillow he was ready to go. Seonghwa placed his hand flat on the small of your back, the head of his cock prodded at your hole before he slowly pushed it in.

You let out a gasp, finally feeling what you’ve been yearning for all night. Seonghwa took in a sharp breath, head falling back as he slowly pushed his dick inside you. You were both letting out long moans, and you felt you legs start to tremble already. 

Seonghwa wasn’t the biggest in the world, but god did he feel amazing. He was the perfect size just for you, and when he fully bottoms out and you feel his pelvis pressed against your ass, you were filled just right. No pain, no discomfort, just bliss. 

“Oh my god,”you whispered. 

You both stayed that way for a moment, Seonghwa leaned forward with his chest flushed against your back. His arm wrapped around your waist as he pulled you impossibly closer and you can feel his warm breath on the nape of your neck.

“You have the most perfect pussy. Feels so good,” he mumbled. 

You were going to reply, but your words got caught in your throat when you felt Seonghwa  start to rock his hips back and forth. Your whole body was filled with pleasure and you felt your mind start to cloud. Seonghwa rested his hands on either side of your head, hovering over you. He chuckled when he saw your expression change from desperate needy, to a blissed out face. 

He was so close you could feel his long hair tickling your cheek. He leaned down to kiss your head, whispering praises in your ear. His room was filled with lewd moans, the bed squeaking and hitting the wall. But his favorite, was the sound of his cock pounding deep inside your wet pussy. He tried to keep his own moans down, wanting to only hear yours, but it was hard when you started to clench around him.

You gripped at the pillow beneath you, hiding your face in it and letting out muffled moans. Seonghwa was fucking you just right, hitting all the spots you could never reach on your own. Seonghwa tsked at you, watching the way you hide away into the pillow.

“No no baby let me hear your pretty moans.”

You whine, turning your head to the side to let out clearer moans. Seonghwa pulled away, you felt a rush of air hit your skin. You already missed his touch. You turned to look over your shoulder, ready to let out a protest. But before you could Seonghwa gripped tightly to your hips and drilled into you. 

You let out a yelp and you head fell back on the pillow. The bed squeaked louder beneath you, it wouldn’t be a shock if you hear a complaint from the neighbors the next morning. You reached behind you to grip Seonghwa’s hip, pulling him against you to feel him even deeper. 

Seonghwa groaned, he was mesmerized at the sight of you sucking up his length with ease. He watched intently, grabbing the flesh of your ass and spreading them apart to give him a better view. 

“That’s it baby take my dick, you deserve it. You deserve to get fucked.”

“Seonghwa you fuck me so good. I love it… please don’t stop.”

“I’m not gonna stop princess. Not when you look this good…fuck and feel this good.”

Your legs trembled uncontrollably and Seonghwa noticed. He cooed at the sight rubbing his hand against your back.

“Aw baby are you getting tired?”

You whine, nodding with a small pout. You felt so weak your legs would give out in any moment. He chuckled, pushing you down on the mattress.

“Lay down pretty girl, you did so good just lay there and take it.”

You whimpered, your body fell fully on the bed but Seonghwa didn’t stop. He repositioned himself she could fuck you at the new angle. He hovered over you again, resting his weight on his hands beside you head, You whined and cried into the pillow, you couldn’t control any of the sounds leaving your lips. At this point you didn’t care that it was near 4 am, and neither did Seonghwa. 

With the new position you felt impossible tighter around Seonghwa’s dick. He wasn’t gonna last very long, he grunted loudly cursing in your ear. You felt your own orgasm creep up, you have never came from another man fucking you. Seonghwa just felt so good, he filled you up just right it was like his dick was made for you. 

You reach up behind you, cupping the back of Seonghwa’s neck. Seonghwa leaned in to kiss your cheek, jaw, neck any place he could reach.

“Seonghwa baby I’m close. Please don’t stop please I’m gonna cum for you.”

Seonghwa groaned at your words, his own orgasm dangerously close as well.

“Yeah? You gonna cum for me? Cum on my dick.”

You moaned louder, nodding your head. You turned you head back to the best of you abilities. You and Seonghwa stared into each others eyes, you don’t know what came over you, but the way his lips parted while he panted and his brows furrowed with pleasure. You couldn’t stop yourself when you pulled him down to connect your lips together. 

Seonghwa moaned in the kiss, gripping your jaw with one hand. He snakes it down to wrap around your neck. He didn’t apply pressure, he just wanted to hold it there. A small reminder that right now you were his. The moment you felt Seonghwa slide his tongue in your mouth you were ready to be pushed off the edge. 

Seonghwa whimpered when you tightened around him, he knew your were close. He needed to see it, needed to see you unwind on his cock. He whispered against your lips in a low seductive voice.

“Cum for me baby, you deserve it.”

And with that, your body let go. You pulled away to fall against the mattress, hiding in the pillow as you moaned loudly in it. Your body felt like it was on fire, and your eyes rolled in the back of you head. Seonghwa gripped tightly to your hip when he felt you cum on his cock. His own hips faltered, and he pulled out to release hot cum all over your ass and lower back. His moans were so beautiful, so soft yet sexy. 

You felt like you were on cloud nine, panting against the pillow with your body feeling weak. Seonghwa stared at you, fucked out and limp on his bed. He chuckled breathlessly, leaning in to kiss your shoulder.

“Good girl.”

You let out a weak whine, the sound being muffled by the pillow. He pushed your hair to the side, leaning in to kiss the back of your neck. He caressed your body in a soothing manner, that was probably the best sex he’s ever had and little did he know you were thinking the same thing. 

Seonghwa reached to his bedside drawer to pull out some baby wipes. You shivered when the cold, wet wipes made contact to your skin while Seonghwa cleaned you up. You giggle against the pillow, turning back to look at Seonghwa.

“Thank you.”

Seonghwa smiled back at you, throwing the soiled wet wipe in the trash. He adjusted your shirt so it could cover your body again, giving your some decency. You giggle at the action and shift around so you were on your back. Seonghwa pushed his hair behind his ear, trying not to look at you body (even though he just fucked you against the mattress). You noticed him suddenly get shy, and you reached up to hold his hand.

“I enjoyed it, thank you Seonghwa.”

“Me too.”

Seonghwa smiled brightly at you. He grips your hand tightly, holding it in his lap. You both suddenly felt a weird tension in the air. Did that really just happen? You sit up, scooting closer to Seonghwa. 

Seonghwa stared into you eyes, he wanted to reach up and kiss you again but he didn’t want to possibly make you uncomfortable (again, he was just thrusting his dick in you a few seconds ago). You both stared at each other for a moment, having a new revelation about one another. 

“So… that was new.” Seonghwa spoke.

You giggled and nodded. You could see Seonghwa relax a bit at the sound of your laugh. 

“Very new.”

Seonghwa looked down at your hand in his. You followed his gaze and gripped his hand tighter.

“It was a good new,” you assured. 

“Good.”

You both stare at each other again and you clear your throat when you notice the tension creep up again. 

“Well, I’m actually really tired now. So thank you for helping me.”

Seonghwa nodded, almost forgetting the whole reason why this started in the first place. He felt a small pang of disappointment when you pulled your hand away and he felt you shift on the bed, ready to get up and go.

“Wait… you’re leaving?”

You looked back at Seonghwa’s, your heart ached when you saw the disappointment glint in his eyes.

“I just thought maybe you would want me to sleep in my room.”

“No, stay here. Sleep with me.”

He gripped your hand again to pull you closer. You felt relief at his words, glad he didn’t want you to go. You stood in front of him, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“If you’re okay with it then… I will.”

Seonghwa chuckled, pulling you back in bed. You squealed at the sudden action and you felt the fluffy pillow beneath your head.

“Obviously I’m okay with it. Don’t treat me like one of your one night stands.”

You giggle at his words, you pulled him down so he could hover over you. You cup his cheek and hold him close.

“No I would never do that. Besides I live with you I have to see you.”

Seonghwa chuckles. He glanced at your lips, wanting to kiss them again. He pushed your hair out of you eyes, his touch was so gentle it made your stomach flip. You could tell he was getting shy again, damn he’s so cute.

“Seonghwa you don’t need to act bashful. You just fucked me so deep and now you’re too shy to kiss me.”

Seonghwa bursted out laughing at your remark, hiding his face in your neck. He felt his ears burn in embarrassment.

“Leave me alone,” he whined.

You chuckled, pulling him up and placing a soft kiss on his lips. He kissed you back immediately, cupping your cheek gently. How could he be so caring and soft when a few minutes ago he was passionately thrusting into you. Now that’s a man with duality.

“Let’s go to bed, it’s really late.” Seonghwa mutters against your lips. 

You nod, pulling Seonghwa in for one last kiss. 

“Okay.”

————————————————————————

The next morning you woke up in bed, but it wasn’t your bed. Deliriously, you examined Seonghwa’s room, it was dim due to the curtains shutting out the bright morning sun. You were a little sad when you felt the bed was empty with only you in it. You picked up the phone to read the time but you were met with a text from Seonghwa.

Nerd (Seonghwa): Sorry I had to leave for dance practice :( I had fun last night though, I’ll see you when I get home <3

You smile after reading the text, plopping back down on Seonghwa’s bed with a content sigh. 

“Damn it Seonghwa. What did you just start?”

~

a/n: I’m writing a new fic and I’m really excited about it >_< (ofc it’s another Mingi one Oop- who should I write about next?)

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: yandere, controlling behavior, coercive control, infantilization, extreme patronization, gaslighting, manipulation, food pusher, forced eating 

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about overcaring boyfriend…

You know, he’s always asking if you’ve eaten today, if you’ve drunk enough water, if you’re wearing enough layers. Typical boyfriend stuff. Only it’s not. No, far from it.

Because he does so by telling you off. Pulling a sweater over your little party dress to conceal you. It’s cold outside, he’ll say, kissing your forehead with a smile—he wouldn’t want you getting the sniffles. And besides, you can undress for him when the two of you’re alone—there’s no need to do it in front of the world.

Scolding you for getting too drunk even when you’re just tipsy. Shaking his head and clicking his tongue at you, urging you to drink water as if it’s your first time touching alcohol. Staying sober himself so that he can take care of you—somebody’s going to have to drive you home at the end of the night, or who knows where you’ll end up! 

Telling you that you’re flirting too much, causing all the guys to stare at you even when you’ve only been talking to your girlfriends. Purposefully getting into a fight with you so that he can excuse you both, apologizing to everyone for what a difficult drunk you are—making you so embarrassed and ashamed you end up following him to the car with your tail tucked between your legs—also because he keeps your phone and purse on him, for safekeeping of course, so you don’t forget or lose them somehow.

“I’m not hungry,” you mumble under your breath. 

He sighs, standing behind you, leaning his hands against the back of the chair you’re seated in. “You say that, but I can’t trust you, can I?”

His head drops to your shoulder, cheek to cheek, hugging you from behind while his arms slip down your chest, feeling your ribs with a curious and clinical touch.

“I know you’re body better than anyone and I can tell you’ve been skipping meals.”

You shake your head. “I haven’t.” It’s the truth—you really haven’t. It’s normal for bodies to change a little every now and again. But it’s not as if he’d ever accept that as an excuse.

“I don’t want to argue,” is all he says. “Now, be a good girl and eat your cake.”

If it were only a piece of cake, you’d have gotten it well over with already. But the platter placed in front of you was enough to feed an entire dinner party. Pink and triple-stacked with mountains of decorative buttercream frosting—god only knows what else is inside.

“I’m not eating an entire cake.” That would be ridiculous. Anyone would agree. But not him. No, you know how serious he is.

“You wouldn’t have to if you just ate when I told you earlier.” 

He speaks softly, in a manner as if it isn’t even your fault to begin with but his own. He’s in charge, after all. All he’s accusing you of is being a handful.

“But here we are…”

He grabs the spoon he’d laid out—no, not a cake fork or a teaspoon, but a tablespoon—and proceeds to gather one big mouthful for you. 

“One drunken, starved girlfriend and one tired, concerned boyfriend.”

You shake your head and seal your lips as he brings the portion up to your mouth.

“If I eat all that, I’m gonna be sick. I just wanna go to bed–” you plead, but he cuts you off.

“It’d be better for you to get sick now instead of tomorrow.” His other hand takes your chin soft but strictly, holding you firmly in place. “Come on now, say ah.”

You’re crying by the end of it. Throat sore and belly overfull, feeling nauseous beyond belief.

“Last bite,” he says, and you no longer have the strength to refuse, even when you doubt there’s any room left to spare. You force it down, and he praises you for it with a kiss on your frosting-smeared cheek. “Good job.”

Between the cake, the alcohol, and his coddling, of course, you feel sick to your stomach.

“What a mess…” he drawls while he holds your hair back from the toilet bowl. 

You feel filthy, sitting on the bathroom tiles between his legs as he rubs your back and coos. 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute, or who knows who’d bother taking care of you—honestly, you’re worse than a baby sometimes. Utterly hopeless.”

He kisses your exposed nape. You swear you feel him smile.

“I’m just kidding. I’ll always take care of you no matter what.”

You hurl again—nothing but pink cream and sprinkles coming out.

“Even if you had no legs and no arms. Even if you were blind and deaf and mute, I’d still be here.” You shudder while he vows. 

You know he means it, too. Suppose that’s a little romantic. It’s just you can’t shake the feeling that he’d prefer for you to be that way.

“You feeling any better?” he asks.

You nod your head.

“Good. Then let’s get you to bed.”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Shoto, Kirishima, Hawks, Shinso, Natsuo, Mirio, young AFO ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Yuuta ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kuro, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ CSM – Aki, Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[dawnwriterimagines]

The Guilty Plea

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)

Verdict Due (Part 4) Clear Skies (Part 5)

Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.

Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.

You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.

This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.

"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."

You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"

"Vera?"

"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.

"Right..."

"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.

Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"

"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."

"I never meant to imply--"

"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."

He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."

"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."

"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.

"She doesn't exist anymore."

Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."

"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.

In more ways than one.

"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"

"Why should I care--"

"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--

Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"

Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"

"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."

You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"

"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"

"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."

Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.

---

You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.

A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.

First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.

An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.

You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.

You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.

You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.

You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.

"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.

"I didn't know it was that bad..."

All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.

The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.

Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.

With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.

You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.

Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.

The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.

Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.

You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.

That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.

You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.

Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.

Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.

Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.

You pass Kyle's room.

Johnny's.

Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.

It was Simon's.

You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.

Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.

Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.

You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.

Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.

Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.

Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.

The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.

Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.

The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.

They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.

They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.

So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...

They believed him.

"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."

"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"

"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"

For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"

"What--what..."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."

"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"

Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"

"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"

He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."

"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"

Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."

"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.

"Don't call again..."

"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.

"Me and your Aunt Cass..."

"Daddy please, don't do this--"

"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."

"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.

"Don't come to the house."

"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.

Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.

Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.

Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.

"Bonnie..."

Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.

He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.

"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.

You say nothing.

In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.

"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.

"It's been a week."

His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."

"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."

Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.

Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."

Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."

The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"

"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."

"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"

"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"

Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."

I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.

Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."

Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.

His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.

Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."

And you need to. You really fucking do.

Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.

Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.

He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.

And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.

And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.

Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.

The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.

The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.

You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.

Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.

He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.

Part 4!! OUT NOW

[shotmrmiller]

(Unnamed for now, 4.8k words of nothing but self indulgence because ex bf simon is king. just porn without plot, the usual filth. also i wrote myself into a hole with the smut but whatever.)

If your friends knew that you'd gone to great lengths to look presentable— less cave-dweller, more human— hoping to get lucky tonight only to end up waving off anyone of interest because you're too busy sulking about a relationship you willingly broke off, they'd kick you from the group chat.

(Or never let you live it down.)

But here you are, perched on a barstool, its cracked leather slightly sticky beneath your legs, the cocktail you'd ordered a while ago sitting mostly untouched on an even stickier bar top. Lamenting. Moping all over a guy who hasn't bothered to return a single phone call since you left him the voicemail. And it hadn't been his fault, really. He'd been upfront with you from the get-go; he's a busy man with a job you don't want to know about and are safer not knowing about.

You'd noticed the specific wording he'd used. Not better off but safer off, its implications perilous. The hardened look he'd given you when you'd pressed him on it, hoping for a slip of the truth, had been the first and only warning you'd needed.

Get off his case, understood.

You clench your teeth, irritation nipping at your nerves. You'd like to think that you've mourned this ex-relationship plenty and feeling an acute, smoldering ache again over a whisper of a memory (and not even a fond one at that)—

Time to douse these flames.

Waving the bartender down, you push away the watered-down drink and gesture for a shot. She eyes you warily, hesitating for a moment before sliding an empty glass over and reaching for some top-shelf bottle your bank account already feels the bite of. The fiery burn that courses down your throat resembles the one in your chest.

The alcohol swiftly does its job, offering a sense of relief, and you're grateful for it, even if fleeting. The room starts to blur a bit, the strobing lights overhead bleeding together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, and you let yourself sink into the moment, the gentle ebb of intoxication pooling heat in your cheeks, warmth seeping into your limbs.

Things don't look so bad now; the world has taken a dreamlike quality to it, with softened edges and vibrant colors. With the liquid courage dulling the sharpness of your previous thoughts and easing the tension in your shoulders, you reckon that now you can start looking for your prey of the evening. It's why you even bothered to slink out of your comfort zone in the first place.

Mission directive: Get laid. Or plan B: go home with a new number saved in your contacts.

You rest your chin on your palm, eyes lazily scanning around the room, taking in the hazy but lively atmosphere. The dance floor is a whirl of energy, couples moving to the rhythm of the music, a group of friends huddling in a corner, hands gesturing animatedly as they chat each other up, and at the front—

If you swiveled away in your chair any faster, the courage you'd knocked back 10 minutes ago would come back up, spilling onto the bar top the barkeep gave up trying to keep clean. There have been numerous instances where your mind plays tricks on you, teasing you with glimpses of big and blonde in your peripheral while out running errands, the miserable lump in your throat only dislodging once you've made your grand escape.

(It's not running away; It's a tactical retreat. You'll face the music when it's less deafening.)

And in keeping with tradition, you settle your tab and scurry off to the bathroom, clutching your bag like a lifeline. A familiar shadow just walked in through the front door, once again haunting you. No matter how many times you whisper reassurances under your breath, dismissing it as a cruel joke your mind loves to play, the semblance of him never fails to arouse a bit of panic in you.

The trip to the bathroom feels like you're trekking across the country, weaving in and out and around crowds of people, dodging flailing limbs like an extreme sport. The inside is relatively small and cramped; three stalls for the entire bar. It's blessedly empty, so you beeline to the sink, hoping for a splash of cold water to settle your nerves.

The water is startlingly cold, or maybe it feels colder because you're flustered, and you're mid air-drying your hands when you hear it: that unforgettable gait, heavy and solid, like a tank rolling over rugged terrain. It's something that you can still hear echo in the small confines of your flat when the world is quiet. The mirror in front reflects your tense face, its edges cloudy with time and poor-quality cleaning solutions.

Get a grip, you're losing it.

Until the door swings wide, hinges screeching as it gives way with no resistance, and you realize that you're not losing it. But you just might.

"'Ello, poppet."

Incredulity forces a chuckle out of you because it's either you laugh or you cry.

"Nice," he eyes the cracked tile beneath your feet, "choice for a night out. Beer's more piss than ale, though." The door closes behind him.

The mockery in his voice is wildly unwarranted, especially for a man you haven't heard from for a better part of the year, and you finally gather your wits to bite back indignantly.

"What? It's not your cuppa? I always assumed you ratted out in seedy holes like this." The bruise-tight grip you've got around your bag makes your fingers ache. "I'll be sure to pick a more refined place for you next time."

He wastes no time closing the gap between you two, your three steps back negated by his single one with laughable ease, and the space around you seems to shrink, his presence swallowing it whole. You'd forgotten just how large a man he was— is.

A different beast altogether.

"No need. We won't be comin' back 'ere again." Your brows quirked at that. He's gone and learned French, apparently. Oui. You try to keep your personal bubble intact by taking another step back only to come in contact with a stall door, its chilly surface forcing your spine rigid. Cornered, caught in the crosshairs of the hunter's gaze, and the intensity of it makes you feel vulnerable, bare, as if you're staring up the barrel of a loaded gun.

"Easy, lovie, no need to look at me like tha', 'm jus' 'ere to talk," he says with a tone that's tinged with condescension, and his giant mitts are up and palms facing you like he's dealing with a skittish animal. There's a thought there, buried deep, that you refuse to acknowledge.

"Talk?" The question bursts out before you can stop it, followed by a sardonic laugh that feels unexpectedly cathartic as it leaves your mouth. Talk now, when you not only kept your line of communication open but also actively tried reaching out for weeks? Weeks spent waiting for a response, foolishly hoping he'd give a damn enough to at least put up a fight for you and what you had?

He tilts his head slightly, eyes unreadable. "Better late than never," he remarks, but that's the problem, isn't it? You were forced to come to terms with never, whether you liked it or not. And you had not liked it, but it had been necessary. To know there was a part of his life you weren't welcome to, regardless of reason, was something that shadowed your interactions. The realization that you were kept at arm's length due to the duality of his life was too bitter a pill to swallow.

It'd been a painful process making peace with the fact that maybe things just hadn't been meant to be. C'est la vie and all that tripe. But now, here he stands before you, having materialized out of thin air, a bloody intrusion upon the fragile peace you've built for yourself— it feels like a mockery of the emotional distress you've had to endure.

"Better late than—? You honestly fucking think you can just," you stumble over yourself in disbelief, "just corner me in a tiny bathroom of a dingy bar to talk?"

Simon raises one bulky shoulder, unconcerned. "You chose the place."

His piss poor attempt at a joke is like a slap in the face. "Right. Goodbye, Simon." You step around him briskly, your arm brushing against his. Just as your fingers graze the cold metal of the door handle, his encircle your wrist and gently pull you away. The span of his palm could easily engulf the entirety of your hand, and you can't help but wonder if you're as delicate and fragile as you feel in his grasp.

"Let me try that again," he murmurs tentatively, and you curse your good nature— the one that's always been too quick to soften even when you know better. You know just how clumsy he is with words, how his tongue ties itself in knots when emotions creep into the conversation. Simon gives your wrist a tender squeeze. "Ya can leave whenever you want."

Damn it. Damn it. Fine. This confrontation has been a long time coming anyway. "Then try again and make it fast," you snap, words short and clipped. "How we haven't been kicked out of here yet is a bloody wonder."

He steps away from you and leans his hips against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Here Simon stands, no longer a hazy apparition in the corner of your eye but fully here. Real. Uncomfortable so. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"Didn't mean to disappear on ya," his tone carries a note of something resembling regret. "Work took me across the world, couldn't reach out t'you even if I wanted to." And there it is, the crux of the problem. His job. Always his job. The one part of his life you've never been allowed to see, what had been the ever-constant shadow hanging over your relationship. What tore him away from you for weeks at a time only for those same gaps to start getting longer and longer while his stays grew shorter.

That's not good enough.

"So that's it?" Simon cannot honestly expect you to take his paltry excuse and run with it. As if it's enough to stitch together the wound his silence left behind. "Work? That's what you're going with?" It's the audacity that stings the most, the hope that you'd simply accept it and move past all of this heartache.

For all you know, he could be lying through his teeth, spinning enough truth to make it seem believable. You must have your suspicions plastered on your forehead because Simon peels himself off the sink with a sharp breath and narrowed eyes.

"'M many things, love, but a liar ain't one of 'em." His hand disappears into the front pocket of his worn denims, and when he pulls it free, you instantly recognize the tattered, frayed edges of his wallet. Still clinging to life, it seems. As stubborn as the man holding it. He opens it and extends it to you because it's imperative you see...?

"Work." And right there is an ID, not your plain old driver's license, which you're unsurprised to see absent. The man has no business being behind the wheel of any vehicle; he's a threat to all life and limb while on the road— but a military ID, the insignia emblazoned on the card unmistakable. You'd pieced together as much but never fully assumed, never formed a picture, just a blurred outline that left more questions than answers.

Name: Simon Riley. Rank: Lieutenant. Special Forces is right above the square where a photo is supposed to be. "There's no picture." You flash your eyes up at his in question.

"Never," he states.

You swallow thickly. An admission, this is. A roughly hewn olive branch tucked away in the ratty wallet you'd told him to toss ages ago. He snaps it shut with a practiced flick and then rucks up the right sleeve of his jacket up to the crook of his elbows, exposing his forearm, stark and freckled, the skin pale but then closer to his wrist, his flesh taking on a more golden hue— honeyed, sun-kissed.

Simon Riley does not tan.

"Sat on my arse out in a barren stretch o' land f'r months on end, cookin' under the blazin' sun while waitin' for orders tha' never came," he grumbles, voice weary. He doesn't flinch when your wandering fingers feather across the darkened strip of skin. "The only form o' communication was local." You flip his hand, the underside of his wrist startlingly pale like the underbelly of a fish. "Couldn't 'ave reached out even if I wanted to. No signal."

It hangs heavy, what he was willing to share, and you're wondering if he's only asking for understanding or something else. Your treacherous heart flutters in your chest, breath squeezing from your lungs. A tiny part of you hopes for he's asking for that something else.

There's a new scar on his palm, close to the hardened calluses on his knuckles, the deep, puckered groove still red and raw— fresh enough to make you wince— and you can't help the frown that pulls at your lips. You can bet he took care of this himself, the oaf. Probably spit it clean and wrapped it up with whatever he had on hand. He's lucky it didn't infect.

"Only when I came back did I receive the missed calls, the texts, the bloody voicemail," he gnarls, and while the sharpness of his tone isn't aimed at you, you feel the biting sting of it anyway. Simon cradles your hand in his much larger one, and he doesn't squeeze, doesn't hold too tight; he simply holds it, the choice to refuse him if you wanted.

You don't.

"And this isn't something you could've told me before? I know I pressed when I shouldn't have," chagrin pools in your cheeks, "but I worried for you. You were sometimes so unreachable, standing between two worlds at once. I couldn't help ease the weight of your responsibilities because I didn't know what I was dealing with." As you thread your fingers with his, they feel impossibly small, brittle— like the bones of a bird swallowed in the expanse of his hand. How unsettling.

(Yet you wouldn't have it any other way.)

Simon shakes his head, slow and deliberate, but his grip on your hand tightens. "I've more enemies than friends," he mutters, raising your hand to his masked lips, the gesture oddly tender as he presses a kiss on it even though it forces you to rise onto your tiptoes. You blow a puff of air, mildly exasperated. Big geezer.

"Every time I rid myself o' one, two take their place. I only did it t' keep ya safe. There's nothin' they'd love more than to exploit any o' my weaknesses." He says it as though the admission itself is dangerous, and maybe it is, but the risk, you believe, is one worth taking even if he won't.

Where he sees danger, you see trust. And that's all you ever wanted. Trust, because either you'll have all of him or none of him, so you tell him that.

His grip tightens imperceptibly. "Only wha' I feel is safe f'r you to know. Nothin' more." You know he means it. You've seen how far he's willing to go, how much he's willing to sacrifice, to keep you out of harm's reach.

Simon will shoulder just about anything alone if it means you'll be kept safe.

How lovely. He's taken it upon himself to play Batman when no one cast him into the role. Ah, well. A win is a win, and you've long learned some battles aren't worth the effort today, so you tuck this conversation into the back of your mind, a note to revisit at a later date. As for now, though...

"Alright, Si," the old nickname slips from you so easily, as if it never left, "We can continue this tomorrow, if you're able, but as for me," your gaze flickers to the faint ring of grime around the drain and the scribbles covering the peeling walls, "I've just about had it with this place."

But he's got no interest in letting you go now, not when you've given him the second chance he'd been desperate for. Instead, he jerks you to him, your shoulder colliding into his chest, his arms cinching tight around you. There is no grace, no soft pretense to it— just a raw, unfiltered need of a man clinging to what he's been too afraid to lose; your arsecheeks apparently because that's what he's currently pawing at.

Pervert. Honestly, you'd applaud him for holding back from groping you for this long. No shame in giving credit where it's due. You thought about letting him have his fill, indulging his starved-dog behavior until his hands started to wander beneath your clothes. You ought to make him stop this before it spirals into something completely out of your control.

Ah, but then he latches onto the sensitive spot on your neck, right below the ear, so close to your drumming pulse and your words snag in your throat like fishhooks when he suckles.

It's tragic how quickly you cave.

Simon's breath fans hot over your spit-slick throat, slow and composed while yours is sharp and shallow as if you can't quite catch it. He jerks his head toward the stall, and you freeze, disbelief rooting you in place.

"You're joking." He's gone and lost whatever scraps of sanity he had left back wherever he was because there's no way you're getting down and dirty in— your lip curls in distaste as you look at the industry-grade bottle of disinfectant that sits in the corner— here. But then he's dragging you toward the nearest stall anyway, your bag tumbling to the ground, not my bag, Simon, shit, you owe me another. The door is a pitiful excuse for privacy, barely clinging to the hinges and sporting a gap wide enough to make you grimace. You've hardly any time to register anything else before Simon is already at your feet, smoothly dropping to one knee, the crown of his head dipping slightly below your navel.

Simon's hands cup the back of your thighs, palms spread wide as they trail upward, the tips of his fingers finding lace and not your everyday cotton. With a deliberate slowness, he lifts the hem of your skirt, his neck craning just enough to bring his line of sight under the drape of fabric, and his gaze lingers.

Oh right. You've got on that set— the one he'd carefully chosen for your birthday, that one that fits you so perfectly it almost feels unfair. A little indulgence that'd been meant for his eyes only. Even as you'd slipped it on earlier tonight, it'd felt like you'd been breaking the rules.

It makes you wonder...

You hook a leg over his shoulder, the heel of your shoe digging into the straight plane of his back. "Well?" Your question is wrapped in feigned nonchalance. "Does it make you upset?" Simon shrugs, dismissive, his eyes steady as they lock onto yours. The dim light above buzzes faintly, its unkind glow spilling over his rugged face. It does nothing to soften the sharpness of his features.

And you notice a new scar, tiny, close to his hare's lip.

"Doesn't threaten me, sweet'eart."

A sharp laugh escapes you. How infuriatingly arrogant. Simon leans in, his nose brushing against your sex roughly before he takes a crude sniff, unrestrained, unapologetic. Nasty as always.

The faintest smirk curls the corners of his lips. "Can't blame me, my girl and I 'ave been apart f'r too long." Humming, you place a hand on his head, palming over the short bristles of his hair before curling around the back of his neck, and you grind down on him.

"If you're hungry, then eat." The smile you give him after your gracious offer is nothing short of salacious.

Simon thumbs your gusset to the side and slips his tongue through your folds, and it's electric, raw. Frissons ripple through you, starting from your nape, and it cascades down your arm and your legs, and the sensation is sharp, almost overwhelming, and you bow forward, nails digging into the dense muscle of his traps.

It's been so fucking long.

Hot, wet pressure circles around your swollen clit, purposefully shy of what you covet, enough to stir something within you but not enough to satisfy— nowhere near enough. It makes you testy. Impatient. It pushes you to lose control, feeling it slip from his grasp, only to land squarely in his.

It's the exact reaction Simon craves. You can grind down on the tip of his nose all you want, push and pull at his head every which way, but you don't come without his say so, and to earn that, there's something you have to do.

By the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip, bite-swollen and glossy with spit, peering down at him with bleary eyes after having rutted against his face without restraint, frantically seeking the friction you yearn for, you also know what to do.

Good.

Now he waits. Your pussy is dripping slick, dewy honey trailing down his chin and joining the sticky mess pooling near his knee, but he doesn't care— his focus is entirely on you. Simon knows exactly how this will end. You're as mulish as ever, he muses, but you'll break. You always do. It's not a question of if but when, and he's content to wait as long as it takes for the inevitable. After all, he's a patient man when he chooses to be.

Your chest heaves with every ragged draw of air to your lungs, your pretty lips quivering with need, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. If he had the skill, he'd pencil this very moment onto paper, immortalizing it. The desperation that clings to your features, the frustrated grunts you give when he laps at your— his— cunt, tongue skimming just shy of your pearl.

It's intoxicating. A heady visceral rush that courses through his veins and pools white-hot in his groin, stiffening his cock almost painfully.

And then, when a finger dips into your sopping entrance, the composure you'd been desperately clinging to begins to come apart. Simon watches it unfold through heavy-lidded eyes, the gentle part of your lips, the tremor in your breath— he drinks up every single second.

"Please," your voice is barely more than a breadth of a whisper. Your surrender is almost as sweet as you.

The kiss he plants on the inside of your thigh is searing as he hums. "What's it?" The prickly stubble of his jaw scratches against your skin. "Don't lose ya courage now," he murmurs, "you've already fought 'alf the battle.

Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, but you truck on, dignity long lost, in tatters next to your bag on the floor. "Please let me come." Your words come out in a half whine, half plea, and Simon's response is immediate; he cants your hips as two thick fingers enter you fully, and at this angle, it's more than he knows you can take, but you asked for it. Begged for it.

Simon takes it slow, not easy, the suction on your clit maddening; strong, fluttering pulses that seemingly beat in tandem with your heart and the world begins to tilt on its axis, his strong hands keeping you anchored lest your knees give way beneath you.

The world narrows down to the sound of your hiccups, the tension coiled spring tight below your navel, the feel of his shirt knotting in your fist— if he had hair long enough to tug, you would've ripped it out.

You knock your head back against the door almost violently, the dull throb stamped out by the livewire crackling beneath your skin when you finally do come, a scorching heat radiating from within your core out, leaving a raw, tingling sensation in its wake. It stings, you dazedly muse. The orgasm that was wrenched from you was so thunderous your pussy stings. It's short-lived but potent, and you can't help but wince, your lips curling, teeth slightly bared in discomfort.

Ouch.

Simon, on the other hand, is just peachy, unbothered as ever, leaned back on his haunches, chin glistening with slick, his thumb sweeping what's about to drip off his nose.

"Don't think for a second I'm returning the favor here. I've standards, Simon." He huffs in response but says nothing, expecting nothing less of you, instead opting to shrug his jacket off and place it over your drooping shoulders. Your limbs feel leaden as you exit the stall, Simon nimbly reaching for your health hazard of a bag before leading you toward the door.

Your fingers curl around the knob, and twist and pull—

and nothing. Confusion knots your brows together as you retrace your steps. Had you pushed or pulled it open? You can't quite recall, so you give it a firm push it instead—

and nothing. Again. The door stays closed.

"Need help there?" Irritation sparks within you, wishing your glare would eviscerate the obstinate door. Does Simon think himself funny? All you want is to go home, scrub yourself sparkling clean, and sleep until the late afternoon, but the door is conspiring against you. Good. Great, even.

"Bloody door," you grumble, "It won't open." Simon steps forward, unhurried, and twists the handle once, twice—

"Open sesame," he says, tone utterly flat and casual, and you snap your slackened jaw shut. "Oh for fuck's sake, Simon, keep your shit jokes," but the door opens with a click.

You're joking.

You're fucking joking.

It swings wide with a creak, and you glance around instinctively. Nothing out of place— just the usual drunken bodies flowing in and out, their laughter and slurred conversations blending into the background.

Simon drapes a heavy arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing firm as he walks you out, and you trudge alongside, your gait sluggish, until a massive bulk stumbles into your path, and Simon quickly places himself between you and the drunken mass, both a protector and a threat.

The bloke is a guy with a row of thick hair that runs from his forehead to the nape of his neck, the sides clean shaven. "Sorry, bonnie, didnae mean ta-" limpid blue flashes to Simon, his thin-lipped smile stretches wide— too wide— flashing too many teeth for comfort, "bump into ye." He doesn't linger though, clodhopping his way back to the bar. There's a bold-lined tattoo on his nape, of a... revolver? A choice.

"Walk. I'll take ya home. Won't come in for a nightcap," the lines by his eyes becoming more pronounced. "Scouts 'onor." Simon pulls you along, and you're fighting off the sleep in your eyes when a man in a cap, his profile partially hidden by the brim, bumps his knuckles against Simon's shoulder, and curiosity outweighs your fatigue.

"Who's that?"

Simon grunts. "Security."

You don't remember having been frisked by security when you came in.

The crisp air outside bites your cheeks when you step out, and you're grateful for Simon's forethought as you tug the sides of his jacket closer to you, burying your nose into the collar— it smells of cigarette smoke and him, musky and woodsy— a quiet comfort. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, each step feeling heavier than the last as you make your way towards his vehicle.

The metal door groans as it opens, and he extends a hand, aiding you up when you squeeze it as you slur out a confession.

I missed you.

He doesn't falter in his movements as he guides both your feet inside, and his hands are steady as he adjusts the belt, buckle quietly clicking into place until he straightens, gaze dark and fluid as it lingers on you.

He runs the rough pad of his thumb along your bottom lip tenderly.

"I know, sweet'heart. Get some sleep."

The door closes with a firm but gentle push.

I know, he says. Exhaustion pulls at you, dragging you further away from consciousness. Bastard.

Simon doesn't wake you when he pulls up to your driveway, hooking an arm under your knees and the other around your waist to take you inside, your head lolling on his shoulder. Tomorrow, you'll ask him how he knows where you live, considering you moved for a new job months ago.

[whateveriwant]

I just read your pregnant wife with 141 but that got me thinking. What about horny pregnant wife with 141

Feel free to ignore this if you feel uncomfortable writing it 

-🍱 (if it’s not taken)

I haven't written smut in ages so forgive me if I'm a little rusty. 18+ only pls and thx (vaginal sex, cunnilingus)

Soap

Hooo boy! Alrighty, here we go

So for starters, that man is PENT UP. Like seriously, he's so backed up, he thinks he can feel it all the way to his esophagus

Since you first got pregnant, it's been nothing but morning sickness, aches and pains, and a total and utter lack of desire on your part

Trust him, he's tried taking care of himself in the meantime, but it's never really gotten the job done since it wasn't with you

But once you enter your second trimester and the desire has come back, it takes everything in him not to ravage you the moment you give him the green light

Why? Well, truth be told, he's scared about potentially hurting you or the baby

You know how he can get in the sack. What if he dents the wee bairn’s poor head? He's knocking (more like pounding) right on the little one’s door after all

You have to assure him that he's not going to hurt you or the baby (and please, never refer to your cervix as a door again)

So he'll start slow and gentle at first, not wanting to be too harsh, but it won't take much to get him back to fucking you hard and rough like you're used to

He's got your knees up by your chest (or, as close as they can get) while he’s drilling into you from above, snarling like an animal

When he finally finishes, it's loudddd, slamming the headboard against the wall, and he pushes his hips as far forward as they'll go while he empties four months worth of cum inside you

Ghost

I'm so sorry to have to be the one to inform you, but you're not getting that man's cock while you're pregnant

It's not because he's overly rough when you make love normally; it's just that he's not willing to take any chances when you're in such a delicate state

However, the man is inherently a giver, so with just enough whining and begging and pleading from you, he'll oblige you to some degree

He'll stick mostly to his fingers or his mouth, maybe a toy or two if you're really needy, but he's generally going to rely solely on his own skill to get you where you want to be

He'll have you recline against a mountain of pillows while he settles himself between your legs, his arms looping around your hips to hold you still for him while he works

But he doesn't just dive right in, oh no siree. The man loves to tease you – kissing your thighs, the inside of your knee, the bottom of your belly first

He'll turn you into a pathetic little thing squirming desperately for his touch, before finally granting you mercy by giving you his tongue

He'll make you cum so hard with just his mouth alone that you'll temporarily lose all thought of that gorgeous dick of his

But afterwards, if you want to return the favor, you certainly won't hear him complaining about it

Oh but trust that the moment the doctor gives the okay after you’ve given birth, he's gonna be all over you, making sure you walk funny the next morning (and the following week after that)

Gaz

Like the other two, Gaz is concerned with potentially putting you and the baby in a dangerous position

But the man is a sucker for your puppy dog eyes, so it doesn't take much convincing to get him to take you to bed

But he still wants to be safe about it, so he researches the best positions for couples to have sex while pregnant

That's how you find yourself in his lap, naked back to his chest, as he sits in one of the chairs he dragged in from the dining room

You're bouncing on his dick, hands braced on his thighs, ass smacking off the hard plane of his lower stomach as you lift up and down

His hands on your hips are more of a placeholder than a guide as he lets you set the pace, just sitting back while you take what you need from him

It doesn't even matter if he cums or not, that's honestly the farthest thing from his mind. All he cares about is making sure you're satisfied in the end

Need him to snake his hand forward, tracing the curve of your belly down, until he's circling your clit in fast, tight motions? Gladly, love.

Your thighs may burn and your eyes may water, but there's something about this position that makes him hit so deep that it leaves you gasping for more

Ultimately, your orgasm will trigger his own (nothing gets him there faster than the sound of you cumming), and afterwards he'll help you into the bath where he'll clean and massage your aching muscles better

Price

Unlike the other three men, Price is eager to fuck you the moment you show even the smallest inkling of want

What's that? His poor baby needs him to fuck her right now? Say no more, sweetheart. Hubby's come to the rescue

That man is dicking you down anytime, anywhere he can

Just got done shopping? He'll find a deserted road to pull over on. Just stepped into the shower? Might as well kills two birds with one stone

Really, it becomes a challenge to find where in your house he hasn't had you in these last few months. The kitchen, the garage, the back porch. You name it, he's done it (multiple times, in fact)

But his favorite – oh boy, his favorite without a shadow of a doubt – is when he takes you in front of your bedroom’s full length mirror

He'll hold you up from behind, standing you both on your feet, and just watch as he fucks you nice and slow

Seeing it in profile is fun when he wants to watch his dick slide in and out of you, but he's especially fond of having you directly face the mirror

There's just something about getting to watch you – that pretty face, those juicy tits, that fucking delectable rounded belly – that makes him blow his load faster than a damn rocket launch

With the number of times he's had you like this, you swear, that man of yours is trying to knock you up a second time (But shhhh. Quiet now. Don't go giving him any bright ideas, sweetheart.)

[potchi-fics]

tw; amab caitlyn

      it’s been approximately two weeks since the war ended, leaving caitlyn and the others to recover from it. truth be told, she’s having a rough time; her wounds are far from healing anytime soon. that’s where you come in.

she’s seated on a chair in front of her fireplace, your mouth emitting lewd and wet noises. why? well because you are giving her the, frankly, the best blowjob she has ever had in her entire life. 

caitlyn’s body wants to move so badly but she can’t—not with you forbidding her, well, it’s just so that her stitches wouldn’t open. her sensitive cock slides out of your mouth, gasping once she feels your palm on her tip.

“darling,” broken gasps and moans pour out from her, “you’ve been at it for two hours. i need to rest. i can’t–”

you rest your head on her thigh, hand leaving her throbbing dick to caress her other leg, all while still slowly jerking her off, “you can’t anymore, really?” you flutter your eyelashes at her, thumb collecting her precum, “even if i say please…”

      she reaches out to touch your lips, her own thumb tracing your lower lip before putting it in which you gladly accept. she feels you twirl around her thumb before uttering the one word she so loves hearing from you.

“please,” you bite her, “commander?”

      you swear she’s like a sleeper agent when you call her that, it’s a switch inside of caitlyn. she stands up, hands shooting up to grasp your head before using one hand to guide her dick inside your awaiting mouth. the feeling of her dick sliding in your throat, all the way down to the base—she almost cums from it. 

caitlyn places her fingers under your jaw, using it as leverage as she fucks your face, her pelvic bone hitting your nose; your hands find themselves on her hips. her thrusts are sloppy, miscalculated, and rough. 

she should be taking it slow, given that she did get stabbed but she doesn’t feel it. how can she when all she feels is you gagging around her cock, the head of her cock hitting the back of your throat, or when you moan, vibrations sending shivers up her spine, or how the warmness of you seems to melt her sensitive dick?

“fuck, taking me so well, darling. this is what you wanted, right?” she growls lowly, the coil inside her tightening, “shit.”

      you could only look up at her, fingers gripping her pants. she has her eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed, and jaw clenching so hard you swear you see every muscle move. her moves falter and you know she’s about to cum. you forcibly remove yourself from her, your hand grips her and you jerk her off, her tip resting on your tongue. 

she’s heaving for oxygen, she’s on the edge. you help her.

“cum for me, commander.”

      she cums with a groan, letting out strings of curses under her breath. her dick spurts in thick loads, continuous streams—her knees nearly buckle but she manages. after a few seconds, she stops cumming and falls back down to her seat, her softening dick lying on her thigh. she is a mess: cheeks flushed, her tip leaking cum, legs shaking, and her gaze in a daze: you ruined her.

and she could only take it like a good boy when she saw you swallow and crawl back to her, taking her tip back in your mouth in a leisurely time, ignoring her pleas and twitch of her cock.

you’ll take care of her.

[agreeeeeeeeeee]

i would love to see 1000 secrets with barty crouch or regulus 😏

combining this with another reg request!! I have one coming for Barty soon too dw 🫶

1000 secret kisses | R.B.

cw: MDNI 18+, smut mentioned, secret relationships, fwb, drinking

1000 things prompt list (closed!) | masterlist

Alright, Barty. Truth, dare, or shot,” Dorcas said, still coughing after the gulp of firewhisky she just took.

“Truth,” Barty replied.

“What's your most controversial opinion about someone in the group?” Dorcas challenged, and everyone ooooh’d.

Barty took a contemplative drag of his joint, then—“I would bet my left nut that Regulus is a virgin,” Barty said through a cloud of smoke.

“No way, look at him!” Pandora argued. “He fucks, guarantee it.”

The groups heads swiveled to Regulus, who was reclined lazily in arm chair, knees spread, a cigarette dangling from his fingertips. He looked supremely fuckable to you, like he always did.

That's why you've been secret friends with benefits for most of the school year.

You and Regulus were an unlikely pair; Reg, a certified grouch with a distaste for socializing, and you, a gifted student and natural flirt. But you found him fascinating, deeply intelligent and perceptive, with an artistic heart, even if he preferred not to show it. And he found you endearing, infectious in your enthusiasm.

You'd kissed him after a drunken night in Hogsmeade, and he'd sought you out the following day in the library. Now, you snuck away every chance you got, stealing secret moments around every corner, in every classroom, praying your friends never discovered the truth, lest you never hear the end of it.

This was just for the two of you, and you preferred it that way.

“I'm not saying he isn't sexy!” Barty argued. “I'm saying he couldn't be bothered to fuck someone, too busy reading poetry and glaring.”

“And you expect me to, what? Fuck everything with legs like you, Junior?” Regulus bit back.

“No, but like—I’ve never even seen you glance at someone,” Evan chimed in. “You've never talked about fancying someone, or gotten flustered.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment.

“Nothing shakes him, and he'd never tell you half-wits if he fancied someone because you can't keep your mouths shut,” Xeno laughed.

“It's not like it's anyone's business anyways,” you added, stealing the joint from Barty and taking a puff. “It's his business who he does, or doesn't, fuck.”

“Oh, come off it. He hasn't even had a crush on you, and we've all had a crush on you,” Barty said.

You nearly choked on your hit. “You're full of shit, Junior.”

“It's true! We talked about it the other day!”

You risked a glance at Regulus while you fanned the smoke from around your face, and found him glaring down at his lap, his expression was calm, but you'd long ago learned to judge his true feelings by his pale eyes. And right now, the hostility in them could raze the castle.

That must have been the day he abruptly dragged you from your dorm and into an empty classroom. He toyed with you until you cried, begging him to get you off. And when he finally let you ride him, you weren't allowed to come until you told him exactly who you belonged to. Making you spell out his entire name, letter by letter, thrust by thrust.

Regulus Arcturus Black.

Your pussy shivered just thinking about it.

“Can we get on with the game, please?” Pandora huffed. “It's y/n’s turn.”

Barry grinned over at you, and you groaned. Why on Salazar's shitty earth did you think it was a good idea to sit next to him?

“Truth, dare, or shot, my darling?” Barty asked, his voice a seductive purr.

You really didn't want to take a shot of that lukewarm swill, and you had a hunch of what Barty's question would be: do you fancy any of us? Leaving you with one option.

“Dare.”

Barty’s eyes lit up, and he rubbed his hands together like a supervillain. “You've made a grave error, my dearest y/n.”

“Don't be an ass, Crouch. Play fair,” Regulus warned, the edge of his voice sharper than was probably necessary.

“Oh, you'll like this Reggie, don't worry.” Barty presented his palms to you, like he was offering a gift. “Treasure, I dare you to make Regulus blush.”

“That's not fair!” Pandora argued. “How is she supposed to do that?”

“By any means necessary.” Barty grinned.

You looked at Regulus, who was already looking at you. “I don't want to cross any lines—”

“And when she fails?” Regulus asked, a hint of a smirk on his pretty mouth. Baiting you.

“Then she takes two shots,” Barty wagered.

You looked back and forth between them, all eyes on you. “Deal,” you said, pushing to your feet.

Regulus' eyes widened a fraction, like he didn't expect you to actually go for it, but he vastly underestimated your pettiness. And you would love nothing more than to be the thing that made Regulus finally crack in front of his friends. A tiny consultation for months of keeping secrets.

You sashayed over to him, ignoring the whistles and shouts from your friends, focused entirely on Regulus' smug face. His eyes roamed over you, lingering at the edge of your skirt, the sway of your hips, and you caught the unmistakable sign of his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and his arrogant expression faltered.

Already, you were making him sweat.

You knew none of your regular tricks would work on him, he was impervious to flirting, but you had an ace up your sleeve.

Carefully, you perched on the arm of his chair, being mindful to not actually touch him, knowing it would bother him to have you so close without being able to touch. He shifted a little in his seat, a fraction closer to you, fingers tightening on his cigarette.

You took a pull from the joint, filling your lungs with its acrid burn. You looked at Regulus expectantly, and he smirked before tilting his head back for you. You leaned in and he parted his lips, letting you blow the smoke into his mouth.

Your friends continued to whoop and cheer, but you focused on Regulus' proximity, the hazy feeling coarsing through your blood.

Merlin, you wanted to kiss him.

Instead, when the last of the smoke left your lungs and entered his, you shifted to whisper in his ear. “Took that hit so well, sweet boy,” you purred, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

You felt his body hitch, wanting to cough up the smoke, but he managed to blow it out of the corner of his mouth, casting you vicious side eye. To your delight, you noticed a delicate pink stain was crawling up his neck, warming the tops of his cheekbones.

“She did it!” Evan cheered, and the rest of the group roared in approval.

“Brat,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. You knew you'd be paying for it later, but it was so worth it to know you had an affect on him no one else did.

You sauntered back over to your seat, smiling ear to ear and basking in the groups praise.

Regulus tried to play it off, but there was no going back now. And you knew he was in trouble when it was finally his turn.

“Alright, Reggie,” Pandora said. “Truth, dare, or shot.”

You already knew what he would pick: Reg hated booze, and would rather run around the common room naked than fess up to something.

“Dare,” he said, taking a bold glance at you.

Pandora caught it, of course, and a tendril of uncertainty coiled in your stomach.

“I dare you to make y/n blush back.”

Regulus huffed a low laugh. “Come on, Dora. Give me a challenge.”

You glared at him, and he winked back. Maybe it was the weed, or his competitive nature, but you'd never seen him so brazen.

Everyone ooooh’d.

“Fine, I dare you to kiss one person in the circle!”

Your heart sunk. Even if it was platonic, a stupid dare, you didn't particularly want to see Regulus kiss someone else. Your feelings for Regulus has grown over the course of the your secret relationship, and while neither of you were ready for labels, that didn't mean you wanted to share him, or vice versa if the night in the classroom was any indication.

Regulus narrowed his eyes at her. “Not everyone consents to being kissed by me.”

“I consent!” They all chorused, and you inwardly groaned.

“What? You've never fucked and you've never kissed someone?” Barty teased, ramping up the pressure.

“Fuck off, Crouch,” Regulus hissed. The game was getting to him, and your friends were feasting on his rare display of discomfort.

You'd feel bad for him if you weren't feeling so sorry for yourself. Reg would probably kiss Barty just to shut him up, and then storm off to bed. Leaving you to decipher his words and actions like every night spent without him there to prove his affection with his hands and mouth.

Shit, maybe this arrangement had gotten more out of control than you realized.

“How the fuck is Sirius such a lady-killer, and his little brother is the virgin fuckin’ Mary?” Barty was too busy laughing at his own jokes to notice Regulus get up and prowl across the circle towards him.

Barty finally noticed when Reg was almost on top of him, but at the last second, Regulus pivoted. His hand shot out to grab you by the hair, roughly tilting your head back for the bruising kiss he planted on your unsuspecting lips.

You squeaked in surprise, but quickly gave way for him, melting under his firm, insistent mouth as his tongue delved between your teeth to taste you.

As quickly as he swept in, he was gone, leaving you wide eyed and breathless as he stalked back to his seat and dropped into it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What was it you said? ‘Y/n has the most gorgeous mouth you'd ever seen’?” Regulus said, a mocking edge in his voice. “That you'd ‘give anything to taste her'?”

Barty gaped like a fish.

Regulus smirked. “I’ll have that left bollock now. And I'll take the other one if I hear my girl’s name on your mouth again, you prick.”

Everyone gasped, including you, but Regulus didn't even flinch.

“Understood?” He glared at Barty, then the others, until each one of them lowered their eyes in submission.

Regulus beckoned you forward with two fingers and you jumped up, crossing the space between you and allowing him to pull you into his lap. He threaded his fingers through your hair, pulling you in for another kiss, little more than a peck, but it still made your head spin.

“So, secrets out?” You asked, meeting his eyes.

Regulus shrugged, pecking your cheek. “It doesn't change anything,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’m yours.” He kissed your nose, your temple, your lips, down your neck, until all of your friends dispersed, making disgusted noises as they fled such a public display of affection.

But you couldn't be happier, grinning like a fool as you basked in a thousand not-so-secret kisses.

© agreeeeeeeeeee 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.