#the vulnerability he had to find to open up after all of his trauma and care for two kids targeted by the capitol is admirable by itself

[lvrboy-inc]

“Siren” — K.M.

꒰: Précis | After a shitty breakup with a subpar man, you find yourself drawn to the lights and sleaze of the nearest bar. Drink away your problems or fuck and forget them with the bartender who’s hot as hell.

꒰: Disclaimer(s) | Incubus Bartender!Satoru x virgin!reader, dirty talk, praise, coercion, praise, spitting, hair pulling, PRAISE, pet names (♡)

꒰: Word Count ; 10.2k

꒰: Sweetest Sin Masterlist

“You seem tense, handsome..”

————

Starting your night off with a shitty breakup and one two many drinks might’ve not been the best route to take. In hindsight at least.

Your co-workers had already urged you to break it off with the less than desirable man who could barely breathe without working your nerves and not only that��trying to make you work in the bedroom. 

It was an endless cycle of  “You get on top, work for me.” and never him using the hips that God gave him to work you out—always ending in a resounding turn off, consistently followed up with, “Next time for sure.” So, after he had started an argument, ending in trauma being spat out in a fit of anger, you felt thankful, grateful, blessed even that he gave you a reason.

But..all breakups are hard to get over. Whether they were a long time coming or not, it’s always a shitty experience. 

What’s always the best unhealthy coping mechanism for such..? A drink, of course.

“A drink.”

That was the intention..but you wound up getting more plastered than expected and crying out your woes to the bartender who had only asked whether you’d be putting things on your tab or card for the night. 

He was charismatic—maybe because of the job description and having to be a poster boy for such a place. Sweet talking drinks into vulnerable people so he could get tips and points from his boss for making them profit. It was a good hustle, respectable and fun.

Not to mention..he was damn good at it.

After a bit of a slurred exchange of words, you’d gotten to know a few things about him: His name, Satoru, Satoru Gojo. 28, graduated college with a psych major, infinitely and criminally tall—6’3 to be exact—and to your surprise, swung both ways. Often.

You found yourself asking stupid questions just so he would slide your way from the other customers.

“I’m starting to think I should cut you off,” He teased after about the 5th call over.

You raised up your head to rest in the palm of your hand, running your index over the rim of the golden-lined glass he’d refilled so many times now. Some of it you drank, most of it you babysat. “I’m pacing myself alright..” You’d slur out with a mild puffing of your cheeks.

“Oh yeah? Your cheeks are flushed, hun. Unless that’s just from staring too long.” The way he pointed out your fluster so obviously couldn’t have made it go down any.

“You’re too cocky..‘m holding over fine.” A bit snippy but he laughed heartily, drying off a used glass with the hand towel he’d kept attached to his hip. 

Even from this distance, you could just tell he smelled nice. Maybe it was the already alcoholic aroma that the rather sleazy place held but you could’ve sworn there were hints of cologne—expensive cologne—that mingled with it. 

Those piercing blues he had, barely dimmed out by the lighting of the establishment flickered over you and a slick smile spread across his lips. “Then, please, I’m at your disposal. Need another drink, pretty boy?”

An initial sound of surprise came with the name but you turned away from him slightly and blew a stray strand of hair from in front of your eyes. “No..”

“Ah, so you did just want to talk to me.”

“Shut up..don’t you have a job to do?” You quickly retorted with a harsh roll of eyes. 

Shrugging, he waved a small goodbye. Not before adding on a small, “You’re technically a part of it..”

And in another moment, you were back to eating up the eye candy. In your mild boredom, you opened up your phone to see your shitty ex spamming you across every platform imaginable—TikTok, Insta, Snap, Facebook, hell, he went as far as to email you. He was hooked and just seeing the mass notifications made you want to throw the whole device away.

That’s when you got a really..really bad idea.

About an hour went by and the promiscuous bartender had paid you a few more stops of his own volition. Each encounter got more and more..suggestive, to say the least.

From mild flirting to him finally saying, “My eyes are up here, you know.” when yours were drifting.

“Obviously..but that’s not really the objective.” 

He visibly was caught off guard by your comment, going as far as to lean his arms forward onto the bar top, eyes now boring into your soul it felt like as he purred out a response. “Oh? And what might your objective be? You’ve been eyeing me since you walked in, can’t help but feel you undressing me.”

“I’m not some sort of pervert—you’re making it sound worse than it is.” Furrowing your brows slightly, he tilted his head in that oh-so innocent fashion.

It was hard to not crack a smile.

“I am,” He admitted smoothly, now actively ignoring a small trio of women at the end of the counter. “But, you didn’t answer my question.”

With one last adjustment of his neck, he was staring right at you. “What’s your objective here, pretty boy?”

“Is it not obvious?” 

“Terribly. But, I’d just love it if you could use your words. Give me something worth listening to and blowing off customers for.” His tone, his posture, his eyes—God, this is what true temptation feels like.

Working up the courage which..didn’t take long, thanks to liquid confidence, you squared your shoulders a bit to meet his gaze properly. “My objective is you. Is that so hard to piece together?”

“Don’t talk about things being hard right now.”

…

A round of silence and you were pulling a pen out of his breast pocket, you went along and grabbed his notepad as well. “And what are you doing now?”

“Giving you my cell..obviously.” Quipping back, you started to jot down the series of numbers before his slender fingers were pulling the parchment down so your focus was back on him once more.

He flashed that award-winning smile and stood up straight again. “No need. My shift ends in 30.”

Oh, he was confident.

“Make it 25. My place or yours?” 

Finally, the women at the end had gotten more than impatient and wound up calling out a not-so passive, aggressive, “Bartender!” from down the way to which he cast a small grin your way.

“Duty calls.” He said briefly and then, he was gone again. Was he serious..? Maybe the drinks were really just getting to you but Lord..the way he spoke to you, sized you up—he wanted to talk about undressing people with their eyes? Please. 

You could almost feel how he was defiling you in his head.

Among other things, you decided to down the rest of your drink and ultimately did put it on your tab. Once he’d taken down his apron and you had gathered the remnants of your heart that had led you to this point, you both were walking out with an air of civility…

Such a stark contrast to the debauchery that was promising the night.

Initially, you’d offered to take your car but he waved a hand with a chuckle, pointing over to a white Mustang GT sitting pretty in the parking lot. “I’ll get my co-worker to keep an eye on your ride for the night. You can come get it in the morning, ‘kay, handsome?”

“Should I feel insulted..?” 

He looked around for a bit before looking back down at you. “I don’t know, are you into that sorta thing?”

“Do you always talk to people like this?”

“Hm, like what?” Peering in closer, he dug his keys out of his pocket, twirling them around his index for a moment before resting them in his palm.

Crossing your arms and beginning the path to his car, you spoke, “Like a slut.”

“Are you not one too, though?” He drawled, purposely keeping his strides slow just so you could keep up easily in your dwindling intoxication. “I mean, you came to my place of work, talked me up, now, we’re heading back to your place—is that not slut behavior?”

You got ready to make another smart comment but wound up falling short and simply digging an elbow into his ribs that elicited a pained groan followed by light laughter. 

He was enjoying this way too much. 

Even on the ride home, he wouldn’t let up in his relentless teasing fit. With the low rumbling of the smooth engine carrying you across the streets of the night city, he held one hand on the wheel whilst the other rested on the gear shift. 

Every so often though, he’d try and drift his fingers over..over and up to your thigh which made you crane your neck to give him a sideways glance. “We’re not even halfway there yet..” You chastised lowly to which he moved his hand down, giving your thigh a playful squeeze instead of the devilish wandering it’d been doing before.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is foreplay not your thing?” Scoffing lightly, he shook his head and briefly peeled his eyes away from the road to look over you once again—it was becoming a habit. “I thought maybe you’d be as eager as I am—seeing as you’re the one who came onto me, after all.”

Rolling your eyes instinctively, you turned to face the window a bit. “Barely..I gave hints and you took them to ten fold. And I do like foreplay, seeing as my ex lacked the ability…I just wouldn’t want it to wind up with us fogging up these windows.”

“Please, I wouldn’t fuck you in my car,” He said it quick, as if he was a bit offended at the proposition. “I respect my baby better than to make a mess of either of you in here.”

That shut you up rather quickly.

You let your head make a small thud against the cold glass with an audible, “Hmph.” But, it was rather deterred when your hand moved over his, dragging it up further until it basically rested on the junction of your hips and leg. He didn’t make a comment and neither did you, save for the way your body spoke, pressing your thighs lightly together to hold his hand there.

Regardless, the rest of the drive was calm and when you’d arrived back to your quaint condo, just a bit out from the center of the cityscape, he turned the keys out of the ignition and got out of the driver’s side door. 

Moving to open up the door, you started to get out before he was right there in front of it, closing it back. “What the hell?” You exclaimed, given the roughness of the pushback.

He took a few moments before opening the door so gently and leaning down to your sitting level. “You’re trying to rob me of my gentlemanly status, pretty boy. Can’t have that now, can we?” With that, he extended a flat palm your way which you took—not without a low, grumbled string of complaints at his dramatacism. 

You fumbled with your keys for a split second before getting up to the door. Satoru loomed behind you, making a small shiver trail over your spine—that cologne was his.

Once getting inside, you were greeted by your precious feline companion who, instead of rubbing against your ankles, circled through Satoru’s. He gave a deep laugh of amusement, crouching down to scratch behind the furry friend’s ear to which he purred and mewed in response. “What’s its name?”

“His name is Dot.” You gave back, just the slightest bit jealous that the cat had taken a bigger liking to the house guest than the man who fed him every day. “He usually doesn’t like house guests..” A mild jab at the pet who was jingling and purring as Satoru catered to his sweet spots.

Though..after enough time and playful back and forth, just getting to know one another, flirting..whispering..trading spit..things got much more hot and heavy much quicker than you expected.

Once he’d had his tongue down your throat, it tasted..sweet. Not even in the metaphorical sense but like a literal syrup—an addictively sweet taste that had your head spinning..hazy, even. 

Your back was already flat against the bed and he was taking his time..so much so you were getting impatient. Breaking the seal between your spit-drenched lips with a soft pwah, he was breathing right into your mouth. He trailed his hand up along the column of your throat and finally, a thumb was swiping across your bottom lip, pressing down on it just to get a glimpse of your lower set.

“Somethin’ wrong..?” God..how did he sound even more sultry than before..? All panting, just as his low-lidded eyes fell on yours. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now..”

Just for a moment, you were speechless. Now, you were really feeling the effects. Kissing’s never felt this good before..ever. And that haze from before? It was becoming a lot more prominent. “My head..feels weird..” You breathed out, finding yourself gradually heating up..from the inside.

“Ah, you’re catching on, pretty boy.” Catching on? To what exactly?

Instead of giving any sort of reassurance, his knee was creating friction along your jeans that were already straining. It was all so warm..hot, burning..something was off and all you could trace it back to was the man on top of you now. “It’s been so long since I’ve gotten an easy mark like you..you really did make this way too easy, handsome.” He purred, trailing kisses and nips down your collarbones—exposed by your loose hanging shirt—and down, down, down.

It was so heated, every touch he showered your body with, even the simple action of him sliding his fingertips under your tee and dragging the fabric up was enough to make you squirm.

“What are you..talking about..?” You managed to say, relatively snapping back to a bit of reality. Despite how he was already kissing down from where your ribs connected under your skin, past your midsection and laving his tongue over your navel—it was obvious he was avoiding your questions.

Deft fingers picked apart the button of your pants, leaving them hanging open until he was back over top of your face. Satoru was analyzing your features, each twitch and shift in expression—the effect he was having on you. 

It was utterly adorable.

Watching that stressed, pretty face all night, going from ranting and raving about a man who could hardly be called such to opening up into his own drunken desire and now laid out underneath him—fuck, it was a head rush.

“You seem tense, handsome..” The name rolled off his tongue like a vice and you could’ve sworn you were hooked. “Are you finally realizing what you got yourself into, hm?”

It was only a second. You blinked, eyes already squinting through each glance up at him and before you knew it he wasn’t..him anymore. With each passing open and shut rhythm it was something:

First his teeth, he was speaking but God knows you weren’t tuned in. Then the hands that had once been so soft, neatly cut and filed down grew into something sharp—clawed. And finally, there were those damn horns. You wished, hoped prayed that you were just too out of it to really be seeing straight but..it was real.

That cute bartender, the one who had teased and teased, led you on and wrapped you around his finger for the night..was a demon. An incubus at that—which, when it dawned on you, became even more of a problem.

Obviously, the first reaction was panic, a widespread “fight or flight” response that gradually was dimmed out. Next thing you knew, he was laughing..like, genuinely, cracking the fuck up. He could see the struggle in your eyes, the burning want, the need to fight back but oh..that little party trick from earlier was doing its job.

“Shh, shhh..it’s alright, nothin’ to worry your pretty little head about. Relax f’me..thaaat’s it..” He was speaking so slowly, so tauntingly, it felt like he was dumbing you down with his voice alone. “Fun fact about incubi—their spit counts as raw aphrodisiac..”

He leaned in closer, licking away a stray tear that had rolled down to the peak of your cheekbone before disappearing onto the warmth of his tongue. “And another fun fact..you kiss like a fuckin’ pornstar.” Already, his mouth was in desperate need of some soap.

If it’d stopped there, that would’ve been ideal. You could barely think straight, poor thing. A little too turned on for a first time, scared out of your wits, and still..still wanting to go further. You wanted him to take you further.

“Don’t you worry about a siiingle thing,” A low purr would escape him as his hands’ earlier work at your shirt finally finished, sliding it up and over your head until it was then pulled right around your wrists—he made it so. “Let me do allll that fuckin’ work for you. I told you you’re a part of my job, didn’t I..?”

You took in a shuddering breath, head instinctively flicking over to the side with a subtle roll of your hips. Oh-so absentmindedly your movements were..because as his nails made their tracings along your skin—from your chest, where he leaned all the way down just to shower your sensitive buds with the utmost attention, to how his palms then rubbed over your hips—you were just grinding.

Grinding it out on the rough fabric covering his knee as he steadily worked you over. His tongue felt..different. As in, before, it was..softer, more inviting, cute even. But now..? God, it could’ve wrapped around your cock twice and still reach the base with ease. That was a bet.

He was reveling in the series of whimpers and whines that you drenched his ears with, each one offering up a low, vibrating chuckle against your chest. 

“Mhn.. ‘Toru..” Damn, was that your voice speaking..? Where did all this “Toru” business come from..? Whatever..all you knew was it tasted like heaven in your mouth and like a siren’s call to his brain. “S-stop fuckin’ around already..demon, incubus or not, you got me hot and bothered so deal with it—properly.”

A round of tutting left him as he finally detached himself from your now-swollen nipples, only to go back in to land a bite and minor tug on one of them. Already, the action alone had your legs trying to close up around his, stomach fluttering just from the feeling of his sharp canines digging in. Oh you knew he left a mark. You could already feel it.

Just as quickly as he doled out his physical reprimand, he was back to his affectionate, lewd lapping at your nub, alternating between each and giving whichever was orally unattended, pinches and rolls between his fingers. “I thought you liked foreplay, pretty boy..don’t tell me you got a little impatient and changed your mind?”

“You’ve got the brain of a whore and the body of a virgin—what kinda joke is that?” Sitting back on his haunches, both of his hands crossed over his pelvis, gripping the ends of his shirt as he tugged it off over his head. In all honesty your body had a reaction to that—a small gasp that he undoubtedly heard as well. 

The shocking part wasn’t even the sheer cut of him, no, but the pair of wings that accompanied. A dark, charcoal black that differed so heavily from the pure white that his hair adorned. Stemming from his chiseled shoulder blades like a stalk.

His attention ran right back to you as he readjusted himself between your legs, both hands snaking to your inner thighs as he parted them like a sea: slow and deliberate. One of them trailed up further..coming to rest just before your groin where he splayed his fingers out.

“Hey,” A more baritone call for your attention as he stared you head on. “This is gonna really suck while I’m not inside you so..hold out for me, ‘kay?”

Rubbing soothing circles over where his fingers had found purchase, he rolled his hips forward, cracking that smile that was now sullied by the sharpness of his once-straight and narrow dental set. “You can hold out f’me, right?”

He wasn’t even asking. He talked like it was a fact.

“Nah, I know you can..you can take anything I throw at you..” Before you could even deny it, to tell him to reevaluate his expectations of your threshold, it was in motion. 

The surging energy that he flowed out into your lower body first, then the crackle of electricity that followed suit, gradually descending into a sickening ache inside that felt like an inferno needing to be quelled. You squirmed and writhed, fragile fingers threatened to tear up your sheets as your strained voice caught up in your throat. 

Eyes squeezed shut as you grit your teeth so hard you thought they could’ve cracked from the pressure. He was murmuring words of praise, encouragement, of urging you to endure it. And after a bit, it was less painful and more just a throbbing need that already had you breathless.

“Haah..fuck, what is..God..” The last name was said like it was the worst of profanity as you finally worked up enough gall to look down. Once his hand lifted from its place, that’s when you saw it. 

Right there, just below where your stomach ended and your happy trail began—a fucking womb tattoo. 

No, like, for real. It was engraved in your skin, staining your flesh that same charcoal black with the intricate scrawl of abstract twists all centered around a hollow heart design. 

Fuck how it looked though—your body was screaming.

Just from the proximity alone from Satoru, it was getting harder to breathe, harder to even think straight and his pants weren’t even off yet. Was this the power of a real fucking demon? Able to bring a man to his knees with just a few well-placed touches and words of slutty promise?

“Toruuu..it burns..” A pathetic whine fell from your lips as you ran your hands down to try and soothe the ache. But not only with your shirt tangled up along your wrists but one of his own pinning them back against the headboard, you were stuck. 

That roll of his hips had gotten bolder, more rhythmic..you could feel how much he was into this. Not only by the way he seemed to do it mindlessly, his breathy pants and the slight flutter of his abnormal appendages, but God..the fucking print.

Oh, it was fucking big.

Here he was, trying to keep you under control when he seemed like he would burst at the seams with one wrong move. “I know, I know..I feel it too, baby..” This whole time, he’d been rather composed—you know, while making you fall apart—but even now, it seemed hard for even him to keep himself under control.

“Tell me,” There went that damn tone again, though, instead of that cocky arrogance, it was almost desperate. “Do you want this as much as I do..? Don’t think with your dick right now, as hard as I know that is to do that right now…”

Trailing off, his free hand cupped your jaw, making blown pupils meet the zeroed. You could’ve gotten high off the eye contact alone at this point. “Say the word and I’ll stop—you won’t have to remember this ever happened. You’ll forget everything about me, your body will go right back to how it was and..I’ll be gone.”

“But I’ll miss this face..those eyes, your voice..oh…” No matter how much he was prioritizing you, how much he meant every word he said..he couldn’t help but pray, beg for God to do him a solid and let you say yes to this. “Come on, pretty boy..”

“Talk to me.”

It was less of an asking and much more like a command. Your hesitation was so evident in the way your breath hitched with each labored inhale and exhale. The proposition was set but the real question remained unanswered—were you really about to give up your virginity to an incubus..?

…

Well..yeah.

Making sure you never took your eyes off him, after what felt like an eternity, you uttered, “I crave it, Toru..please, don’t get me all the way here and leave me..I need you. Need to feel you in places I don’t know exist…” And with a final batting of your lashes, you breathed, “..need you to fuckin’ ruin me.”

That did it.

“Goddamn your mouth is so fuckin’ nasty,” Like a flip switched in his brain, he was on you. Gone was the gentle caress of his kiss—replaced by the starved devouring of your lips, teeth and tongue as he finally got serious. “I cannot wait to break you the fuck in.”

And by God did he mean it in every sense of the word. 

His hands were everywhere: your hips, thighs, face, anywhere he could get a feel for you. A feel for the heat that you were radiating and pouring off in gallons. It didn’t take long at all for him to start tugging at the rest of the clothing that was keeping him from what he was gunning for.

Bits and pieces of fabric stripped away like nothing but an inconvenience before being discarded into the growing pile of articles on the floor. Once you were laid out bare in front of him, you faintly caught wind of an instinctive, “Fuck..” Slipping from his mouth before he was already hooking your leg onto his shoulder. 

Even in his haste, he was handling you with sooo much care. His bites felt like nips and grazes before he was leaning in closer..further up until the heated inner of your thigh was burning the side of his face. He stayed there for a moment closing his eyes like he was an aerosol fiend.

But oh, oh when those glaciers met your gaze again, he bit down, hard. Those canines of his were a force to be reckoned with because the yelp that tore from you upon the breaking of skin was awful.

“What the hell, Toru..?” You complained, furrowing your eyebrows down into an expression that was meant to be scolding but you couldn’t deny the way the new addition to your skin was twisting your perception of pain and pleasure oh so deliciously. 

And boy did he know. One turned into two and gradually, your thighs were stained with his saliva and the clear imprint of his teeth—slightly bloodied and hickeys for daaays. 

At one point, you’d closed your legs up around him, a feeble attempt at a timeout but he wasted no time in prying then right back open, lowering his head enough to lick a looong, slow stripe up your neglected cock that had been sitting so pretty on the sidelines. 

You really were acting like a virgin—the simple lick making your hips lift up just a bit before the contact was taken back away. A whimper of protest was heard at the loss of sensation and before you knew it, he was speaking again. “Ahh, is that what you want, pretty boy? Hm?”

Although his eyes were on you right now, he couldn’t help but feel the effects of not only smelling—seeing, touching, breathing—but tasting you on his tongue. All the while with both hands busy and his pants seeming like the greatest obstacle on Earth. But he digressed, bringing up a sharp-nailed hand to press his palm down juuust enough to glide up and dig your length a bit further against your stomach.

“Wanna feel my mouth giving all my attention to this cute cock of yours, hm?” A drawl of a question and you were already getting driven up the wall by the physical aspect that came with it. “Come onnn, what did I say about using your words, sweetheart?”

Did he like..need you to die in the process of all this?

A simpering moan was all your mind could muster up before you let out a light puff, willing yourself to meet those eyes that seemed to be doing more work than anything else right now. “Please, Toru..You’re driving me insane..” Breathless and absolutely helpless—just how he liked you.

The verbal queue was all he needed. With one chuckled out, “Good boyyy.” Oh he was getting to work.

That tongue that had seemingly grown in measure was going alongside with his hands—smooth and soft, yet a little calloused—that took your aching shaft up into his palm. He fucking kissed up, from base to tip and then swiped his tongue back and forth under your sensitive frenulum before using those plump lips to give playful sucks to your weeping slit.

Swirling that aphrodisiac-saliva slick all over until you finally caved, pulling your forearms in front of your eyes and just barely stifling out your voice from behind them. The muscles in your thighs were just shivering, and he hadn’t even taken it all in yet.

God you were fucking hopeless.

Satoru’s hands rubbed soothingly along your inners as he showered your cockhead with sooo much care. It was so much yet still not enough. “Mhn..f-fuck, deeper..please..” Even as you begged for more, your body was following its own rhythm, hips bucking up into the inviting heat of his mouth. “Come on..you’re a..haah, demon, right..? This is your job..right?”

“Then give me more.” You were taken aback by the urgency you held in your voice and he clearly was too—seeing as his tongue stopped its endless movement that had remained focused solely on the tip of your member. And in one, sharp-toothed grin, he was following your words to the letter.

Oh and God could you tell he had the experience of a lifetime. From head to base, he took it alll down. He even did the courtesy of holding his mouth there, swallowing around every delicious inch like it was the sweetest candy he’d ever. Fucking. Tasted.

The sensation was enough to make your head finally fall back into the plush pillow set that decorated the top of your bed, shuddering out a throaty groan and ultimately a sigh of relief. His tongue got back to work, even though he wasn’t moving his head, you could feel the methodical patterns he made along the underside, around—even going as far as to trace the veins that pulsed with each flick.

But when he started to move? Your eyes fluttered back like you were experiencing the first effects of anesthesia. Even with his sharpened set, you didn’t feel one bit of teeth.

The worst fucking part was those damn eyes.

You were avoiding his like a plague but you could feel them burning holes through you as your fingers raked through your hair. Yeah, you’d gotten sucked off before but goddamn, he was sucking the soul out of you. 

Finally, your lids managed to peel open when your legs began to tense up, mindlessly rutting your pelvis up and down, just so desperate for that high you could feel coiling in your stomach. He noticed all the squirming, could taste the bittersweet of pre that dripped into his tongue each time he pulled his head back up—you both knew you were close.

A series of careening moans later and he pulled his lips off of you with a wet pop, putting in the effort to spit directly on the tip, rubbing his thumb over that weeping slit until you were sure you’d cramp up. His hand already picked up where his mouth left off and he was just heaving those barely useful, hot, shuddering, laughing breaths onto the connection of your shaft and head.

“You taste like fuckin’ heaven, pretty boy,” He said with a bit of a cockdrunk smile on his face. Those charcoal wings gave their own fluttering of excitement—now that you were slightly able to focus on something else other than his oral cavity. “I could suck this cock for hours and I’d keep going even when my jaw locks.”

And he wanted to talk about your mouth being nasty?

He brought his other hand to help with the job, left moving in short, up and down motions whilst the other was simply bullying the entrance of your urethra. Your hands, on the other hand, were simply just trying to find purchase on anything you could get them on.

The sheets, the pillow, your own tousled locks—whatever to help you cope with the burning need in your gut. “Oh f-fuck, oh God..‘Toru, Toru..!” You tumbled out in a hurried fashion as both your hands tried to close either ends of the pillow over your face to possibly shield you from the embarrassment..from those damn eyes. “Close.. ‘m close..s-so fuckin’..fuuuck..”

Vocabulary falling short, you heard the deep chuckle that he made, followed up by such a soft coo—all the while he was making you feel euphoric. It couldn’t have felt this good in its own..right? Sure, being a virgin was one thing but you’d gotten handys and blowjobs plenty of times before. It had to be that damn mark..right?

“Look at you..aww, you poor, poor thing,” The lilt in his voice made a whine of annoyance and frustration die out in the pillow that now barely masked your features. “You feelin’ it? My hands, my mouth, my breath..oh it’s just too much isn’t it? If you can’t handle this..”

He trailed off like he finished the sentence once in his head before finally verbalizing it, “Just how are you going to manage with my cock fucking you stupid? Huuh?” 

Automatically, you felt another surge when his words reached your brain—not your ears but after they registered—and you were damn near trembling with the effort to hold back and keep up the tedious conversation. Or, it seemed rather tedious..to you. 

“Can you imagine it already, huh? How it’s gonna feel when I finally sink in, the draaaag..Your eyes going cross when I bottom out, when you can feel me all the way up to your stomach—” He didn’t even get to finish his sentence before you were sent tumbling over the edge in a fit of muffled profanity and swears.

Once again, that raspy chuckle of his echoed against your walls, only quieted down when his lips wrapped around the twitching and now pulsating head of your cock that emptied out straight into his waiting maw.

He closed his eyes, you heard—and felt—his low hums of appreciation as he drank it all down like he was on the brink of dehydration. As he did, the symbol along your pelvic bone started illuminating the small space it took up. It was almost hypnotizing..

After what seemed like absolutely forever, you fell back into the pillows with strained sounds of your come down, looking down to find Satoru’s glaciers staring right back up at you through those snowy lashes. You’d expected a witty remark but he simply pulled his lips off, holding your softening shaft in one hand as he opened his mouth up.

There, you saw the aftermath of your own premature climax. Immediately, your face lit up with a deep crimson. “Jeez, I thought you swallowed already..!”

He shook his head, smiling cheekily.

“Are you waiting on my say-so..?” 

A bout of silence..then another nod.

You pulled a face, glancing off to the side and only coming back when he gave a few more teasing strokes that made you yelp in frustration. “F-fine..! Swallow, spit, I don’t care..I just..”

“I just want to stop the burning in my stomach..it feels like…I’ll die without it—without you..” You breathed. “So quit fucking around and do me right.”

That did it for him, seeing as he swallowed with haste and stuck his tongue out to reveal the—relatively—empty contents. What he did next was more bold.

Slowly, surely, he raised his head up, peering in over you. Even after all this and such a lack of clothing, the scent of his cologne still drenched your senses and managed to make your vision just a bit hazier in the proximity. All of that amplified ten-fold when he sealed your mouths together.

Sloppy, and riddled with the taste of your own cum, he was taking your breath away with each slick slide of your tongues along one another. A heady mixture of that delicious aphrodisiac and something uniquely his.

This entire time he’d been so patient. Dragging it on for what seemed like absolute ages. So when you felt his hand sneaking down—past your navel, not at all skipping your sensitivity—and finally down to your patient, waiting, hole. 

Just the graze was enough but when two—not one—of his lengthy digits slid in, and his breath began to fan across your face with each break of this kiss..it was showtime.

“Fun fact, pretty boy..” He’d say, curling his fingertips into a spot you couldn’t even reach properly before you met him. “This, this little symbol right here..?”

As your legs were starting to clamp up, he used his free hand to trace over the tattoo embedded into your pelvic bone. “Makes things sooo much easier for me—for us..” Trailing off, he had gotten just mildly carried away as he hit that sweet nerve inside that elicited such a tantalizing sound to drip from your lips. “It gets you all nice and ready for me and I don’t even have to do anything too bad, t’ya..”

“Ain’t that exciting?” Chiming, he got his answer via the resurgence of your erection against your stomach. 

This was his element and clearly he was thriving.

The sound of his digits knuckle deep inside—stirring up the fire that was raging in yourty core—bounced off the walls like a symphony. 

Your voice was only getting sweeter and sweeter, falling on his ears in a way that made his previous, mindless, grinding down into the sheets seem like it would never be enough. 

It wasn’t enough. 

Not with your tight heat already pulsing and gripping his fingers like a vice, giving him a perfect demonstration of what he could be buried in right now.

“C’monn, I’ll talk you through it if it hurts too bad but..fuck…I can’t hold off anymore,” He slid his fingers out of you, but not without a shiver running up your spine. 

Drifting downward, he undid—what he would call—his restraints and slid off everything from the waist down. Once he kicked it off to the edge of the bed and over, Satoru sat up on his knees and began fisting the base of his thick shaft.

“You’ve been leading me on all night..a man can only take so much you know..” It was almost a whining complaint that he twisted into a slight reprimand. “Let’s take this all the way. Let me get you there. You know I’ll fuck you so right in all the wrong ways.”

Panting now, he looked down at how your body was screaming with Fahrenheit and anticipation as much a him. The puddle of slick pouring out into the slight indents of your abdomen from your sobbing cockhead—that, amongst others let him know just how he was getting to you. 

Just a bit of finger fucking and you were already like this..? He couldn’t even begin to fathom how you’d be when all 7.4 sunk in.

A whine trailed out when, the slight of fullness had been removed from your pulsing walls. “‘Toru..” You frustratedly simpered out, covering up your eyes with your forearm. “Quit f-fucking playing..”

“Playing? I’m just waiting for you to drop the attitude and ask me how you know you’re s’posed to.” He snipped back. “You’re the one squirming around and enjoying yourself getting off on my hand but you’re still so confident.”

You bit back a groan at his bratty response and shivered out a sigh. “I’m..sorry.”

“For..?”

“For giving you lip about how you’re not inside me right now.”

He shrugged his shoulders and slid his dripping tip along the crevice of your as—teasing you with his hips each time it caught on the rim. “I think you can do better than that..” Each pass spreading the slick that was artificially—or ‘magically’—pouring out of you and the fat drops of pre that were coming from Satoru.

Leaning your head back, down into the pillow, you began to speak, “Haah..for being..defiant—”

“Look me in the eyes when you’re asking me for something. That’s common courtesy.” With a slight bite, he pressed the tip past just a bit and it was enough to make you trip up in your sentence.

Your arm fell from over your eyes and to the side of your head as you stared up at him with all due reluctance. It was mildly hard to tell with how your features were already being contorted by the promise of more. “I’m sorry for being..mhn..defiant. I’ll listen, I’ll be..good for you. So please give me what I want..” 

“Atta boy.” He purred, taking that as a sign to ‘spontaneously forgive you’. In reality—he just hadn’t expected you to beg so fucking nicely with just a bit of teasing. Next thing you knew, he was bottoming out inside you.

The pathetic sound that your mouth produced was one you didn’t know you could make before. A gradual and steady ease into it would’ve been better but oh he did the exact opposite of any of that. He had let out his own slightly pained groan at the sheer grip that you had on every inch you’d taken so gracefully. Eyes falling directly down onto you, he gave a half-smile that was somewhat meant to convince himself, just as much as you that it wasn’t that big of a deal. 

“Holy shit..fuck you feel…fuck..” Vocabulary failing for what felt like the first time during the entire encounter, you heard the light fluttering of his wings up on his shoulders–most likely compensating for the way his hips had jutted to a stop after the initial breach of both your senses. 

The cherry on top had to be the fact that he had pressed down riiight onto that little symbol of yours. Exactly where you could feel his cockhead nestled so snugly inside. It didn’t help that the veins were pulsing as they struggled to all find purchase within your sopping wet hole. He pushed your legs back by your knees–not into a full-on mating press yet but just enough so he could start rocking and setting up a steadfast rhythm inside. 

You thought it’d be easier to–well, who are we kidding? It was already hard enough for you to deal with him just being inside but now with that drag that was building up the friction your body felt like it’d been waiting ages for; you were already rendered a stuttering, tensed up mess. 

Rampant fingers scrambling for him and finally pulling him down on top of you by the base of his horns, you earned a groan that faded off into a dry laugh. “Aw, already can’t seem to get me close enough? I’m already all the way up in your stomach, you know..”

“I..mnh..I know, I know..f-fuck, ‘s just..a lot.” You pieced together, even with the currents that were creating seas of pleasure through your veins. It was like each time he pulled out and dropped all the way back down into you, his throbbing cock found new spots to bully and pinpoint. “.. ‘Yer fillin’ me up so much I c-can barely think straight, ‘Toru..”

That hanging coo of his name made his heart–and well, dick–throb as he furrowed his eyebrows in slight concentration. He was building up a sweat, easy to tell from the droplets that slid down his brow ridge and past his face to fall onto you. 

“Are you sure you’re a virgin..? Or do you just naturally say shit that makes me want to give up on trying to fuck you slow?” He grunted, each time with a deep grind against your deepest parts.

At one point, he went into what felt like full downward dog and that alone was enough to prove his question to be redundant. Poor you, you didn’t even know what that bit of hip curvature could do before you were shuddering out a premature orgasm that startled the both of you when it hit. You were slightly mortified at the fact you’d cum from just a few well-placed strokes but to Satoru, you couldn’t have stroked his ego any better. That little emblem glowed it’s white shimmer until your climax subsided, Satoru never really stopping his motions until you were completely sated and now thoroughly heightened in your nerves. “Fuck, ah, s-shit, I’m sorry I didn’t think I’d–”

“Why’re you apologizing for that?” He laughed out. “It’s only your first of tonight, anyway. Might as well get used to it..” Giving another scan over your body, he could see and feel just how much each little detail was contributing to the state you were in now. “Hey, can you..get on all fours for me..?” “Why..?”

“I want to see if you can get a few back to backs while I’m hitting it from the back.” So chipper about it, you couldn’t help the slight twist of annoyance that came with it. To him it was worth it though, just to see your face get all pouty about the matter. 

Slowly withdrawing, he eased you off of your back with a flawless handling of your waist and legs, making sure not to give you too much ragdoll treatment–yet. Your face naturally landed into the pillow with a muffled ‘hmph’ and just seconds later, you felt his thumbs spreading your hole out. He was admiring the view and your face grew hotter with each passing instant that you could feel his eyes lingering there. 

“Do you mind–”

“Hush up, f’me. Let me enjoy this fully–it’s not every day that I get to fuck virgins so I’m trying to make you last.”

You let out a lengthy groan into the fabric before speaking again, “Why can’t you just fuck my brains out already..that is your job. Not to tease me until I can’t take it anymore..” “Oh, trust me, sweetie,” All matter-of-factly, he leaned down to nip and bite at the exposed skin of your shoulder, moving to lick a stripe from your tailbone, all the way up until he placed another loving set of teeth marks at the nape of your neck. “If that was enough to make you finish quick as you did–you wouldn’t be able to handle all that. I’m doing this for your sake, so try and sound a bit more grateful.”

Whatever bratty remark you had to give afterward was silenced by the sound and feeling of a fat wad of his saliva coming into contact with your puckered entrance. A mild shiver and you could’ve sworn that the tips of your ears were redder than ever. It also didn’t help the fact that he began that languid stroking of his angry cockhead all along the crevice that he’d spread out so gracefully and politely.

Throaty grunts–some fading into soft, almost tender moans–fell on your ears in an increasing succession. It was enough to drive anyone far up the wall. Especially when he’d already given you such a clear-cut example and beautiful snippet of what was to come.

Almost on their own, your hips began to bounce back on him in the slight of chasing more of the friction that was your only–inadequate–sense of relief. “Aww, ‘s the matter, pretty boy?” Once again, that patronizing coo of his pet name stole a whimpered complaint from your mouth. It felt mostly on deaf ears with your face being so submerged into the plush. “Doesn’t this feel soo nice? Hm? Remember what we talked about..”

“I-it does..it feels..hah, amazing…” You’d meekly reply.

He cocked his head to the side, angling an eyebrow at you before planting an arm squarely beside your face, then using his free hand to guide your eyes up to his. “Buttt..”

“I told you..” It was then that Satoru got to see the true effect of all his ruthless teasing–you were already tearing up. His snow blues widened at the sight of the mild wetness that had begun to spring from your eyes and stain your cheeks. “..‘S not enough..I’m burning inside and you’re being fucking..mean.” 

Oh, but how could he not? 

The entire night, you’d been casting glances, slipping words under your breath and essentially leading him all the way on. It was–one of–the more irritating ‘jobs’ that he’d ever gotten but after having a taste of you..? Seeing how those pouty expressions became twisted and eventually fell away once you really started to feel it..how could he resist..? 

“Ah, I see now..” he drawled, lining himself up once again. Luminous depths all muddled with lust and something just simply carnal lurking behind them, his breath hitched and so did yours when he slipped the tip in. As much as you wanted to recoil, he held your face there, clawed nails softly digging into your cheeks. Mouth hung open above yours, his lips just ghosted with the heat of his every exhale. “I’m sorry, baby..you must be in agony, huh..? You’ve already had such a bad night..”

Inch by inch, he watched with hawk-eyes the gradual descension of your facial expression–so needy, so fucking pathetic–alll because of him. 

Oh, that was just the half of it. 

From this angle, this position..fuck was he reaching deep. Deeper than before it felt–and even then, he didn’t stop until he was fit so snugly inside. “S-shit..might get fuckin’ addicted to this,” he huffed once again, then pressing his sweat-riddled chest against your fluttering spine. “Let me help you forget about all your problems..you deserve it. Just lie there, look good, and take everything I have to offer..” 

With that low mutter, he sealed your lips together and kicked up his rhythm–obscene and just downright filthy sounds coming from the connection between the two of you. Instead of the grind he’d grown and nurtured beforehand, his hips were slamming into you, making that harsh slap each time that his pelvis pressed up against the fat of your ass. It was enough to have your legs trembling just a few minutes in.

Over and over and over, just fucking pounding you in. Your moans and gasps for air were all swallowed up into his slick maw as he dominated the kiss with ease. His tongue was mapping out each crevice of your mouth. As much as you thought he tasted sweet enough to make your dentist fly into a fury–he thought you tasted fucking divine.

“God-damn, holy–keep it arched like this..just like..ahh…” He began to roll his head back but just as he did, your hand came up, tugging him back down over you by one of his horns. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. A brief widening of his eyes and he was now hooking his big hands into the junctures of either of your hips, pulling you back with a harsh tug that made the precision of his thrusts seem all the more brutal. 

One hand firmly clasped on the protrusion of his head, ever-adjusting, another scrunching up your poor pillow as yet another round of tremors rang out through your spine. Your lips were fallen open in such a blissed out way that all manners of sounds were coming from there. Ranging from, “Right there..! R-right fuckin’ ohhh..!” to strings of, “S-slow– mhn..! Can’t take..haah..” It was so endearing how you couldn’t even properly place what exactly it was that you really wanted.

Slithering a hand from its holster, he wrapped around, once again laying his chest on top of you but this time sinking his weight down into you in a way that made your body tense and you could’ve sworn you heard the zip! Signaling a short circuit in your brain when your prostate was dug into sooo fucking deliciously. 

What definitely wasn’t helping were the fingers that had found your sorely forgotten shaft–left to leak endless strings of pre down onto your sheets as you were dicked down into them. Methodically twisting his wrist on the upstroke, he eventually noticed how your ass was rutting back against him, encouraging him to continue his relentless pursuit. “I can’t..hngh..make you out…” heavily panting, he began to leave the back of your neck and shoulders branded with the map of his sharp canines and incisors. 

Another one of those hearty chuckles, just a little less throaty and more breathless than anything and he was kissing up along your shoulders. “You’re really something, y’know.”

“..‘Toru...”

“Yess, handsome?” That purr was enough to make you flush, maybe even a bit more than how he was literally jerking you off while keeping at a standstill inside.

Pulling your face up and out of the small huddle you’d made amongst your arms, you gave him that glossy-eyed look. Oh you felt him throb. “I’m..getting close again…”

“Oh yeah? Aaand..you’re getting close to..what, exactly?” Even now, he wasn’t letting up on his teasing, sliding his fist up to create a lewd squelching sound along your weeping tip. A careening moan stopped what you were going to say next but it was so cute to hear you struggle to form the most basic of sentences. 

“..Fuck.. ‘m gonna cum..”

“Already?” 

His response made your cheeks stain with crimson once more as you then coyly nodded along. “I want you to..cum with me…You didn’t before.” 

God. 

Maybe he was just turned on or maybe it was his heart melting, but that ignited something inside of Satoru that he couldn’t explain. All that you knew was that he was practically smothering you now, big, strong arms gathered around your head as he buried his face into the crook of your neck–fucking ramming his cock deeper and deeper with all due haste.

Your fingers came up to scratch at his biceps, clawing at the skin there as your voice grew louder and louder, more and more strained and finally being dulled out by the pillow whilst you were sent barreling over the edge. Incoherencies flowing from your mouth like a fountain–akin to how your dick was pumping out rope after rope of burning release onto the sheets. It didn’t help that even when your body grew rigid and you were shuddering through your climax–he kept going.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck..” Chanting over and over, each weighted slap of his balls up against your sore taint was plowing you through your already-powerful orgasm and straight into overstimulation. He would’ve been more gentle, would’ve stopped and maybe rubbed the rest out after you came but the way your hole was fucking clinging to him–as if begging him to stay–he knew that was a lost cause.

His breathing faltered, got caught in his throat a few times before he was whining in your ear. It was hard to make sense of, given your deliriousness and the fog that was beginning to mar your psyche but something along the lines of, “My name, f-fucking say my name..” he pleaded. “Wanna let this..whole fuckin’ neighborhood know who’s the first..who’s the best fuck you’ll ever have.”

In a blind state of compliance, you tried your hardest to follow his command.

“Satoru–”

“Fucking wrong.” He bit.

Trying again, you rolled your neck off to the side, resting your cheek down into his forearm as you helplessly mewled underneath him. So close already, his cock was pulsing inside of you with each rapidfire, short stroke he made. “Jesus fuckin’--ahh..! ‘Toru, ‘Toru..oh my fuck, ‘Toru..!” With how syrupy sweet his name sounded on your lips, it was no surprise at all when you felt the first spurts of cum begin to paint your insides when you said it.

‘Toru, Toru, Toru’ over and over--he rode out every last second of his climax with deep, guttural groans of your name, essentially returning the favor a bit. By this point, your mind was already swamped with pleasure that had long since had your eyes simply rolling. That burn had begun to dim down and it seemed as though he was spent as well–for the most part.

Basking in that pretty afterglow, he finally let some of his weight stop pinning you down to the mattress and opted for leisurely laying on top of you. “Hey, not too bad at all for a first timer.” like a switch was flipped, he was right back to his casual, smug demeanor. Still out of breath but steadily regaining his senses, he brushed back a few strands from your face before letting his softening shaft slip out. Teasing the tip a bit before the pop! rang out, almost immediately his load started to drip down your thighs.

Only then did you let your hips sink back down with an unceremonious fall.

He glanced over the sight with rapt attention–he couldn’t help but glide his fingers through the mess he’d made of you. You felt a small shiver run up your spine when he did, lifting your head up and off of the pillow just enough to look back at him through your tousled locks. “Seriously, Satoru?”

“Aww, what? I liked it when I was ‘Toru’.” He’d whined with a feigned look of dejection.

Rolling your eyes, you turned over on your back and to your surprise–the mark was gone. “Hey, where did–”

“It’s temporary,” Cutting you off just a bit, he smiled. “I came inside, I helped you out, anddd..my job is done.”

Slowly but surely, you watched all of his otherworldly features begin to retreat–his horns disappearing back into his hair, wings folding up and sliding back into place inside his shoulder blades. It looked..painful, but he hadn’t really flinched.

“Does that not..hurt at all..?” You inquired, gesturing toward the clear expanse of skin where his horns had been before.

All he did was shrug it off, bringing a hand up to his neck as he scratched the back of it lightly. “Huh..? Ah, I guess not. It’s sort of like..when humans naturally lose teeth. Orrr, growing and cutting off nails.”

“Kinda gross.” 

“You didn’t seem to find any part of me gross a few moments ago,” Swinging his long legs off to the side of the bed, he leaned down to tug his pants back on, keeping his belt messily undone. In another moment, he stalked over to your bathroom and you sat up a bit straighter, pulling your legs into yourself a bit. Your face fell as you thought it was simply over just like that. Well, until he came back with a towel from the cabinet. “Humans are so odd. Keeping towels in such places–they go on racks.” he’d grumbled as he made his way over to you.

Stepping back into frame, he saw the way your face was just a few seconds away from tearing up. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re hurt somewhere..” his features fell somber as he cupped your face, tilting it upward to look back at him. 

“N-no it’s..nothing.”

He gave a harsh scoff and once again pulled that smug smirk. “Uhuh. ‘Nothing’ my sweet ass. Talk to me, pretty boy.”

“I just thought..you’d stay a while longer.” Your eyes sideswiped away from his and all Satoru could do was smile even harder, dragging your face to his lips. Peppering kisses wherever his mouth could reach, you soon felt your face growing hotter. “Fuck–quit it..! What’s up with you-?”

Once again, another burst of laughter and he tugged away, unfurling the towel and wiping down all of your sullied limbs and taking extra time to tend to where he’d been paying the most attention beforehand. Knelt in front of you, cleaning off your inner thighs, he was humming lowly to himself. Your fingers carded through his white head of hair enough for him to look up at you with a raised eyebrow. “Is this the part where you say ‘I love you’ and you ask me to stay the night?”

“You ruined the moment, so..I’ll skip over the first part and just say thanks for helping me not be an adult virgin anymore.” You remarked with a small flick of his forehead.

Shrugging, he chimed back, “So I can still stay over?”

“Of course–my couch is always open for freeloaders.” 

That was enough for him to know where he stood and get back to cleaning up his mess.

A/N: Kind of my debut into this scene..! You lot showed so much love to the mlist alone! I hope I characterized my precious ‘Toru’ well, I took inspiration. More on the way—enjoy the first commandment. 🧧

[cjlouwho]

Twelve Christmases

no specific chapter tags

read below or on ao3

Day 11: 2024

They didn't work on calls together often. Or, at all, really. But today was an exception. Today, Tommy was on the ground and the fire required help from five different stations. It took hours to get it under control, and then they were getting everything cleaned up. Tommy was pretty sure he could get back to Harbor without ever seeing Buck.

However, as that thought crossed his mind, and because the universe had it out for him, he was suddenly face to face with Buck, who was staring at him with his mouth hanging slightly open.

"H- Hi, To-"

“I started going to therapy,” Tommy blurted.

Buck cocked his head to the side. “Y- You did? When?”

“I made an appointment two days after we,” he paused, took a breath, “after I broke up with you.”

“Oh, that's... that's good, Tommy. I mean, I- I guess that's good. That's good, right?”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah, it's good.”

“Well, then. Good.”

There was a few seconds of awkward silence.

Until.

“I've been wanting to text you since we broke up.” Seemed like it was Buck's turn to blurt something out.

“I've been wanting to text you too.”

“Yeah, the bubbles.”

Tommy's eyebrows furrowed. “The bubbles?”

Buck shook his head. “Nothing. It's... nothing. I just feel like we left a lot of things unsaid. Most things were left unsaid, actually. I'd like to change that. I'd like to try to change that.”

Tommy pursed his lips, trying to maintain his composure. It was getting more difficult by the second though, so he let go. “Buck, I'm a disaster,” he admitted, shoulders slumping. “I mean a huge, giant, massive disaster. There's been- There's so much that I...” his voice trailed off as he tried to find the right words. “It's years, and years, and years of traumas that built up, and I just kinda pushed them away and built a wall between me and all of that so that I could appear to be...”

“Comfortable?” Buck suggested.

Tommy smiled sadly. “Yeah.”

“I get that,” Buck replied. “It wasn't like I was really my best self either. I- I think I never let myself see past your wall. I knew there had to be more there, and I ignored it because you seemed so confident all the time and I kind of, maybe, took advantage of that.”

“No,” Tommy disagreed, stepping closer to Buck. “I never let you see beyond the wall, because the second it tore down I knew that it would just be this huge mess pouring out all over you and you don't deserve that, Buck. You deserve someone who actually has it together.”

“Tommy, what makes you think I have it together? I don't know what I'm doing. I think that's pretty obvious from the last time we spoke. I kinda made a fool out of myself.”

“Buck, it wasn't you,” Tommy tried to explain. “I decided from the start that I'd let you set the pace, and that was my mistake. I didn't realize your pace would feel like warp speed to me, and I would spend every day just trying to catch up. That's not fair to either of us.”

“Well i- it's not your fault that I'm so impulsive that I jumped over at least three steps when I asked you to move in with me and I just expected you to jump too. That wasn't fair either.”

Tommy took a deep breath, smiling slightly. “Sounds like I'm not the only one who's been going to therapy."

Buck laughed, rolling his eyes. “Every Tuesday, 4pm.”

“I'm Thursday's at five.”

Buck opened his mouth to speak when a voice came over the radio. “Leaving in five, Buck,” Bobby said. “Gotta head back.”

“Be there in a minute, Boss,” Buck replied.

He looked back up at Tommy. “I'd really, uh, like to talk to you, Tommy. Wh- When we're not in the middle of a shift. I'd, um, I'd like to get to know you. All of you.”

Tommy felt vulnerable. Exposed in a way he hadn't ever let himself feel before, and he and Buck hadn't even really said much. “I'm still trying to get to know myself."

“That's okay. I realized a few years back that that never really stops. I'd still like to talk. I think we both need that.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed. “Yeah, I'd like to get to know you too. All of you.”

“Okay. Good, um, j- just text me, okay? Whenever. I'll... I'll be here.”

“I will,” Tommy assured him, then added with a smirk. “I won't just bubble you.”

Buck smiled. “Ah, so you did know what I was saying?”

“Of course. I saw your bubbles too.”

Then Buck was clearing the rest of the space between them, wrapping his arms around Tommy in a hug. “Merry Christmas, Tommy,” he whispered, face practically buried in Tommy's neck.

Once Tommy's brain caught up to what was happening, he returned the hug, holding Buck tight.

“Merry Christmas, Evan.”

[thesweetnessofspring]

Haymitch, for all of his flaws, started a generational change that rippled out.

He didn't have much he could do to protect Katniss and Peeta from going into the Games, from Snow, from the Quell, or the war, but he wasn't going to let them lose each other. He knew what that was like, losing an ally (Maysilee) and a love ("my girl") and he might not be able to save them from all the Capitol put them through, but he pulled out every wile and connection and every minute of semi-sobriety he had in him to help his kids have a better life with each other, to not be alone and miserable like he was.

And how in turn Katniss and Peeta of course can't protect their kids from the pain of life, from their parents' nightmares, from the history they have to learn, from the worry it might happen again, but they built a life of full bellies and safety and love for them, so that in turn their children can have a better life, too.

[makoodles]

I would give anything to know Ghost’s inner monologue during any part of the last fic you posted. Is he purposefully getting into her space at the beginning (because we all know Ghost is too aware of his body and his trauma to accidentally touch anyone, let along have his entire side against them)? When he walks in does he just blue-screen, is that why he doesn’t immediately leave? What is he thinking when he sees our wet cunt still stuffed? When he finds out no one has touched us that way, or made us cum? When we want him to fuck us so badly we beg him to do it raw? Does his heart break a little when he heard us say we thought he left us, while we were so vulnerable and still dirty? Is he also freaking out about the fraternization stuff, or has he decided that we are his in the same way that he is ours, and Price will just have to cover up another damn thing for his team?

yes to all of this

(a little drabble part 2 to this)

Ghost has a little habit, when you're concerned. He's usually hyper-aware of his body and his limbs and where he's touching, what's around and beside and behind him. His skin itches sometimes when he's touched without warning, though he always hides his reactions. But with you... he's not so careful. He lets his legs spread, his arms stretch, lets himself crowd into your space. There's something intoxicating about the way that you let him, the way you never lean away from him. You're just so soft, so warm, always letting him infringe on your space with a sweet little smile as though you're happy to see him. You're one of the rare people who are happy to see him, and it makes something uncomfortably warm wriggle in his belly.

So yeah, he leans into you when he sits next you in the rec room. It's mostly muscle memory, because you've never minded before. But today, you're a little tense. Ghost knows you, knows you well. He can see the way your spine is a little stiff, the way your eyes are a little glassy as you stare off into the distance. You look a little... ruffled. Ghost watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye, probes a little, but backs off when you dance around his question. He's knows boundaries well, and he won't push yours. Even if he thinks it's... strange that you leave so quickly, eyes averted.

Finding your phone wedged into the seat after you left was like an opportunity. Simon Riley has never had much, he's always made do, and yet he's admittedly greedy when it comes to you. He's not often a selfish man - he's never had enough to be selfish about - and yet he's hungry for your time, your smiles, your touch. And you're always so generous with yourself, so he doesn't second-guess his decision to follow you down the hall to your quarters. He's never been there before, and he wants to see your space, hungry for any shred of you he can get.

He should have knocked. It was rude not to. But he's so, so fucking glad he didn't.

He's a little rough when he opens your door, a little too eager to get into the room and see your pretty grateful smile when he gives you your phone back. But when he gets that door open, sees the sight of you on your back among your sheets, legs spread, head back, eyes fluttered closed, his mind goes fucking blank.

He watches you scramble, watches the mortification flash across your face as you attempt to shut your adorable little pink vibrator off as you shut your legs, depriving him of the prettiest view he's ever seen. Ghost is not a man with a weakness for pretty things, but it seems only natural that you're the exception, you and your pretty wet puffy pussy.

He hardly even knows what happens, his fingers and toes numb and his attention narrowed down to you, only you. Before he knows it, he's sitting on your bed, feeling enormous and ungainly next to you as you stare up at him. He reaches out, his big hands scarred and ugly against your pretty skin when he holds your vibrator, his blood buzzing at the thought that this had been inside you mere moments ago.

He never thought he'd be envious of a piece of fucking plastic, but here he is. A big man, a deadly soldier, reduced to a fool at your bedside. And yet, you don't even seem to notice. You're so good, so sweet, parting your legs when he asks you to and letting him look.

He asks you to finish. It's bold, and stupid, and greedy. He wants to see you come - he already knows it'll be the prettiest thing he's ever seen, that it'll be seared in his mind forever. In this moment, he thinks he'd do anything just to watch your eyes roll back, your face go slack, to hear the pretty little noises he knows you'll make.

It escalates faster than he could have imagined. Such a sweet thing, laying back and showing him how you use your vibrator. And he watches eagerly, his breath catching at the realisation that this is how you play with yourself when you're alone. You're clumsy about it, which is absolutely adorable.

But then you make a confession, and Ghost thinks he might be spiralling. You've never been touched, never been fucked, never come. It feels like an outrage. He thinks of how tense you'd been earlier, shifting beside him in your blue jeans, and he just thinks... what the fuck? Prettiest girl he's ever seen, and you don't even know how to touch your own cunt properly? He wants to show you, more than anything he's ever wanted before. Greedy. You make him so greedy.

"Let me try."

He's between your legs before he even knows how he got there, pulling your stupid little vibrator out so he can replace it with his fingers. And if he thought he was greedy, he soon finds that he's well-matched when it comes to you. You're just as eager, just as hungry. Spreading your legs and whimpering, all those sweet, sweet noises that spill out of your mouth, just like he knew they would.

You have the prettiest cunt he's ever seen. Pretty, slick, swollen, just as hungry as the rest of you. He alternates between his fingers and his mouth and your little dildo, a little drunk on your taste and your soft thighs when they squeeze around his head. He kisses you too, because he can't help himself. Greedy.

He's never been a chatty man, but his cock is so hard now and he knows his mouth is running. He can't help himself. Your salty-sweet slick on his tongue has loosened it; he barely even knows what he's saying, or what he's promising, but by god he's going to live up to it.

Then, your lovely sweet voice, all breathless and pitchy, asking “Can I try yours?”

Not only that, you beg. You plead with him to fuck you, to do it raw, as if he was ever going to say no. As if he'd ever be strong enough to say no. He can hardly handle hearing you beg like that; he feels as though he's going to blow before he even gets his cock inside you.

In his wildest dreams, he never imagined you so needy. You writhe, you're soaked, you make the most heart-stopping little noises deep in your throat when he presses inside. You're so hot and wet and tight that it feels as though you're about to squeeze his cock right off, and he tries so hard to feed it to you slow, to give you time to take him. You're so good, taking him even though you struggle a little. He's not a small man, certainly not an easy man to take inside of you for your very first time, but it's a testament to how slick and eager you are that he slides in with minimal effort.

After that, he loses himself. Hardly even knows what's he's doing, working based on pure instinct, filling and fucking you until he's losing his breath. God, you're beautiful, and he clenches his jaw hard to bite back his orgasm - he has to focus on you, only you while the tears are streaming down your pretty face as you gasp and cry for him.

He can see your orgasm creeping up on you before you recognise it yourself. When it hits you, it's a whole body event. Your back arches, legs spasm, stomach trembles, eyes roll back. Your cunt clenches down so fucking tight that it's a little bit painful. Simon doesn't dare blink - he's never going to fucking forget this. Your very first orgasm, and you're experiencing it on the end of his cock.

He loses it a little after that, his thoughts fizzing and slipping from his grasp as he loses his coordination. By the time he comes inside of you, cock throbbing and skin tightening, he's already decided that he's going to have to make you come again. Once isn't enough, not for someone as hungry as him. Or you.

He thinks he might have fucked you stupid. Your eyelids are fluttering and your lips are parted, but you're a little bit dead to the world. It's cute. He feels his pride swell, smug at the thought that he's fucked you so good that he's sent you reeling off into dreamworld.

He leaves, only for a moment, unable to be away from you for too long. He just wants to get a cloth, something to wipe you off with to make you all clean and fresh again. You're already awake when he comes back, though you're still hazy and clumsy and all teary-eyed.

He's happy to wipe you clean, despite your quiet mewling complaints, and then he hauls himself into your bed just so he can curve his big-ass body around your smaller one, relishing your sweet softness. God, he's wanted to hold you like this forever, but he's still a little nervous about hurting you. Killing and maiming and hurting have been the only things he's been really good at his whole life, and he's irrationally fearful of moving wrong and hurting you, even after the sex. Or maybe especially after the sex.

He can see your brow crease, the uncertainty in your eyes. He realises you're probably a little uncertain about where you stand with him, or what this is. That's fair. Simon has never been the most demonstrative man, but he's also been the type to cling on like a tick to the things he values, the things he wants to keep safe. He holds you, checking his strength, proud to be able to keep you safe in his arms.

He's going to make sure that you don't worry about it either. Your hair smells sweet, your skin is so warm, and your ass is so soft where it's pressed against his crotch. He's reaching for you before he can think about it, and his heart pulses hard when you spread your legs for him so easily. God, he's gonna ruin you. Just like he promised.

[aventurineswife]

I'm currently experiencing hsr brainrot help me, may I request aventurine, blade, sunday, jing yuan and boothill about their types or preferences(appearance, personality, and stuff like that) for their future significant partner? I'm not sure if this had been already done so ignore if yes!! Also I'm a new follower and I've read many of your works recently, I really love your writing style and how it ticks my brainrot just righttt ♡♡♡

HSR Characters and their preferences in a S/O

A/N: I tried my best here, but I didn’t get into specifics about hair color, eye color, or other physical attributes (except for scars and such). So please, don’t come after me (I’m joking, of course). After all, at the end of the day, it’s all fictional! 💀 And this is just my personal opinion on what the men would want in a S/O 😇. I hope you like this!

Appearance:

Aventurine is captivated by individuals who radiate subtle individuality—those who blend sophistication with an undercurrent of boldness. Unconventional touches like asymmetrical accessories, vibrant patterns, or a daring hairstyle intrigue him, especially when worn with confidence.

He’s drawn to a balance between practicality and elegance—someone whose style is functional yet carries an artistic flair, a quiet rebellion against conformity.

A piercing gaze, sharp and confident, mesmerizes him. He loves the challenge of eyes that seem to see past his charm and into the broken truths he hides.

Scars, blemishes, or physical imperfections catch his attention. They whisper untold stories he aches to unravel, providing a glimpse into the person beyond the surface.

Personality:

Aventurine seeks a partner who thrives in the dance of words and wit. He’s fascinated by someone who can keep him guessing—playfully resistant to his charm and never predictable.

He’s drawn to people who’ve endured hardship and emerged stronger, finding common ground in shared trauma or survival instincts.

While Aventurine guards his vulnerability, he craves someone with the emotional intelligence to see past his bravado. Their ability to intuit his needs, even when unspoken, creates a sense of safety.

He admires a grounding presence—someone self-assured yet humble, who can counterbalance his more dramatic tendencies without overshadowing him.

Compatibility:

High-stakes situations invigorate him, so he appreciates a partner who thrives under pressure. Whether it’s in a game of strategy or a tense negotiation, he seeks someone who can match his composure and cunning.

Trust is a slow-burning process for Aventurine. His partner must be patient, willing to navigate his walls without forcing him to open up before he’s ready.

Dynamic:

Aventurine doesn’t just want a lover—he needs a partner-in-crime. Someone willing to embrace the thrill of calculated risks, whether it’s a dangerous gamble or a perfectly executed scheme.

They balance his indulgent tendencies, providing a steady hand when he flirts with self-destruction. Together, they form a dynamic duo—equal parts chaos and control.

Appearance:

Blade has little concern for traditional beauty, focusing instead on the feeling someone evokes. He’s drawn to understated traits that exude calm, mystery, or quiet strength.

A serene or enigmatic aura captivates him, especially in those who seem like they’ve weathered storms of their own. Scars or imperfections are less flaws and more badges of survival—silent testaments to a shared pain.

There’s a certain poetry in subtlety that Blade finds magnetic, such as the way someone carries themselves or a fleeting, knowing glance.

Personality:

Blade’s ideal partner must embody gentle resilience—a quiet strength that offers stability amidst his chaos. He’s not drawn to overt displays of power but rather to those who endure with grace.

His partner needs to respect his emotional distance and allow their bond to deepen organically. They provide solace through presence, not pressure.

Understanding his guilt and anger without pitying him is crucial. He needs someone who offers comfort without trying to “fix” him.

He admires individuals who remain true to themselves, even in the face of his volatility. Their grounded nature becomes his anchor.

Compatibility:

Blade struggles with verbal affection and grand gestures. His partner must value actions over words—small, meaningful gestures like a shared silence or a comforting touch.

Loyalty is paramount. Blade often tests boundaries, whether intentionally or not, and needs a partner who remains steadfast in their care.

Dynamic:

Blade seeks a relationship built on mutual protection. His ideal partner isn’t there to save him but to walk beside him as he confronts his demons.

Their love is a slow-burning fire, marked by quiet moments of vulnerability and unspoken understanding. They don’t demand his trust but earn it, piece by fractured piece.

Appearance:

Sunday gravitates toward those with an ethereal or graceful quality—a beauty that feels otherworldly yet grounded. He appreciates the quiet elegance that reflects his Halovian heritage.

Symbolic trinkets or meaningful accessories, like earrings or pendants, resonate deeply with him, mirroring his love for intricate details and subtle meaning.

Personality:

Sunday is drawn to those who counter his melancholic worldview with a hopeful, compassionate perspective. He needs someone who gently challenges his ideals without dismissing his emotions.

His partner must possess a quiet, unwavering self-confidence. They confront his twisted philosophies with patience and understanding, offering a grounding presence.

A partner with a playful streak appeals to him, especially when it contrasts with his solemn demeanor. Their lightheartedness reminds him of life’s simple joys.

Compatibility:

Sunday needs a partner who can understand his lofty ideals and gently challenge them, offering a grounded perspective that helps him reconcile his desire for a perfect world with the imperfections of reality. They should help him navigate his philosophical struggles without dismissing his emotions.

Sunday thrives in a relationship where emotional depth is paired with moments of lightness. His ideal partner balances serious conversations with a playful streak that brings joy and reminds him of life’s simple pleasures, helping him reconnect with spontaneous joy.

Trust is built slowly for Sunday, so his partner must be patient, allowing their bond to deepen organically. They should provide stability and comfort, supporting him as he works through his emotional walls and guiding him toward growth without forcing him to change before he’s ready.

Dynamic:

Sunday’s ideal relationship thrives on emotional intimacy. His partner navigates his philosophical struggles with care, providing warmth and optimism without trying to fix him.

They challenge his tendency to idealize perfection, helping him rediscover beauty in imperfection and spontaneity.

Appearance:

Boothill is drawn to raw, unrefined beauty—someone who’s lived and survived, marked by the stories their body tells. Scars, tattoos, and bold fashion choices are a reflection of resilience and adventure, and he admires individuals who wear their history as a badge of honor. He’s captivated by those who can rock vibrant, contrasting colors or mismatched styles with confidence, projecting a sense of strength and individuality.

He’s particularly fond of eyes that burn with fire and determination—eyes that match his intensity, yet hold a vulnerability only the right person can see. Confidence is key, but it’s that unpolished confidence, the kind that’s earned through hardship, that pulls him in.

Personality:

Boothill craves a partner who can match his fierce energy and boldness. He’s drawn to those who share his burning passion for justice and fighting for what’s right, even if it means breaking the rules. He admires fearless individuals who challenge authority and embrace a world of gray, not just black and white.

A sharp, witty partner who can banter with him is essential—they need to hold their ground in arguments, but still know how to make him laugh. Beneath his hard exterior, he secretly yearns for warmth and loyalty, someone who sees past his rough exterior and recognizes the vulnerabilities hidden underneath.

Patience is a challenge for him, but he seeks someone who can balance his impulsive nature, tempering his decisions with wisdom while never dulling his fire. The ideal partner doesn’t just soothe his rage—they fan the flames in the best way possible, stoking the fires of his passion and his purpose.

Compatibility:

Boothill’s partner would have to keep up with his relentless pace, matching him in the heat of battle as much as in life. They must be able to stand beside him during intense moments of action, yet offer solace and understanding in quieter, more reflective ones. His ideal relationship is built on equal footing—where passion and respect for one another fuel their connection.

Their dynamic would never be boring—full of challenges, shared adventures, and a fiery bond formed through trials, risks, and the occasional reckless decision. They would push each other toward greatness, not with soothing words, but through daring acts of loyalty and love.

Dynamic:

Boothill wants a relationship full of intensity, one where his partner isn’t afraid to stand by him, even if it means navigating chaos or defying the odds together.

This is not a relationship where either party is passive—it’s a partnership of equals, where each individual’s strength and spirit fuel the other. Their love would burn brightly, fueled by both passion and unshakable loyalty, with both of them walking side by side through any storm, ready to fight for each other and what they believe in.

Appearance:

Jing Yuan is drawn to elegance and grace—someone whose appearance radiates composure and quiet strength. He appreciates fine details and a refined aesthetic, as he values artistry in all aspects of life. A partner who can carry themselves with quiet dignity, with clothing that flows or intricate designs, would catch his attention.

However, while Jing Yuan admires serenity, he finds himself captivated by the unexpected spark in someone’s personality. A playful glint in the eye or a mischievous smile is enough to unsettle his calm demeanor, drawing him in even more. He appreciates someone who can maintain their elegance but isn’t afraid to reveal the more unpredictable, adventurous sides of themselves when the moment calls for it.

Personality:

Jing Yuan is in search of a partner who has a calm, patient demeanor—someone who understands the complexities of his strategic mind and the burdens he carries. His ideal partner is not only compassionate and wise, but also someone who can see the long-term view, matching his ability to think and plan for the future.

At the same time, he’s charmed by a partner who can bring a sense of spontaneity to his life. While he thrives on stability, he appreciates the occasional touch of unpredictability—someone who can light a fire under his more sedentary tendencies, adding a dash of excitement to the otherwise peaceful routines he enjoys. He values a balance of tranquility and energy, where his partner’s playfulness can bring joy without overwhelming him.

Compatibility:

Jing Yuan’s ideal partner would have the patience to stand by him through quiet moments of reflection, as well as the capacity to engage with him in deep, meaningful conversations. They would respect his thoughtful, strategic nature, while also encouraging him to take moments of respite, enjoying the beauty of life’s simpler pleasures together.

They would need to understand his need for a sense of long-term stability, yet not let him become too withdrawn or passive. A deep intellectual connection, rooted in shared wisdom and mutual understanding, would lay the foundation of their bond. Their connection would be built on the steady progression of trust and affection, growing subtly over time.

Dynamic:

Jing Yuan seeks a partner who can offer emotional intimacy without pressuring him for more than he’s ready to give. They’d share moments of serene companionship, where quiet silences are comfortable, and words aren’t necessary to convey their bond. However, his ideal partner wouldn’t shy away from challenging him, nudging him out of his intellectual ruts and helping him see the world in a new light.

The dynamic would be one of mutual respect, with his partner both grounding him and adding an unpredictable spark to his life. While he values peacefulness, he enjoys the occasional adventure or light-hearted moments that break through his more serious demeanor, reminding him that even in the pursuit of wisdom, life can be full of wonder.

P-please don't come after me...😭😕

[bi-writes]

so idk where i got this idea but mercenary!ghost x fem!reader because he's scary and mean and dangerous but then he sees some girl's ass in light blue denim.

notes about reader: as always, i tend to write readers described as curvy because im curvy and we deserve attention from 6'4 beefcakes who are soft only for us. reader is a civilian.

mercenary!ghost (part 1/?)

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, mentions of ghost's past canon trauma (domestic abuse + violence), mw3 spoilers, violence and gore + mentions of murder and extortion, mentions of reader + domestic abuse, protective!simon, size kink (reader is described as much smaller than simon, easily manhandled by him), pet names (luv, bunny + rabbit, puppy, angel face), reader learns she has a dark side and she likes it, nsfw thoughts about reader, suggestive touching (fem!receiving)

the sound of the burner phone pings on the desk in front of him. when he picks it up, he narrows his eyes as he reads the message displayed across the screen.

DEPOSITED.

when he opens his laptop, his eyes scan over the balance on an offshore account, and he relaxes when he sees the hefty balance climb just a little higher. he closes the device once he's satisfied with what he sees; and like always, he tastes the warmth of that satisfaction. it's a nice high, but it won't last, and then he'll need to feed the gaping hole that lives in him.

it remains hungry. he has never been able to close it--it has only ever gotten wider, ripped at the seams and torn at the edges every time another body close to him drops.

the high is poison. but even if it kills him, no one will miss him. so he picks up the handgun that lays haphazard on the bed, and he tucks it into the back of his jeans.

he passes by the mirror as he fits a dark denim jacket over his shoulders. he stares back at himself, a recognizable beast of a man staring right back. he pulls his hoodie up over him, and in the shadow of it, all he can see are his dark eyes, pale skin peeking through the eyeblack that has lightened up with the wear of it throughout the day.

he craves something strong and warm tonight. he itches for something soft, too, something that makes him forget the red on his ledger, even if for only a few hours.

there is nothing quite strong enough to wipe that kind of stain away. he is nothing if not a reaper, and he buries bodies with the same tenacity that he had when he wore his country's flag on his chest. this time, however, he does not take orders--he names his price.

he thinks something is wrong with him. some used to say that it was his courage that brought him back from the dead--that his heart is too strong, his will to live too much, and that is how he continues to open his eyes and live another day. but he doesn't agree with this thought, because he doesn't really think he feels anything at all.

he doesn't feel human. he doesn't feel alive. the only thing that makes him feel any sort of vulnerability is how red his own blood is when he bleeds. when his scars heal jagged and crooked, it is because there is something underneath the skin. but he feels nothing inside--no remorse, no guilt, he is not sorry.

he does not check to see if those men are innocent. he does not care about the names that end up on his list. he doesn't ask questions. and he thinks something is wrong with him because he sleeps at night just fine now; the nightmares have gone. he is alone, and it is peaceful.

there are no voices. there is only silence. and there is something wrong with him.

the pub is quiet. it is a weekday, and the only patrons are here after a long day's work, and they all look into the depths of their half-empty glasses hoping to find relief there. there is none, but they will finish their glasses hoping it might be dissolved in the alcohol.

he asks for two fingers of bourbon. it stings when it goes down, but then it settles warm. he is poured another two fingers of it, but before he can pick it up, someone else grips the glass and tips it back to swallow it down.

the glass hits the wood of the counter with an echoing thud, and you cough out a fuck as you settle into the seat beside him. you run a trembling hand over your face, and he notices immediately the red of your knuckles and the splitting of the skin there. they are fresh; the bruising is still new, and the blood is just barely beginning run down the back of your hand.

he leans over the bar, swiping the whole bottle of bourbon, and he silently pours more into the glass, hitting it towards you before picking up a new glass and filling it generously.

"who's the lucky bastard?" he asks, and your eyes flick to the cuts on the back of your hand before going back to the dark swirling colors of the drink.

"i'm sure he'll be coming in here any second to introduce himself."

the pub doors slam open, and there is a man coming in, chest heaving, dark hair falling over his forehead in sweaty curls that do nothing to hide the clear bruise on his face the split of his lip. his eyes move over the room before they settle on you, and his boots fall heavy as he makes his way over.

ghost sees his intentions clear immediately. the way his hand twitches at his side, the angry glare, the uncontrollable urge to hurt and to take and to control coming off of him like steam.

he has seen this kind of man before. this man was the one that kept him up at night as a child. this man was the one that scared his mum, that drove his brother to chase vices, that tore apart a house that should've been filled with something warm and sticky and kind into one marred with teeth, rotten and putrid and forgotten.

his hand goes for the back of your neck, and you close your eyes and tense in the anticipation, but it never comes. a strong hand grips his outstretched one, and the man cries out as ghost twists it behind his back and uses his other hand to slam his face into the wood of the bar, trapping him there.

the bartender does not even flinch, just continues to wipe down glasses. the patrons continue to stare into the abyss of their sorrow.

you jump a little, your head snapping to the side where the man squirms and sputters, his face going pale from the paw of a hand gripping him by the back of the neck and shoving his face into the counter. if he pushes any harder, you wonder if it'd splinter and fray, dig into the bones of his bruised cheek.

"this man botherin' ya, yeah?"

your eyes finally flick up. you do not know what you expect, but it isn't this. you can only see his eyes; they scare you. you do not lie because you aren't entirely sure how far his kindness will go.

"yes," you whisper, and when the man tries to spit at you, a rough gloved hand grips his curls and positions his head against the edge of the counter, forcing his mouth open until the top row of his teeth bite the wood.

"y'keep talkin' to her, n'it'll be the last time you talk, hear that, mate? y'talk to me, n'me only."

you swallow hard, and the man trembles. a strong boot hits the back of his knees, and then he's crumbling to the ground, his jaw straining as the counter is still forced against his mouth. hot, pained tears come down his face, and then he addresses you.

"what did he do?"

"bad first date," is all you can manage to sputter. he grips the man by the scruff of his neck before pulling him off to speak, tilting his head to the side as he observes the begging man on his knees.

"y'try to put your hands on'er?"

"i-it wasn't...like that! i-it was just a mis...a misunderstanding, please! please--please tell him--!"

"don't like fuckin' liars either," is the only warning given before his mouth is forced to bite the counter, and then a sharp elbow comes down on his head. you jump in surprise at the suddenness of it all, and you close your eyes when you hear the crunch of teeth being broken. his scream is enough to rattle the pub, but when you look around, it's as if nothing at all has happened. it is quiet, and all the bartender does is shake their head.

when you open your eyes, he's crawling on his hands and knees out of the pub, and what he leaves behind is a mess of blood and teeth and fluid that are splattered against the floor at your feet. you shake as you look up at him, stiff in your seat and soft tears coming down your face.

he towers over you. you have to tilt your head back between your shoulders to look at him face-to-face. you cannot see his face; he hides it behind dark fabric, but his eyes talk loud. they are dark, and they are dull, and you realize as you stare up at him that he is not phased in the slightest by what he had just done. in fact, he steps into your space, and the squelch of blood under his boot doesn't seem to bother him. he wears black, and you wonder, momentarily, if he wears such a color to hide the red hiding between the threads of the fabric. the red he can't wash away.

"let me look at ya, little rabbit."

you flinch when he knocks your knees apart, spreading them to make space for the width of him. he reaches up with one gloved hand and grips your chin, tilting your head to either side to see if you are hurt anywhere but your hand. when he is satisfied with his observations, he cups the expanse of your throat, smoothing those big fingers along the pulsing vein there and feeling the way you swallow.

so alive. so soft. a pretty little bunny, dropped into his waiting hands.

his eyes fall, and he takes you in. wide hips that take up the seat you're sitting in, hugged so nicely by light blue denim jeans. they curve over the swell of your ass, and he wonders how much of it would fit in his palm--he thinks about how it might feel to spread them apart and taste the succulent sweetness that he knows exists between your thighs and how your mouth might look slack jawed and wide open for him.

you look like a good girl, even with bloody knuckles.

then he follows the line of your shirt. it's a simple t-shirt tucked into your jeans, but the neckline gives a nice peek of you and the curve of your tits--they sit so nicely there, all perky, and ghost thinks they look lonely. they would be better off in his mouth or squeezing his cock between them or pebbling between his dirty gloved fingers.

filthy. disgusting. he is scarred all over, and you look so soft and sweet, with those tender puppy eyes and the way your lips tremble, and he bets you kiss all soft and slippery. he bets your cunt is tight and with enough coaxing, he could make you drench his skin with something decadent and slick, with whatever drools into your panties. he imagines it is there now, even as you tremble and shake and plead with your eyes for him to let go of your throat.

but ghost is not a good man. he does not feel; he is not a man at all. he is a beast in the shape of one, disguised, and he brings misery to everything he touches. he knows he will do it to you, too--touching pretty girls, he leaves them with burns. they are not the same after they are with him, and he wants to feel bad about it, he wants to feel something, but he does not. he feels nothing.

"you olright, luv?"

you nod frantically, putting a hand over his wrist that holds you, and he almost laughs. your hand is so much smaller than his own. if he squeezes his hand just a little harder, he figures it would not take much to break what lies beneath it. he leans in, and you gulp when your thighs trap his hips. he is warm, a furnace that burns, but you relax when the side of his mask nuzzles against your face.

he is a dog, and he is fond of you.

you should run. you should hit him like you hit your wretched date, and you should run, far, away from him, swear off men for good and never allow one in your space again lest they be as beastly as this. you should run while you can, but you are a bunny not yet in his trap, and you still have time to escape.

but then both of your eyes open at the same time, and his eyes meet your own, and then--oh.

the cage snaps shut. it rattles around you. it is small and confined, but you don't realize what it is yet because you can still breathe, and it is still warm, and you are still soft and alive and here.

your face softens, and his eyes flicker down to your lips as you lick them. maybe he was right. liars are bad. men like the one you were with before were scum. you had been with men like that before, you had seen the destruction they brought to those they thought they loved. when they wrought fear and made others bleed, they never got in trouble. no one cared to do to them what they deserved because they silenced their lambs and slaughtered the light out of them.

it is biblical--an eye for an eye. if they take from you, why can't you take from them?

it is brutish men like this one that do what others are too timid to. your thighs close around his hips, and you feel something digging into your leg, something metal and heavy tucked into his jeans. a weapon, but you imagine it is a mercy because you have an inkling that what he does with his hands is so much worse. bullets are clean and fast; his hands are not.

johnny would tell him to let you go. he does, over his shoulder, spitting at him to leave, to let you slip through his fingers and find your way out, to open the cage.

the wee lass--look at 'er angel face. let 'er go--not meant for this, LT. she scares. 's in 'er eyes. won't last.

but he does not feel. he is not human. there is something wrong with him, he knows it, but he doesn't care. he will ruin you, and he should feel bad, but he can't, he doesn't. and then there it is--your eyes are flickering low, eyeing the mask, and you are wondering how much effort it would take to push it up and lick into his mouth, taste him, suck the warmth of the bourbon from his mouth and replace it with your own.

he will kill again. the cage is shut, it is locked, and he is watching the bunny in its cage, watching as it becomes aware of its surroundings, takes in what is new. but just like he figures, just like he knows, this little bunny has no idea what this cage is. she has no idea she is even in one.

fuck what johnny says. if johnny was like him, if he was not skin and bone but steel and reptile, he would not have died. he would have come back. he would have moved his head, shaken the blood off, and gotten back up, but he didn't, and he's not here, and he's not real--so fuck what he thinks, fuck what he says, fuck him because he left me, and i'm all alone, and if i don't devour and eat and tear apart, i will wither away because i am not me, i am something else--

he smiles under the mask. you notice it, the slight movement there, and you smile, too, suddenly. his hand falls, and the back of his knuckles graze over the swell of your breast, down your stomach, and then he's gripping your waist. that hand slips behind you, and you brace yourself with both hands on his chest as he cups one side of your ass. possessive and suffocating--you think maybe you should run again, but you don't want to.

you want something more. you want something a little rough, something a little sharp. you want something to tell you that a little blood is good sometimes. that answering blood with a little more blood was exactly how it should be. that we don't have to be docile, to back down. you want to be told that it's okay to bite.

there is something wrong with you.

[willbyersabyss]

So what are Will's flaws?

Is Will totally perfect in every way? Is he a jealous saboteur? Or a secret third option... neither. Let's discuss Will's flaws and nuances!

1. Emotional suppression

Will avoids his problems. He hates talking about both his emotional and physical danger because he doesn't want to be treated differently. From a young age, he was taught by Lonnie that he shouldn't express his emotions because that makes him "sensitive" and "weak." So now he likes to hide.

This emotional suppression causes his feelings to worsen over time. Once he finally lets it out, he explodes. Instead of healthy conversations, he says and does things that he'll probably regret later. He blows up at Mike, he yells at Jonathan, he destroys Castle Byers, he shows his hand (what about us?)

Will's avoidance doesn't only have consequences on him, but others. If he had told someone he was feeling the Mind Flayer earlier, they might've been able to save some of the Flayed. But he couldn't tell someone because that puts him in a place of emotional vulnerability. That's exactly why he waited until after he fought with the boys to mention the supernatural. He traded one vulnerable situation for another, allowing him to avoid opening up about his true feelings. It was a distraction.

This also doesn't let others to heal from their altercations. Both Lucas and Mike try to apologize to Will, but he brushes them off. Will thinks he doesn't deserve consideration. The walls he puts up forces others to hold onto their own guilt, leaving a sore spot in their relationship. We can see this soreness in Will and Mike's relationship in s4. They never healed from the rain fight. Well... not that Mike tried to apologize after the Mind Flayer debacle. Again, distraction on Will's part.

Will’s inability to handle change is also due to him bottling up his feelings. His trauma and suppression makes him stuck in the past. He doesn’t let himself move through each day where these emotions would be felt.

It's interesting how Will is deemed the emotional one when his sensitivity is actually a result of him keeping his emotions in. Once that dam is opened, it's hard for him to stop. He breaks, just as he fears.

2. Self-hatred

And all that emotional suppression leads to Will internalizing other people's view of him. Will's self-hatred stems from bullying and his father's abuse. He thinks he's to blame, that he's a mistake. As more people distance themselves from Will, he believes there's something wrong with him.

When he thinks he deserves mistreatment, his relationships crumble more. They're unable to reconcile. True forgiveness can't be achieved if he doesn't think he should be apologized to in the first place.

Will's hatred is the reason why he tried to sacrifice himself in s2 to save his friends. He doesn't think he deserves to be saved. This makes him an easy target for Vecna. It's very likely that Will's self-hatred will factor into his upcoming supernatural plot.

The more Will hates himself, the more he hides, the more he suppresses his emotions.

3. People pleaser

If Will is anything, he's a people pleaser. He's selfless. So much so that this is the first thing we find out about him. While admirable, it actually leads to more bad than good. His people pleasing tendency goes hand in hand with his emotional suppression. Will doesn't like to take up space and inconvenience other people.

Will's never ending effort to please others leads to him making assumptions. Wrong assumptions. Whether it be letting Max join them on Halloween or pushing Mike to give a love confession, Will tries his best to use his mediator role to give people what they want.

But he doesn't know what they want, does he? Will wanted to make Dustin and Lucas happy, but this created a rift with Mike. He thought Mike was itching to profess his love for El, but that wasn’t what either of them needed. In an attempt to help, he's making it worse.

He must be successful sometimes, though, because there's an expectation from his friends that he'll fulfill their needs at the flick of a wand. This vacancy from Will makes him a pushover. They think they can make fun of him and he'll just take it because that's what he does. When Will finally stands up for himself, they're shocked. That's out of character for him. It's like they want to say: “Why isn't he letting us be mean to him? :(”

Mike even expected Will to tell him that his own girlfriend was being bullied. Will's people pleasing explodes in his face. So now when he's unable to read their needs and fix it for them, he's to blame. Will takes on the weight of their problems too much. While it's good that they rely on him, there shouldn't be pressure for him to judge their every whim. But it's not exactly their fault because Will set the stage for this behavior.

Weirdly, Will's need to please others is the reason why he didn't call Mike. He thought Mike wanted nothing to do with him, so he didn't reach out. There he goes assuming things again! But Will was there, waiting for the rare occasion where Mike did want him. He went so far right that he ended up left.

Will's behavior towards El is also an instance of wrong assumptions. Will didn't like being treated differently in s2, so he assumed El would feel the same way. He used his own experiences to inform how he should treat others. Babying El would make her feel more ostracized. Instead, he offered emotional comfort, similar to the comfort he received, after the bullying. This doesn't really help her because she doesn't have the same emotional mechanics as Will.

So Will assumes things, pushes his own wants down, and lets people walk all over him all in the name of being pleasant.

4. Freeze, fly, fight. In that order!

When Will is scared, he freezes. This flaw is so significant that they talked about it textually multiple times. I'm not sure I would consider it a flaw since it has saved him more than it's harmed him, though.

The few times Will has decided to fight instead of freeze, he was kidnapped and possessed. Confrontation isn't an option for him. His body believes he'll be put directly in danger if he does anything but freeze/fly. Fight is only used as a last resort.

It only really enters flaw territory when it's an inconvenience. He froze during the sauna test, when El was being bullied, and when he should've shot the creature in the shed. Will is unable to help himself and others when he's scared.

When he snaps out of it, he cries and feels guilty for being so hesitant. He wishes he could do more but he can't. This wraps back around to his self-hatred.

5. Jealousy

When his best friend of 10 years that he's in love with starts to ditch him for some random girl, it's not shocking that there would be some jealousy! Will is the silent jealous type. His jealousy doesn't really manifest into resentment or outward action against the other person. Unlike a certain someone...

Will only shows it through rolling eyes, a snarky comment here or there, or an outburst at his most emotionally vulnerable. I mean, if Will really wanted to see El crash and burn, he could've kept his mouth shut the entire Rink-O-Mania day. Or he could've ignored her in the courtyard as she picks up the pieces of her project. But he didn't.

The worst we've seen Will's jealousy was during the rain fight. He called El stupid. There's no beating around the bush, he was in the wrong for that. But this came out of Will because his emotions were at an all time high. Why? Emotional suppression!

A lot of Will's snarky comments towards El are out of genuine confusion. He doesn't understand how El can have exactly what he wants, but she's willing to ruin it by lying. Unfortunately, he later learns that exact lesson. He's envious that she can do what Mike hates without major repercussions, while he's somehow blamed for her lies. And why does he get blamed? People pleaser expectations!

Will waited until a quiet moment to inform El of her mistakes. Will's goal isn't to humiliate El. He doesn't let his jealousy lead to resentment. Instead, he tried to (snarkily) lead her to make better decisions because it's not fair! It's not fair that she can have it all without working for it!

And now we're back at self-hatred. Some of his jealous moments make it bubble back up. He bends his painting, something he put his blood, sweat, and tears into, because he isn't enough for them. Their ideal day is without him. Will's art is an extension of himself. He's aiming his anger back at himself by hurting his art.

All of his flaws connect back to his low self-esteem in some way. This is why it's important for Will to receive and accept love in his life. A big part of his arc is self acceptance.

So there it is in all its glory! All of Will's main flaws in one post. What did we learn? Will suppresses his emotions, hates himself, pleases others to a fault, freezes, and is green with envy. And he wouldn't be Will without 'em!

[daryldove]

Shower Thoughts, Water Falls

daryl x gn!reader, s4

Luring Daryl Dixon himself into a shower was no easy feat. He didn’t see the point—why waste time bathing when he’d just end up covered in dirt and sweat all over again?

You, however, showered as often as possible. Hot, running water was a luxury these days—one you knew to take advantage of. It wasn't just about getting clean, but as a way to remember life before. A ritual that cleansed both body and mind. In an ironic twist, these showers, previously holding prisoners, became your personal refuge. Any trauma from the day washed down the drain with your soap.

Naturally, once you started dating Daryl, you wanted him to shower with you. He was an incredibly closed off and private person, something you two had in common, and even bonded over. It was the perfect opportunity to be more open and vulnerable with each other. You hadn't had the opportunity to be as intimate as you both needed. He brushed off the idea at first, just as you expected. But eventually he opened up, like a flower uncurling its petals.

His chest pressed against your back as the warm water flowed between you. Built up tension had helped lower his guard, although Daryl was not the type of man to let his dick lead. His longing ran deeper—a quiet desperation to be seen fully and without judgement. desperation to be seen fully and without judgement. He craved acceptance, just as you did.

You rested your head against Daryl's chest as his fingers, rough yet gentle, explored your skin. A pleased sigh escaped your lips. You stood in silence, letting the world fade around you until only his quiet, strong presence remained. It felt like you're the only two people on earth.

The warmth of the water had started to wane, but neither of you seemed to mind. After a while, you spoke. “It’s funny how much I used to take this for granted… took a lot of things for granted. Even the small things feel like everything now.”

Daryl remains silent as his hands rest on your hips. You turn to face him, meeting his gaze, and the walls around him slip just a little further. The depth of emotion reflected in his eyes felt endless. You can't help but reach up to brush a damp strand of hair from his face, mouth twitching into a soft smile.

“Thanks for being here,” you whisper, his eyes flick across your face as if searching for the slightest sign of deceit. He wouldn't find any, you both knew.

[nyrasvoid]

Through Love and Sorrow

♡︎ Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

𖤓 Summary: After the joy of expecting their first child is shattered by a devastating miscarriage, Gwayne Hightower returns home to find his wife consumed by grief.

⚝ Warnings: Angst, Miscarriage, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy Insecurities, Emotional Trauma.

⚝ A/N: this fic also includes a kinda mother-son relationship between reader and Daeron,btw sorry I haven’t posted anything in like two weeks lmao

-Word count: ≈4.4k

This fanfic is a request from a while ago (link)

You sat in your room, the sunlight pouring through the tall windows. Your hands moved skillfully with the needle and thread, working on a small attire—a delicate onesie you had lovingly made for your child, your first with Gwayne.

As you finished the final stitch, you glanced at the door, eager for Gwayne’s return. You had planned carefully how to share the wonderful news with him, and now the moment had arrived.

The door creaked open, and Gwayne stepped in, looking tired but his face brightening when he saw you. “My love,” he greeted, coming over to kiss your cheek. “You look especially happy today. What’s going on?”

You smiled and took his hand, guiding him to sit beside you. “I’ve been working on something,” you said. “And I want to show you.”

Gwayne watched as you pulled the small onesie from behind your back and placed it in his hands. His brow furrowed for a moment in confusion before realization dawned on him. He looked up at you, his eyes wide with disbelief and excitement.

“Is this…?” he started, his voice full of wonder.

You nodded, unable to keep the smile from your face. “Yes, Gwayne. We’re going to have a babe.”

He stared at you for a moment, the onesie still in his hands as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

Then, without warning, he pulled you into his arms, laughing with joy. “A babe! We’re going to have a child!” His voice was full of emotion, his grip on you tightening as he buried his face in your neck. “Gods, I’m the luckiest man alive.”

You laughed with him, feeling the warmth of his love surround you. He pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands as he kissed you deeply, then gently placed his hand on your belly. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, as he got on one knee to kiss your barely swollen belly

“We’ll have a little one running around soon, with your beauty and wit,” Gwayne continued, his voice thick with emotion as he caressed your belly, where your child was beginning to grow. “We’ll teach them everything—how to ride, how to wield a sword, everything. I’ll be by your side through it all.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “And I’ll make sure they know how to be kind and strong, like their father.”

Gwayne laughed softly, his eyes sparkling with the kind of happiness that made your heart swell. “And stubborn like their mother, I’m sure.”

The days following the joyful news were some of the happiest of your life. Gwayne was attentive and loving, always making sure you had everything you needed, always talking about the future and the life you would build together. But as time went on, you began to be more worried and insecure.

The other ladies at court had spoken to you, sharing their experiences with childbirth—how their bodies had changed, how their husbands had sometimes seeked comfort elsewhere during those vulnerable weeks after the birth. They’d laugh softly, as if it were just a fact of life, but their words dug deep into your mind, planting seeds of doubt and fear.

You found yourself pulling away from Gwayne, unsure of how to voice your fears. He would come to you with that familiar smile, eager to talk about the babe or to spend time with you, but you would turn away, offering only brief responses, avoiding his touch.

It was not that you loved him any less—if anything, your love for him had only grown deeper—but the fear of losing him, of not being enough, was paralyzing.

One night, as you lay beside him in bed, the silence stretched on longer than usual. Gwayne finally turned to you, concern evident in his voice. “Darling, what’s wrong? You’ve been so distant lately. Have I done something to upset you?”

You stared up at the ceiling, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to reveal the insecurities that had taken hold of you. But Gwayne was insistent, turning onto his side and taking your hand in his. “Please, my love. Talk to me.”

The words came slowly, hesitantly, as you struggled to express your feelings. “I… I’ve heard the other ladies at court talk,” you began, whispering.

“About how their bodies changed after childbirth, how they couldn’t… couldn’t be with their husbands for weeks, sometimes longer. And how their husbands…” You swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.

Gwayne’s grip on your hand tightened as he waited for you to continue, his eyes fixed on your face, his worry deepening.

“They said their husbands sought comfort in other women,” you finally confessed, your voice breaking. “In whores. And I—I’m afraid, Gwayne. I’m afraid that I’ll change, that I won’t be… enough for you anymore. That you’ll look elsewhere.”

For a moment, there was silence. You didn’t dare look at him, too ashamed of the words you had spoken. But then Gwayne did something you didn’t expect. He started to laugh—a soft, warm chuckle that caught you off guard.

You turned to him, confused and a little hurt. “Gwayne, this isn’t funny—”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he said quickly, his laughter fading as he saw the tears in your eyes. He leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead. “It’s just… the thought of me with anyone else is absurd. My love, you are my heart, my soul. There is no one in this world who could ever compare to you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a gentle kiss. “Listen to me,” he said, his tone serious now. “You are the only woman I want, the only woman I will ever want. The idea of seeking pleasure in someone else when I have you is ridiculous. Those other men—they’re fools. I would never betray you, never.”

You felt a rush of relief at his words, though the doubt still lingered. “But what if—”

“No what-ifs,” Gwayne interrupted, his hand moving to cup your cheek. “I swear to you, on every star in the sky, that I will never stray. And if any man tells you differently, I’ll knock his teeth out.”

A small laugh escaped you, despite yourself. Gwayne grinned, his eyes twinkling as he saw the smile return to your face. “See? There’s that smile I love so much. You’re going to be a wonderful mother, and we’re going to be a wonderful family. No matter what changes, I’ll be right here, by your side.”

That night, the two of you found solace in each other, and as you drifted off to sleep, you felt the fears that had plagued you begin to disappear, replaced by the strength of your bond and the love you shared.

---

A few weeks later, you, Gwayne, and Daeron sat at the dining table, enjoying a simple meal. Daeron was telling you about his day, his young face alight with enthusiasm as he described his lessons and adventures. You smiled fondly at him, listening intently as he spoke about a new bird he had seen in the gardens.

“And then it swooped down, right in front of me! I almost thought it would land on my shoulder like the falcons do on their keepers,” Daeron said, eyes wide with excitement.

Gwayne chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair. You laughed softly, reaching out to squeeze Daeron’s hand. “You’re already quite the little adventurer. Perhaps one day you’ll ride with your uncle on his journeys.”

Daeron’s face lit up at the thought, and he looked eagerly at Gwayne. “Will you take me with you one day, Uncle?”

Gwayne smiled, “One day, certainly. But I’m afraid I have to leave again in three days’ time for an important matter in Blackcrown. I’ll only be gone for a month, maybe less.”

You felt a pang of worry at his words, though you did your best to hide it. You had hoped he wouldn’t need to leave again so soon, but you understood the responsibilities that came with his position. “Just promise me you’ll be back well before the babe is due,” you said. “I don’t want to have to deliver without you.”

Gwayne took your hand across the table, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’ll be back in plenty of time, I promise. Nothing could keep me from being here for you and our child.”

Daeron looked between the two of you, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and curiosity. “You’ll come back safe, right, Uncle?”

“Of course, Daeron,” Gwayne replied with a warm smile. “I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me.”

True to his word, Gwayne departed three days later. You and Daeron saw him off, Daeron clutching his uncle’s hand until the very last moment, and you pressing a kiss to Gwayne’s lips, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in your heart. As Gwayne rode away, you couldn’t help but feel a little sadness, but you reminded yourself that he would be back soon, that everything would be alright.

In the days and weeks that followed, you busied yourself with preparations for the babe. You spent hours knitting tiny clothes and blankets, imagining the child that would soon be in your arms. Daeron often kept you company, helping you with small tasks or just sitting nearby, chatting about his day.

One afternoon, you decided to take a walk in the woods with Daeron. The two of you had grown close over the years, and you cherished the bond you shared. As you walked along the familiar paths, Daeron spoke of his lessons.

“Auntie,” he began after a moment of comfortable silence.

Just as you were about to respond, a sharp, sudden pain shot through your abdomen, stealing your breath. You gasped, clutching at your belly as the pain intensified, bringing you to your knees.

“Auntie?” Daeron’s voice was laced with panic as he rushed to your side. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

The pain was unbearable, radiating through your entire body. You could barely find the words, but you managed to gasp, “Daeron, get help. Quickly.”

Daeron hesitated, his face pale with fear, but then he nodded. “I’ll be right back. Stay here, I’ll get help.” With that, he sprinted back toward the keep, his small legs carrying him as fast as they could.

You were left alone in the woods, the cold earth beneath you as the pain continued to wrack your body. You knew, deep down, that something was terribly wrong. Fear gripped you as you realized you might be losing the baby. Your heart ached with the thought, but there was nothing you could do except wait.

By the time help arrived, the miscarriage had already happened. The maids and guards who found you tried to help, but the damage was done. The life that had been growing inside you was gone, leaving you with an overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness.

Ignoring the advice of the maesters, who urged you to rest and be carried back to the keep, you walked on your own, numb to the world around you. The only thing on your mind was the baby you had lost and how Gwayne would react when he found out. You couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the disappointment in his eyes, even though you knew it wasn’t your fault.

Once you reached the keep, you went straight to the nursery. The small room that had been filled with so much hope and joy now felt empty and desolate. You sat down on the edge of the small bed, your hands trembling as you picked up the half-finished blanket you had been knitting for the babe.

Days passed in a blur. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave the nursery or eat. The maids came and went, offering food and kind words, but you paid them no mind. The world outside the nursery seemed to fade away, leaving you alone with your grief.

Daeron was the only one who could get through to you, even if just a little. He would visit you every day, sitting beside you and talking about anything and everything. His presence was a small comfort, a reminder that you were not entirely alone, even in your darkest moments.

One afternoon, Daeron came to the nursery as usual. He looked at you with concern. “Auntie, you have to eat something. The maesters say it’s important. Uncle Gwayne wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

You shook your head, still clutching the blanket. “I’m not hungry, Daeron. I just… I can’t.”

Daeron sighed, sitting down beside you. “I know you’re sad. I miss the babe too, even though I never got to meet them. But Uncle Gwayne will be back today. Maybe… maybe he can help you feel better.”

You didn’t respond, the weight of your grief pressing down on you. But Daeron’s words lingered in your mind. Gwayne was coming home. You weren’t sure how you would face him, how you would tell him about the baby, but you knew you couldn’t avoid it forever.

Daeron leaned in and gave you a hug, his small arms wrapped around you tightly. “I love you, auntie. And Uncle Gwayne does too. Don’t forget that.”

His simple words brought tears to your eyes, and you hugged him back. “I love you too, Daeron. Thank you.”

Daeron smiled up at you, his eyes full of warmth and understanding. He squeezed your hand before standing up to leave. “I’ll go and make sure everything is ready for Uncle Gwayne’s return. I’ll come back later, alright?”

You nodded, watching as he left the room. Alone again, you stared down at the blanket in your lap, running your fingers over the soft fabric. You had poured so much love into this tiny piece of cloth, and now it felt like a cruel reminder of what you had lost.

Hours later, you heard footsteps approaching the nursery. Your heart clenched with a mix of dread and longing. The door creaked open, and Gwayne entered, his expression filled with concern and urgency.

“My love?” His voice was soft, but it was filled with worry. He rushed to your side, kneeling before you as he gently took your hands in his. “Daeron told me… told me what happened.”

The tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, and you couldn’t stop them. “I lost the babe, Gwayne,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry.”

Gwayne’s eyes filled with pain, but he quickly pulled you into his arms, holding you close as you wept. “Shh, it’s not your fault, my love. You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmured, his voice soothing as he stroked your hair.

“I feel like I failed you,” you sobbed, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you grounded. “I couldn’t protect our child…”

Gwayne pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with unwavering love and determination. “Love, listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. You could never fail me, and this… this is not your fault. It was beyond our control, and I don’t blame you for a single moment.”

You searched his face, looking for any hint of disappointment or anger, but all you found was love and compassion. He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering there as he whispered, “We’re still young, my love. We have time, and we will have children—many, I hope. But right now, all that matters is you. I’m here for you, and we’ll get through this together.”

His words were like a balm to your wounded heart, easing some of the pain that had consumed you. You nodded, resting your head against his chest as you let out a shuddering breath. “I love you, Gwayne,” you whispered.

“And I love you,” he replied, holding you tightly. “More than anything in this world. We will get through this, I promise you that.”

Gwayne held you close for what felt like an eternity, letting you cry, letting you release the pain you’d been holding onto since the miscarriage. His presence was a steady comfort, a reminder that you weren’t alone, that he would be there for you no matter what.

After a long while, Gwayne pulled back slightly, brushing the tears from your cheeks with his thumb. “Come, my love,” he said gently. “Let’s get you out of here. We don’t have to stay in this room. We can go anywhere you’d like—anywhere that will bring you peace.”

You hesitated, looking around the nursery. The room had once been a place of joy and anticipation, but now it felt suffocating, a reminder of the loss you had suffered. You nodded slowly, realizing that staying here would only prolong your grief.

“Alright,” you whispered, letting him help you to your feet. You wavered slightly, still feeling weak, but Gwayne was there to steady you, his arm wrapped securely around your waist.

As you left the nursery together, you found yourself leaning on Gwayne more than ever before. He didn’t mind, guiding you gently through the halls of the keep, away from the place that had brought you so much pain. He led you to your chambers, where a fire had been lit, casting a warm, comforting glow over the room.

Gwayne helped you sit by the fire, then knelt beside you, taking your hands in his again. “You don’t have to be strong right now,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you.”

You nodded, too drained to argue, too weary to pretend that you could handle this on your own. Gwayne stayed by your side, talking to you quietly, telling you stories from his travels, stories meant to distract you, to bring a small smile to your face. He was patient, understanding, never pushing you to talk about the miscarriage, but always offering comfort in whatever way he could.

A few days later, when you had gathered enough strength to leave your chambers, Gwayne took you out to the gardens. The air was crisp, and the scent of blooming flowers filled your senses. It was a welcome change from the stifling atmosphere of the keep.

As you walked together, Gwayne kept his arm around you, his presence a steady reassurance. You were quiet for a while, lost in your thoughts, but eventually, Gwayne broke the silence.

“Do you remember the first time we walked through these gardens?” he asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You looked up at him, nodding slowly. “I do. You tried to impress me with your knowledge of every flower and plant.”

He chuckled softly. “And I failed miserably, didn’t I? You knew more about the flowers than I did.”

“You were charming, though,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I fell in love with you that day.”

Gwayne’s smile widened, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. “And I’ve been falling in love with you every day since.”

As you continued to walk, you felt some of the tension ease from your shoulders. The pain of losing the babe was still there, and you knew it would take time to heal, but with Gwayne by your side, you felt a glimmer of hope.

Later that evening, as you sat by the fire in your chambers, Gwayne brought out a small wooden box. “I have something for you,” he said, his tone soft, almost hesitant.

You looked at him curiously as he handed you the box. When you opened it, you found a delicate necklace inside, the pendant a small, intricately carved locket.

“It belonged to my mother,” Gwayne explained. “She gave it to me before she passed, and I’ve kept it all these years. I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at the beautiful locket, your heart swelling with emotion. “Gwayne, it’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He took the locket from the box and fastened it around your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin as he did so. “I wanted you to have something that reminds you that you’re never alone,” he said, his voice filled with tenderness. “Whenever you feel lost, or when the grief feels too much, just remember that I’m here, and that I’ll always be here.”

You touched the locket, feeling the cool metal beneath your fingers, and nodded. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ll treasure it always.”

Gwayne smiled, as he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a kiss that was filled with the promise of a future together, a future that, despite the loss you had endured, would still be full of love and hope.

In that moment, you knew that with Gwayne by your side, you could face whatever challenges life threw your way. The grief would not disappear overnight, and the road to healing would be long, but you would walk it together, hand in hand, and eventually, you would find peace.

P.S: i’m sorry my paragraphs look so separated but I have bad eyesight and I can’t read it well if I don’t separate lmao

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 03. BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

a/n: we are getting down to the nitty and gritty of this man's pain. and he's finally starting to the accept the fact that he has to talk about what happened to him. honestly out of all the chapters this one might be my favorite. solely for the soft vibes i tried to shove into what is already a very angsty story. also somehow wade weaseled his way further into this chapter than i intended him to. so enjoy the humor i've tried to add throughout. (i am reposting this since it didn't show up in the tags yesterday.)

summary: to open up was like taking a knife to a steel door. he never saw the use in letting someone in. but dinner spent in your company and conversations over wine and whiskey is where things begin to take a turn.

word count: 8.3k+ (i don't even know how tf that happened.)

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: partially explicit scene, angst by the bucket load, vulnerable and emotional logan, grief, trauma, heartache, fluff, domestic vibes, alcohol consumption, wade breaking the fourth wall, wade being a shit wingman, the beginnings of something more.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

Blood poured over his hands and soaked into the ground below. The warmth of it coated his senses, dug into the grooves and lines of his palms. He swore he felt it down to his bones. Now permanently mixed with a version of him long forgotten—the man who used to smile.

Their shouts of pain rendered him immobile. Useless to help them, useless to save their lives. Useless. Useless. Useless. He fought against the restraints, the invisible shackles put there by his own hands. Whether to stop him from going or to keep him from harm—he'd never know—but he battled regardless. With a snarl, he felt them snap, his claws sliding free in all their familiarity. A weapon of destruction unable to be used for salvation.

When he began to run he felt it. The piercing echo of her. The power she emanated as they took her life, brought her to the brink of death. He felt her voice punch through his chest—puncturing him in his heart. She screamed his name with her final breath. Called out for his help; for him to save them all.

He could almost see her in his mind, the horror that befell a school of such powerful people. And he loathed himself for breathing. For living after they were taken so quickly from him.

His family. His home.

What once existed would no longer return. That alone broke him further than their deaths. The knowledge that his world—his universe—would be without their heroes. So much of their worth had been given to humanity. Only to be stripped of their lives within the blink of an eye.

And he couldn't save them. He could barely stand on his own two feet without stumbling.

"Logan!" The scream split along his skull, rupturing veins that healed far too quickly for his liking.

What the fuck was the point of his abilities if he couldn't put them to use? If he couldn't do the one thing they counted on him for.

Their blood stuck to him, burrowing into skin that would never scar. He'd never have proof of the wounds that rested along his heart. Forever damned to carry the weight of his own failure—the guilt that ate him alive. For what? To tell the story he could barely stomach himself? What was his life to the lives of those who meant so much more?

Why did he have to fucking live?

He stood on the doorstep. Death stained the walls, pierced the air with its pungent copper tang. He keeled over at the bushes, all the alcohol he'd consumed expelling itself from his body at the sight. His family was dead. His family was dead and he couldn't join them. He couldn't fucking die.

What once felt like a gift—eternity to find these people who loved him—now rang true with the only word that could make sense. Curse. His curse.

"No," he gasped, eyes bleary with tears as he scrambled to his feet and sprinted through the broken down door.

His claws came free, expecting a fight. Only to be met with silence. An eerie echo of nothing.

No laughter, no life, no chatter of students.

Nothing.

The breath ripped from his lungs as a blaring horn spilled in through the apartment's open window. In an attempt to get some cool air, he pushed the couch closer to what airflow there was. The only downside was hearing everything as he slept. Each little noise and loud mouthed fucker as they wandered the rather empty street. He wanted to leave—move to a better spot where humanity was sparse—but the pull of you across the street kept him there.

"Fuck," he grunted, eyes blinking away the nightmare that tore at his psyche.

The bottle of whiskey underneath the kitchen cabinet called his name. Offering a respite against the horrors he couldn't run from. And with a pained groan, he stumbled towards it—grabbing his coffee mug from the counter. The amber liquid felt bitter against the back of his throat. A familiar burn he welcomed.

He may not be able to stay injured, but this he could have. The darkness at the end of the bottle. The silence he found in collapsing drunk against the couch.

The streetlight outside lit the area filled with trash and the few people sleeping in darkened alleys. If he listened hard enough he could hear their heartbeats. Smell the pungent scent of the city as it seeped through the window. He could feel the thrum of New York beneath his feet—unfamiliar in its nature but home nonetheless.

The sight of a light flicking on grasped his attention—a glimpse of you staggering to the kitchen for a glass of water clear through your window. You should really get curtains, or blinds. He'd help install them for you. But then he'd never get this again. A small insight into your life, a peek into what he left behind a day ago.

Your lips against his still seared through his body—your moans and want for more left him breathless. And he had to go and fuck it up. Just as he did with everything in his life. He ruined the good. Corrupted the innocent.

Doing the same to you felt unfathomable—painful.

But how could he stop?

When you were catching his gaze in the window. Your glass of water was forgotten and the blanket dropped to the leather chair behind you. He left the bottle on the floor by the couch, his empty mug beside it as you grabbed for something. Logan yearned to hear your voice. To apologize for how he left things. But saying sorry never came easy and he found that keeping you at a distance was much safer than what he actually wanted.

The ringing on his phone broke his penetrating gaze. He reached for it quickly, pressing it to his ear as you brought your phone to yours. A breath was all that echoed through the small speaker—soft and warm. He swore he could feel it against his cheek. Hear the echo of your heart pounding beneath his.

"Can't sleep?" you uttered, finally putting his mind at ease. He exhaled a deep breath—hearing it fill your ears as warmth trailed down your spine.

"Nightmares."

You watched him stand still as stone. His fingers gripped the phone for assurance. A sense of stability from a past that had already cracked him in half. The sorrow in his eyes practically bled through the streets. Lapping at your feet like the waves on a shore. And in an act so unlike yourself, you took a step forward. You stood in his grief and offered to drag him to the sand—gave him hope that this world might treat him differently.

Logan wouldn't save himself because he believed he deserved it.

He'd save himself because he knew you deserved a better man.

"Do they happen often?"

The soft echo of your voice tinged with sleep set his mind at ease. For the first time that night he felt himself breathe properly. He could taste the sweetness in the air, the heat that clung to his skin held traces of you when you started to open your window.

Leaving you at your door suddenly felt like the stupidest decision he'd ever made. But the fear is what kept him at a safe distance. He couldn't hurt you here in this shitty apartment. He couldn't destroy what good you held in your heart standing here at an open window.

"Every night," he rasped. His hand clenched, the bones of his knuckles shifting as silver began to peek through the pierced skin.

He knew you could see it. He heard your heart speed up through the phone. And with a ragged sigh, he retracted them forcefully—hiding the beast within to present you with the man beyond.

"You don't have to hide them from me." If you turned, you'd see the punctures in your door you tried to hide with duct tape. The claws that came free because of your touch—your kiss.

They should have scared you.

Logan almost wished they had.

"You don't want to see that part of me honey," he muttered, watching as you stood closer to the ledge—your hand pressed to the chipped wood. "It's not all sunshine and rainbows."

You laughed and he felt it down his spine. "No. I think that's only in Wade's mind."

"Don't say that fucker's name please," he groaned. "Not while I have you here."

"Did I touch a nerve? Wolverine?"

Your smile deepened, mischief practically dripping from your words. Yet Logan couldn't help fixating on the way his title sounded off your tongue. The hero name he loathed for so long suddenly made his heart flip. He gripped the phone tight enough until he heard a faint crackling sound—his body going taut at the thought of you saying it under different circumstances.

Moving past the subject was all he could do. All he wanted to do.

"Why are you up bub?"

You sighed, leaning against the window frame. "Restless. Too much energy from the day."

"Not too much moving in the archives huh?"

"I'll have you know I walk constantly. It's a very demanding job."

He snorted. "Down to the end of the bookshelves and back?"

"Shut up." Your laughter echoed across the street and it nearly startled him how normal he felt. How human. "I can guarantee my job is a lot more work than yours."

"You're right. Saving the universe is nothin' when it comes to books."

"I'm going to hang up."

"Don't. I'll stop." Despite his serious tone, he didn't try to stop the chuckle you felt strike against your heart. The husk of its deep nature.

The memory of his touch still rang clear in your mind. How his lips molded against yours, his body firm and hot beneath your touch. You weren't restless because of work. In fact you felt the pain in your feet begin to spread up your calves the longer you stood there. You couldn't sleep because of him. Too busy replaying that moment to find time in your schedule to sleep.

"Logan." His gaze fell serious at the soft murmur of his name. "Tell me about your dream."

He bit back the urge to push you away, to claim he was fine. That nothing happened and acknowledging it wouldn't save him from himself. But that's not what you were trying to accomplish, and he knew that. He could see it clearly in front of his face. But he was a man hardened by the nature of silence—of ignoring his pain until it eventually withered and died inside him.

Changing that wasn't a battle he'd win tonight. Nor tomorrow.

He sighed, seeing how you fought back a yawn. "Not tonight honey."

"Why–"

"I will." Your breath echoed loudly in his head. He wished he could feel it. "I'll tell you everything. Just not tonight."

Your finger traced the silhouette of him against the glass. "When?"

"I don't know." He imagined your touch was against his skin, pictured how you'd trace the lines of his muscles. How you'd lick along his veins for a taste of him on your tongue. "Tell me about your day."

"That's boring," you groaned.

"Not to me bub. I like history." He smiled. "I used to teach it."

"Fuck off. Did you really?" You perked up within seconds, eyes alight as they were the other night. And Logan felt himself get dragged in a bit deeper. He knew he was fucked the second he saw you, but now...there was no stopping the inevitability of you. "I guess I learn something new every day. James."

He growled, low and hungry—pleasure filling his stomach. "Don't start somethin' you can't finish honey."

Silence filled the air and Logan felt the doubt pull at his nerves. He watched you lean into the glass, your scent filtering through the warm air. Sharp and heady. Darker than your usual honeyed sweetness; the taste of it spread along his tongue—shivers rolling down his back. You wanted him. No fuck that.

You needed him.

"And if I want to," you breathed, trepidation and hope overlapping in your words. "Finish this."

He bared his teeth in a grin that felt feral—as if he could taste your flesh. "We will," he stated with such severity. A promise lined in truth for once. "Now go on. Tell me about your day."

He awoke to the sounds of clashing pots and pans being tossed on the stove—the incessant beep of the coffee machine blaring off every thin wall. And Wade singing loudly—and horribly—to some fucking pop song from the eighties Logan would learn the name of against his will. He groaned, slamming his head back against the couch in the hopes that this was all a dream.

If he wished hard enough maybe he'd wake up to silence.

Or to you.

"Good morning peanut!" Wade's voice shouted, another bang sounding off behind him. "I've got coffee, Canadian bacon, and the final answer for what came first—the chicken or the egg."

Logan longed to stab himself in the skull. This quick healing factor became a fucking pain in the ass at the worst of times. He staggered into the kitchen, immediately wishing he'd drank the entire bottle of whiskey last night at the sight of Wade in a pair of white underwear and nothing else.

"What the fuck." He shut his eyes, reaching blindly for a mug and the coffee pot.

"Yeah..." Wade slammed the pan on the stove, a now broken yolk spilling over the edge. "Laundry day and Al called dibs on the top load. Just call me Risky Business."

Logan's sigh was ragged, beyond exhausted as he gulped down the first dose of searing coffee. "He wore a shirt in that fucking movie."

"Lookie here! Someone is up to date on their Tom Cruise movies. Don't tell me you're a Top Gun fan honey badger because I have some fucking news for you. We topped them for highest grossing movie of all time." Wade smiled as the destroyed egg slid onto a chipped plate. "Financially topped. Personally, I don't think scientology allows Tom Cruise to fuck anymore."

"I'm not listenin' to your fuckin' bullshit," he grunted, pouring another cup.

The charred egg was slid his way. "Aren't you gonna ask me?"

"Ask you what?"

Talking this early in the morning made the veins in his throat strain—his grip on the mug nearly cracking the porcelain. In times like this Logan felt the overwhelming need to throw his roommate out the fucking window.

If only to get thirty seconds of hearing him scream on the way down.

"What came first."

He moved to make another pot of coffee, ignoring the chatter that fell from Wade's mouth. In order to even feel coherent enough to make sense of it, he'd need four more cups. Or enough to bathe in if the morning didn't calm down. The sun blinded him as he turned to glance out the window; the air stale and hot choked his senses. He'd never felt this overstimulated before—this out of place.

"You look like you've seen better days in a horror movie. Up having late night phone sex?" Wade grinned and leaned across the counter—his head in his hand and love in his eyes. "Tell me about it, stud? Tell me more, tell me more. Did you get very far?"

"Oh god," Logan groaned, slamming the coffee pot back into place. "Can you shut the fuck up for once? I'm begging you."

"Did you beg her?"

His claws pressed to Wade's smug face—blood spilling against his cheek. "I will cut your fuckin' mouth off."

"I just wanna know why you're waiting so long to give her the Hugh Jackman."

"The what?" he growled, heat blistering against his face.

"Ya know." The crude gesture to his groin had him digging his claws directly into Wade's cheek. But even then he mumbled around the metal piercing his skin. "The package. The full shebang. Rock her like a hurricane—or whatever the fuck that German band was talking about. Cause I sure know she's aching for it."

"Don't fucking talk about her like that."

Wade smiled until his cheek sliced down to his mouth. The sight was disgusting enough for Logan to forgo wanting breakfast. And lunch. And dinner at that.

"You don't believe me! HA! Let me tell you, you're pretty but there's nothing going on up there." A tap on Logan's forehead forced the claws to sink just a bit deeper. "That sweet angel across the street is ready to save that horse and ride you instead cowboy. All. Night. Long."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Yet even as he said the words he felt the lie stick to the back of his throat.

Last night's conversation was proof enough that Wade was telling the truth. Even Logan could fucking see what was right in front of him. Someone beautiful, someone smart. Someone...he wasn't worthy of. If he combined all those factors he only came up with one conclusion. The longer he stayed away from you, the better you'd wind up being.

The safer you'd stay if he wasn't constantly shoving his way into your life.

The loud sigh from Wade's healing mouth shoved another wave of guilt into Logan's stomach. "Look. Ignore it all you want, but sooner or later you're gonna wind up with only your hand for some company and she'll find someone who actually wants to be with her."

Wade was right. For once.

What Logan didn't expect was the anger he felt at the visual of you finding someone else. The rage that nearly overwhelmed him. That's how it should be. You with someone better, a man who actually gave you a chance at a relationship. One that wasn't doomed from the very start. He let the thought simmer, chewed on it for as long as he could.

And not a minute later came to the answer he'd been looking for.

Logan would rip apart any other man without hesitation if they came into your life.

This wasn't a fling. He'd known that on his Earth and knew it now. He clawed his way out of a grave once to get back to you. And he would do it again and again and again. As many times as it took to make sure he got a glimpse of your smile, felt the love in your touch.

"Grab your shit we've got somewhere to be," he grumbled, shoving the burned egg in his mouth and washing it down with fresh black coffee to kill the taste.

"Yes! Now there's the Wolverine I know." Wade shouted, pumping his fist in the air. Logan couldn't tell if he was being vulgar or not. 

"Let's go bang your girl!" A snarl ripped through his throat, blood splattering on his bare chest as he pinned Wade to the wall—his claws embedded in the man's heart. "Or you bang her and I quietly stay at home with the window open to serenade you two with the sensual sounds of Marvin Gaye."

He grinned, eyes flashing over Logan's shoulder. "Directly from Sam Wilson's playlist if you know what I'm getting at Marvel fuckers."

On days where people were stuck at work and students infiltrated the library above, you found the solace of the archives to be everything you needed. For an hour you'd been placing books in their correct spots, labeling boxes to be housed somewhere new, and theorizing where you went wrong the other night when Logan left.

You didn't want to let the disappointment get to you. Nor should you. The phone conversation last night clarified enough for you to know him leaving wasn't your fault. It wasn't due to your kiss or even because he didn't want to be there. He simply hadn't healed from what his world did to him. Whatever Wade mentioned to you in a ramble of semi-seriousness gave you enough of a picture to know what that might have been.

No matter how much you wanted to help him; to make him see that you weren't scared of what he had to give. This wasn't your war.

Logan made sure you understood that.

That still didn't stop the swell of dismay at his actions. The belief that you weren't good enough to hear his story began to eat you alive the longer he pushed it off. Each comment came tinged with pain you'd never be privy to. Agony he wanted to endure alone.

You would give him the space he needed—the time that was required in order to heal from wounds you couldn't see. They were there. Dug into the shape of his heart—carved into the metal of his bones—but Logan wouldn't allow you to bear witness to that. To a broken side of a man who wanted to be better. If only he knew he didn't have to be for you to ache for him.

The thought of him alone left your heart twisting in your chest and stomach fluttering.

You slid another book into the correct spot, silence echoing like a void that went on for miles. Only for the ring of your phone to shatter it like glass. You scrambled for the device in your purse, breath filling your lungs at the sight of his name as it flashed across your screen. 

Maybe this made you seem desperate—a type of clingy that would make any other man run. You couldn't find it in yourself to give a shit.

"Logan," you said—his name leaving your mouth in a breathy manner you regret within moments.

"Oh shit girl you've got it bad."

The pounding of your heart jumped at the loud echo of Wade's voice blasting through the small speaker. "Wade?"

"The one and holy." To say you were perplexed felt like an understatement. But before you could spill the millions of questions on your tongue, Wade kept going. "Hey! What kind of wood do you prefer?"

A loud rumble of an engine blared in the background—killing your ears. "What?"

"Oh right fuck me. Silly question. There's twelve thousand words already written about what type of wood you prefer." He laughed as the sound came again. "I'm talking the tree kind. Got a preference for scents?"

"She's not gonna be able to smell it you dumb fuck!" Logan shouted. You heard an audible screech before a loud rustle had you pulling the phone from your ear with a groan. "Honey?"

You smiled, walking towards the part of the room that didn't echo with your voice. "I'm scared to ask what you guys are doing today."

"Oh," he chuckled. You wished he'd bought a better phone, longing to see each expression that crossed his face. "I owe you a door."

That kiss reemerged in your memory once more. Burning through your body in quick rapid strokes. As if Logan was fanning the flames of something stronger—a fire that you wouldn't be able to control. You imagined what he looked like at this moment, if he still wore the exhausted look of grief from last night. Or if he'd covered it with a mask of annoyance due to Wade.

"I can just call the building manager to fix it." You put it on your list of things to do today already, but the idea of seeing Logan again was too tempting to pass up.

He huffed, falling silent. Wade's voice shouting about the Lorax became all you heard for a brief moment—Logan no doubt figuring out what he could say to fix this. The glimpse of him last night had set your teeth on edge in a way you'd never experienced before. You felt you could sink your canines into the tension and rip it to shreds with ease.

"Where I come from it's only right to fix what I broke."

What he broke.

This wasn't about the door. You could see it clearly in the pained way he spoke his words—each one more clear than the last. Leaving you in a rush with no fucking explanation left him worried that you weren't going to be around if he kept pushing you away. You were something good—a light he sought in the darkness he found himself in—and messing up this chance wasn't going to happen twice.

He'd done this before. He pushed those he loved away.

Doing the same with you only made his chest echo with the hollow emptiness that he'd grown tired of feeling.

"You can fix my door under one condition," you said, effectively breaking the silence.

"Anythin'."

The flutter in your chest felt lethal when he spoke to you like this; open and willing to bend where you wanted him to go. A man had never given you this before. The attention, the knowledge that he wanted all of you. Not just sex, or meaningless conversations. He wanted every piece you were open to sharing—every dark crevice and thought you felt embarrassed about.

You only wished he'd understand you wanted the exact same thing from him.

"Dinner. My place. Seven p.m."

Fuck what you wouldn't give to see his smile as he let out a sigh of relief. "I won't be late."

You smiled, worrying your lip between your teeth—that familiar gooey warmth now back in your chest. "You better not be."

"I've got great timing honey. Got nothin' to worry about."

Bullshit. You nearly said it, but a loud shuffle and a few bitten off curse words—mainly growled on Logan's end—cut your conversation short. A triumphant laugh you could only figure to be Wade's pierced your eardrum as the phone was unwillingly handed off once again.

"I just want to let you know I've got money on whether or not he nails you tonight. So don't let me down cupcake."

"You're betting on this?" you exclaimed, loud enough to hear your voice bounce off the walls and echo back to where your supervisor was no doubt sitting.

"Of course. I'm not one to turn down the sleazy art of gambling." He sighed wistfully. You'd never wanted to punch someone more in this moment; suddenly aware that this is how Logan must feel every day of his life. "Besides if you heard the sounds that came out of our shower this afternoon. Oh ho ho. Something tells me that he was letting off some Steam Boat Willy to the thought of his late night phone buddy."

Disgust at Wade's words was rapidly overshadowed by the thought of Logan in the shower. Naked and desperate to find some release after your conversation last night. To say you hadn't pictured what he'd look like hard and aching from your touch would be a lie. But actually knowing that's what happened left you winded.

Your chest heaved as your body grew warm—the image of him with his hand around his cock, his head thrown back in pleasure, almost made your knees give out.

"Your thinkin' about it huh?" The overconfidence in Wade's voice snapped you back to reality within seconds.

"Shut up."

"Got ya red handed angel."

With a roll of your eyes, you made to head back to your work—Wade's words only served to fluster you more than you wanted. "Don't piss him off too much okay Wilson?"

His laughter nearly appeased you as the piercing sound of a saw went off again. The both of them must have ventured to a warehouse to find materials. You wanted to confirm your thoughts when Wade did it for you. As if he could hear you loud and clear.

"Who knew our man had lumberjack experience?" He sighed dreamily, a shout of what you guessed was Logan saying fuck off filtering through. "God it's like watching X-Men Origins Wolverine. Back when his hair screamed Staying Alive and I went by the name Billy Butcherson."

A cough from behind you gave enough notice that you had in fact been caught by your boss—her glare burning through the back of your skull. The short break you were allotted passed five minutes ago. Normally you'd be fighting your way to the end of the day. Today though...you felt that delicious bite of excitement at knowing you'd be spending tonight with Logan.

"I've got to go. But Wade..."

"Yeah?"

"Take a picture for me will you?"

"Already done. Got my phone set to burst. Which is what Logan's gonna do tonight instead of tainting our shower walls–" Logan's roar of I'll fuckin' kill you came seconds before you heard a thwack overlapped with Wade's high shriek. 

The line went dead instantly.

The elevator wasn't moving fast enough for your liking—each flash of a floor passed sent another wave of nerves through your body. Work dragged on longer than you expected. And the groceries you picked up on the way didn't feel like enough to make a meal grand enough for a night like tonight. You tried to destress by saying he wasn't expecting much. This wasn't even a date.

That is until you realized...that's exactly what this was.

A date that felt long overdue.

You hadn't known Logan long enough to pursue a relationship as deep as this, but that's where things got fuzzy. He knew you. Or a version of you that felt entirely different to the person you were now. And maybe that's where the security that this would last came through. The knowledge that no matter what happened, Logan was in this for the long haul.

This wasn't temporary.

A creak of the doors opening didn't deter you from digging through your mountain of thoughts. Each one more worrisome than the last. You should be terrified that this was it. The future had already been written and Logan was at the end of the road. That alone would be reason enough to turn tail and run.

Then you turned the corner leading directly down your hallway.

Logan stood leaning against the wall, a lit cigar in his mouth, smoke trailing past his lips, and a heavy wooden door placed directly beside him. A toolbox that looked to have seen better days sat by his feet. A bouquet of honeysuckle and peonies placed directly on top—wrapped in brown paper with a yellow and blue bow.

Whatever fear might have lingered in your body dissipated when his gaze found yours and his lips pulled into a smile.

"You're early," you said—desperate to catch your breath. The scent of his cigar lingered on your senses, mixing with the leather of his jacket.

Suddenly Wade's words from earlier felt a lot more real than you expected. He showed up dressed casually. Jeans, flannel, the familiar dog tags strung around his neck. Yet whatever transpired the night before came rushing back with the promise of more.

This was a date. But whether it would lead to something else you'd leave entirely up to him.

"I told ya I had great timing honey."

Heat trailed down your body where his eyes followed. "I didn't believe you."

"I know."

The claw marks on your door brought a flustered smile to your face. As if to say you were okay with them staying. You wanted them to stay. Logan's eyes darkened at the sight, a flash of something worse taking hold of his mind as you pushed it open.

You longed for him to tell you the truth. He wouldn't either way. But the hope still remained—lingering on the edges of your heart.

"Easy enough to fix," he muttered, reaching for his tools—the bouquet of flowers gripped tightly in his large palm.

"I didn't know what exactly to get." He stood in your living room, eyes trained on the window. Finally he was on the other side—in your home—and yet he found he didn't belong here. "Do you have a preference?"

He sucked in another drag from the cigar before pulling it free—stamping it out on his palm as you watched. A heady wanton look crossed your features. You doused it quickly in favor of unpacking the groceries. He made sure to store it away for a later time. One that didn't feel dragged by the weight of his own thoughts.

"I'm not picky."

You nodded. "Feel free to use whatever's useful. I don't have tools though."

"I came prepared bub." He lifted the box with a smile and suddenly recalled that he bought you flowers. Much to Wade's annoying comments about this being a first date. Logan wouldn't push you in any direction you felt uncomfortable going towards. But in an irritating turn of events, Wade was right. Twice. "These are for you."

The smile on your face was worth every dollar and excruciating minute spent picking out what went with what. He reminded himself to thank Wade. Even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"They're beautiful." The delicate white lay atop pink flowers that filled your senses. An aroma you'd never known could work so well together. "Why these?"

A touch of crimson began to tint the tops of his ears as he let out a breath. "They're uh..." He coughed. "The day we met I said somethin' kinda awkward."

"I smelled different."

"Yeah." Logan wanted to bury himself six feet under at the teasing glint in your eyes. "That's how you smell. To me. Like honey and flowers."

There had to be an explanation for the way your heart split down the center—as if to offer him one half. To give him a part of yourself that once didn't belong to him. But that's where you were wrong. Even in a different universe, he would find you. You were once everything to him; the person he'd go through hell for. That fact never changed. Even if you did.

You wanted to spill every emotion, every truth about how your heart already longed for him in ways that left you reeling. But Logan wasn't a man to speak longer than he had to. And before you finally gained the courage to open your mouth, he was stepping back into the hallway. His hands busy with a project and mind eons away.

Dinner was simple to cook knowing he'd eat whatever you made. Pasta, some wine, and an old bottle of whiskey a friend of yours bought sat on the table as he put the final touches on the door. You'd spent the time at the stove combing over every word spoken. Every minute touch and fleeting look. As he worked effortlessly on setting your new door in place.

A dark honeyed wood with grooves throughout that almost resembled the small panes of a window. The quality was stunning. Beyond anything you'd seen before.

You wanted to prod and ask where he learned to do this. But the sight of him slightly sweaty, flannel tossed into his toolbox, and arms on display when he carried the door to its spot, left you dazed. Each movement caused the muscles beneath his skin to ripple—face screwed in a look of concentration while the sound of the drill echoed off the hallway walls.

For a moment you forgot dinner was cooking as you practically ogled his form. That familiar flame burned through your body when his gaze met yours and a smile crossed his lips.

Logan could feel your eyes on him—the aching burn of your gaze now seared into the bare skin of his arms and shoulders. And he fought himself to keep going. To ignore your now heady scent—the way your heart sped up with each shift of his body—and finish what he started. If he was being honest, which he rarely was with himself, he put on a show for you.

You liked him.

He just wanted to reaffirm that fact once in a while.

The smell of slightly burnt garlic had him biting back a smile as you rushed to fix what his distraction caused. His ego swelled. Heart pumping with a sense of pride the second he caught you flustered with your head bowed in the kitchen.

"Smells delicious honey," he said, testing the lock on the door a few times until he felt satisfied with his work.

"It's not much." You popped open the two types of alcohol, pouring a generous helping of wine in your glass. He fixed himself his own whiskey. "Something my sister taught me when I was in college. She believed if there was nothing else to cook, pasta was always the correct answer."

"Smart woman."

You pushed the plate his way and caught the grin he hid at the small act of domesticity. What began as a nerve-wracking date became an insight into what your future with him might look like. Dinner at a tiny kitchen table, his jacket draped over one chair, the scent of flowers twining together with the faint traces of his cigar.

A life that felt perfect enough to keep forever.

"I hope you know Wade's betting on tonight," you said, pouring another glass of wine.

You were settled next to him on the couch, dinner resting full and warm in your stomachs. The alcohol tasted sweeter on your tongue compared to an hour ago. He lounged with his legs spread, glass balanced in one hand. A lazy look of satisfaction in his hazel eyes.

Logan had never felt this comfortable. Soothed by the scent of you beside him, the whiskey on his tongue, and the sight of you with your legs curled beneath you. The red wine made you smile more, laugh easier. He noticed how you bloomed before him, light shimmering between small jokes and half assed teases.

All his life he wondered what home would truly feel like. What would having a place be? And this...you beside him with an endless night stretched before you, gave him the answer.

Home felt like you.

He groaned, head falling against the back of your couch. "He's a lucky fucker with that can't die bullshit. What's the bet?"

Your eyes dragged to the door—tracing the carved marks as his hand hesitated to settle on your thigh. "That you'd and I quote nail me."

"What?" he spit.

The laugh that bubbled to the surface echoed with the heady effects of too much wine. "I hate to break it to Wade. But I don't have sex on the first date."

Logan's lips turned up, hand finally against the bare skin of your leg. Your skirt fanned around your lap, covering your soft skin that lay beneath. "So this is a date huh?"

"Yeah." He tugged you closer. "At least I think it is."

"I think so too."

Unconsciously, you toyed with the chain of his dog tags, catching a glimpse of the worn letters of his name. Any other time you'd push the questions away. You would claim that tonight wasn't the right time. After all this felt good, right in ways nothing had before. But the wine made you loose lipped. Braver than the other times you pushed past the line he drew deep in the sand.

Except this time...he started the conversation.

"You asked about my nightmares last night."

Your eyes caught his, fingers stilling against his chest. "I know you don't want to talk about it."

He shook his head with a deep exhale he felt down to his stomach. "If this is what I think it is. What we're startin' here. Then you should know what you're getting into honey."

"I know what I'm getting into–"

"No. You don't." He sat up straighter, tugging you close until your legs lay over his lap. "You don't know what happened to me. What I did..." He sucked in air as his heart began to twist. The cold wash of anxiety suddenly brighter than a few minutes earlier. "What I couldn't do."

The pain in his eyes chipped off a piece of your heart. Oh how you longed to give it to him.

Cupping his cheek, you felt the scratch of his beard against your skin. "Logan. You're not a bad man."

"Yeah bub. I am," he barked in a half laugh meant to discourage you from seeing his grief.

That's what this was. The full spectrum of his emotions scared the shit out of him more than any villain he fought. More than the thought of dying alone one day. The moment you saw them for yourself, he knew you'd run. He almost expected it. Which is why he'd taken so long—put it off each time the curiosity lingered in your gaze longer than he liked.

He told himself you didn't need to know.

It was better this way.

Tonight proved that all those reasons—all those excuses—stood no chance when it came to you.

"I don't believe that," you whispered, your other hand curling around his dog tags.

"Gotta remember I'm not him. I'm not the hero and never have been." When you looked at him like that—eyes wide and lips turned down—he felt the full weight of the words he was about to say out loud. Words he hadn't spoken since Laura met him by the fire way back in the Void.

Somehow saying it to the other Logan's daughter felt easier. As if he couldn't disappoint her anymore than he had. She'd been there at his death, watched him struggle to protect her, and loved him in spite of all that. She called him Dad and spoke over his grave with a smile. Knowing full well he'd never come back to life, he'd never find his way back to her.

Laura wasn't his kid and yet...he knew she'd understand.

But saying it all to you…

He wasn't sure he'd survive it if you never understood.

"The X-Men in my world weren't as respected as the ones in yours. We were heroes, but the humans. God they fuckin' hated us." His eyes burned with each memory that came rushing back. A river that threatened to drown him. "And I always had to be an asshole. I didn't know what home felt like—what...family felt like. So when I got it, I pushed it away."

"Oh, Logan–"

"No, let me...let me finish honey." He gripped the glass until he heard a crack—his eyes dazed and mind lost to a different time. The night that would later become his ghost. "So I left and did the only thing I was fuckin' good at. I drank until I couldn't feel anythin' anymore. And the humans decided they'd had enough of the X-Men."

Grief struck your heart straight down the center. Tears spilled down your cheeks at the sight of him so broken—so raw from a time that would never leave him. You finally knew why Wade never explained it to you.

This wasn't his story to tell. Not his past to share.

"I came home and they were–" His fingers dug into the skin of your thigh in an attempt to ground himself. Claws slipping free as he struggled to get the final words out—the truth of why he pushed you away. Why he should keep pushing you away. "They were dead."

You pressed yourself against his side, lips against his temple as he silently bit back the emotions he refused to set free. What would become of him once they were finally out? He couldn't risk hurting you because of it.

"They called for me." His breath was ragged, voice thick with tears that never fell. "Jean. Charles. I heard them die in my head. But I was too fuckin' drunk to save them. I got home and all of them were...Jesus. The humans called us mutants vicious, but I'd never seen anythin' like this."

The worst part crawled up his spine with a chill that had his claws coming free. "And you. You survived due to your gifts. Apparently you hid in the future—snapped there without even realizing it. But by the time you returned they were dead and no matter how many times you tried to go back, you couldn't." He raised his head, eyes red and glassy. "You tried to kill me that night. I couldn't blame you for it cause I wanted to die."

"That's not me."

He shook his head. "I know, but you have to know why it happened. I couldn't protect you honey. I couldn't protect any of them."

"The humans did this. Not you." You dragged his face to yours, forcing him to see the sincerity in your eyes—the fire that burned no matter the variant. "You did not kill your family Logan. Don't take their shame."

"It's easy for you to say that bub. You weren't there." He felt your touch mark against his skin and fuck how he wished it would leave a scar. "I'm not the fuckin' hero. I'm the man who fucked it all up because he was too proud for his own good. I need you to see that."

Your gaze hardened. "Why?"

"So you know what you're gettin–"

"Bullshit," you demanded. "I know exactly what I'm getting into Logan. I knew the second I met you. So don't do that. Don't push me away." The press of his forehead to yours leveled the pain and allowed him to breathe. "I'm here to stay. Whether you want me or not."

He grinned, tears finally falling as your lips found his. You breathed life back into his chest, made his heart worth beating again. For all that time he damned himself, loathed the reflection in the mirror, he never thought he'd get this. The soft press of your kiss, the bitter tang of wine on your tongue as his hand gripped your hip—his claws retreating back into his body.

"Trust me. I want you," he mumbled against salt stained lips and broken smiles. "I'll always want you."

"Then it's a good thing I want you too."

That familiar flicker of sparks still existed in the air, begging for more. But you were content to stay here. Kissing him over and over again in order to embed the sensation in your mind.

"Thank you for telling me," you sighed, fingers curling into his hair to drag his lips back to yours.

The thud of his heart ran through his whole body. "Can I show you somethin'?"

You nodded, pulling away as he dug into his pocket. As much as he longed to keep kissing you, to spend all night right there on that couch. He knew there'd be time for that. A night where you were both unburdened by the weight of a past that defined who you were. Tonight was not that night.

The picture was old, burned slightly at the edges and crinkled, but he handed it over with a grin. A group photo like the one stored in the archives at your job. Only this time you recognized two faces among the small team of people in yellow suits. You were smiling with an arm around Logan's waist, your face pressed against his chest.

The sight of his smile—wide and unfiltered—made your heart leap. But the blue aura that seemed to wrap around your body is what gave you pause.

"The blue..."

"Your powers." He pointed to the way it ended at your hands, seeming to stem directly from your chest. "Turning them off wasn't really a thing you could do. Somethin' about time being a constant flow of energy. Charles always explained it better."

Thousands of questions came to mind. All of them pertaining to the powers and the team and more specifically him. He sunk into the couch with a sigh, his eyes hazy with a different kind of need. An ache that no doubt begged him each night. Sleep. Rest without any nightmares, free of the shackles he'd placed on himself.

So you stood, nearly startling him when you did. Nothing had to be said about your intentions, or why you held out your hand for him to take. He simply followed. Each step heavier than the last. The kitchen could be cleaned tomorrow, the bottles put away later. You couldn't find it in yourself to care when his hand was in yours and he smiled at you as if you'd hung the moon in the sky.

"Thought you said Wade was losin' tonight honey?"

You laughed, pushing the flannel from his shoulders as you led him to your bed. "He is. We're just sleeping."

There was no mistaking the doubt in his eyes, the trepidation of his nightmares. "I might hurt you."

"No you won't." Drawing his hand up to your mouth, you lay a kiss along his knuckles. "I trust you Logan."

"You shouldn't." His breath was a shuddered exhale at the sight of you pulling your dress up and over your body.

"Well too bad," you replied, tugging the covers back while he pulled off his shirt—leaving his boots by the door. "You don't scare me Wolverine."

"Wolverine huh?" Crawling into bed with you was easy. Though the mattress sunk under the weight of his bones, you still let him tug you closer—his arms wrapped around your bare waist. "It was James the other night."

"Careful," you said. "Or I'll start calling you Howlett."

A growl rumbled in his chest, his teeth nipping at the bare skin of your shoulder as you laughed. And suddenly he remembered what it was like to live. To want more than just the bottom of a bottle and a peaceful night's sleep. He could recall nights like this in the past. A different you curled up against his body—the love resonating in how you clung to him.

It all slammed into him at once.

Although tonight he didn't push it away. He kept you close, his nose burrowed in your hair, and welcomed the gentle tug of a few hours rest.

Tonight—for the first time—he slept.

Without nightmares.

[pickingupmymercedes]

Partition - Lewis Hamilton (NSFW)

Part of 1K Jukebox Event

song: Partition - Beyoncé - @scuderiarossa

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

genre: smutty (there's a bit of angst to start though)

wordcount: +1k

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER, -18 DO NOT INTERACT

______________________________________________________________

The limo’s low hum is almost soothing, a contrast to the coiled tension radiating off Lewis.

I’d thought the worst of this would have been over after the last race—when he’d crossed the finish line and nothing, no controversial ruling, no last-lap drama, could take that eighth title away from him.

He had stood on the top step, grinning like the world had righted itself, like he could finally put those ghosts behind him.

For a few days, I believed it too. He’d laughed more, had this lightness about him that made everything feel... easier. I thought we’d left that weight in the past, buried under the trophy he had lifted with both hands.

But trauma, it has a way of sticking around, of finding cracks to sneak through.

And today, on the night of the ceremony where he’d finally be recognized as what he’s been, he’s back to being that stone of tension.

I watch him, his brow furrowed as his gaze lingers out the window. His hand rests on his thigh, fingers twitching in that way they do when his mind won’t stop.

I know how much history weighs on him.

It’s why I’m here, why I slid into a deep burgundy dress and spent 45 minutes getting everything just right. I know what tonight means to him.

My hand moves up to his chest, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his suit jacket. “You shouldn’t still be this tense, babe. The season’s over. You won.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just exhales a deep breath, eyes still fixed on the lights of Paris streaming by. “Yeah” he finally says, his voice tight, restrained. “I... I just don’t want anything to go wrong tonight.”

I study him for a moment, my heart squeezing at the vulnerability in his voice. Lewis Hamilton doesn’t let that part of him show often, not to the world, and sometimes not even to me.

But it’s there, under all the strength, the confidence, the legend. He carries everything with him—every win, every loss, every time someone questioned his place, his worth.

And that weight, it’s heavy.

“I get it” I say softly, my hand resting more firmly on his thigh. “But tonight, isn’t about proving anything. You’ve already done that.”

His eyes flick to mine, and I see the briefest flicker of doubt, like even now, standing on the cusp of the recognition he’s deserved for years, he’s still fighting ghosts.

Well, not tonight, not on my watch.

I move closer, my lips brushing against his ear. “You need to stop thinking so damn much” I murmur, my fingers trailing higher, teasing the tension right out of him.

His brow lifts slightly, a knowing look passing between us. "Do I?"

I don’t answer him with words. I just give him a look, the one that promises I’m about to make him forget every damn thing that’s been on his mind.

The past can haunt him, but tonight? Tonight, he’s going to feel exactly what he is.

I smirk, settling in closer, my hand sliding up to his chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Paris traffic isn’t going anywhere. We’ve got, what—thirty minutes?”

He raises a brow, catching on quickly, though there’s still that edge in his eyes. "And what are you proposing we do, love?"

I meet his gaze with a wicked grin, as I call for the driver. “Monsieur, pouvons nous avoir un peu d’intimité?” (Sir, can we have some privacy)

His eyes darken as he hears the french roll from my tongue and watches me shift off the seat, positioning myself between his legs.

My dress pools around me, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of his breathing, heavy and expectant. I lock eyes with him as I reach for his belt, my fingers making quick work of the buckle.

"Est-ce que tu aimes le sexe? Le coit… Tu aimes ça?” I tease him, echoing a familiar line with a playful smirk. (Do you like sex? The sexual act... Do you like it?)

His chuckle is low as he gets the reference, but it quickly fades as I pull him free, my hand wrapping around his growing hardness.

This night is his, and I’m going to make sure he walks in that gala like the titan he is.

I take him into my mouth slowly, savoring the groan that escapes his lips, his hand instinctively coming to rest at my exposed arm.

My mascara is going to be a mess after this, and my lipstick—well, that’s going to be a different story altogether. But it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters except this moment, and the way I can feel his body start to loosen under my touch.

I work him with the same precision he uses on the track—focused, determined, in complete control. His grip on my skin tightens, his breathing quickens, and I can tell he’s close.

“Fuck, Y/n,” he growls, his voice thick with need. His hips buck slightly, and I feel him pulse against my tongue.

I push him right to the edge before he tumbles over, his release hitting the back of my throat as I swallow every bit of it.

There’s nothing around to clean up, so I do what I have to—handle it like a pro.

I pull back slowly, giving him one last teasing kiss before I sit up, licking my lips. His head is thrown back against the seat, eyes closed, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

“Better?” I ask, carefully wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb to smudge a minimal amount of lipstick.

He opens his eyes, that stormy expression from earlier completely gone. Now, he just looks at me with a satisfied and lazy grin that certainly beats that gaze he occasionally gives Will Buxton.

“Way to take the edge off” he murmurs, his voice soft but filled with affection, a finger still on my arm, tracing circles on the skin there.

I reach into my clutch, pulling out the tube of red lipstick and expertly reapplying it in the dim light.

As I lean back to check my reflection, I notice something on his shirt—a small smudge of lipstick, the same shade I’m wearing, right at the hem of his blazer jacket.

I smirk. “Looks like I left a little souvenir.”

Lewis glances down, following my gaze to the stain, and he chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course, you did.”

“Do you think they’ll notice it’s my shade, too,” I tease, reaching out to fix the collar of his undershirt. “Maybe get them to wonder.”

His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing lightly against my jaw. “I don’t care what they think” he says, his voice dropping an octave, more serious now.

“Good.” I lean in, pressing my freshly reapplied lips to his lightly, tasting the remnants of him still on my tongue. “Because tonight’s yours. You’re going to walk into that ceremony and claim what’s been yours.”

He pulls back, his brow arching slightly. "And then?"

I settle back into my seat, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately. “Then, I’m all yours. But first, you’ve got a circus to attend.”

His grin widens, that familiar spark of confidence returning to his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The limo slows to a stop, the sounds of Paris creeping back into the cabin. The driver opens the door, and I adjust my dress, smoothing out the fabric as Lewis steps out first, his hand extended to help me. I take it, stepping into the cool night air, feeling every eye and camera flash on us as we make our way into the grand venue.

Tonight, the world will see Lewis for what he is—a titan of Formula 1.

And when the cameras are gone and the applause fades, he’s all mine.

______________________________________________________________

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[forsworned]

It’s said canonically that simon riley has trauma around intimacy from torture 😔 If you feel comfortable writing it, can I please ask for a short fic of an Afab reader body worshipping/lovingly pleasuring Simon after they both work through his trauma and he’s getting all soft and emotional and babbling about how good reader is making him feel and how much he loves them and can’t believe someone cares about him this much? I always liked the idea of Simon being portrayed as vulnerable and soft and not this dom sex god a lot of people portray him to be. I really love your work and would love to see your take on this request :)

Soft ft. Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Author's Note: So I do recall someone making a post about this and I have to say I do not agree with everything. Men definitely process trauma, specifically sexual trauma a lot differently than women do. While women experience guilt, men experience anger. And maybe it's not all men who experience it that way, but after reading the comic and making my own assessment, I can say that Simon does have lingering anger. Of course, he is hell-bent on avenging his dead family, but all that pent-up energy could be going toward trying to even the score. He is pretty level-headed and able to compartmentalize. He has support from his comrades as well as undergoes mandatory rigorous mental health assessments because that's military protocol. He needs to be able to perform his duties on the field without putting himself or others at risk. He also most certainly gets mandatory counseling. Although he may be reluctant, his superiors are very much aware of the possible impact that it has on his mental health. So all that to say that Simon is not without help. He is not as "damaged" as people may perceive him to be. He's not a broken individual. As seen in the remastered MW's, albeit reluctant he can clearly put his trust in others. He develops relationships with the people who he works closely with meaning he is capable of change. SIGH. I just wish people would break this down a little more, but I do get what you're saying. His masculinity, trust issues, and the type of secret operations he goes on can lessen the effectiveness of the therapy. He's definitely a very complex character with layers to him, but I just don't think he's as weak as you may think he is. It's also important to note that it hasn't been confirmed that this current Simon went through the same thing. He could have a completely different background. Honestly, Activision is so fucking inconsistent but ANYWAYSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I hope you enjoy this. Also if you read this all the way through, I applaud you. But thank you for enjoying my work, I didn't mean to critique you and your request, but I just couldn't let it slide LOL

Warnings: PnV sex, AFAB!Reader, Some Canon Simon Lore, Sexual Content, Mentions of Sexual Trauma

"Si—Simon..."

You sigh out in pleasure with every roll of your hips as you grind down on him. Your clit grazes against his lower abdomen, and his cock stretches you out pliant. Fingers dig into his shoulders, marking half crescents into his pale, scarred skin. But something feels off.

His hands loosen their grip on your hips, and upon opening your eyes you find him his half-lidded gaze distant in a familiar haze. He isn't present.

"Simon." You halt the rutting of your hips, cupping his stubbly cheeks. "Are you alright?"

His onyx hues fixate on you. He is clearly readjusting his withdrawn eyes to refocus on you. You didn't want to say it yet, but you had felt him go a little soft a few seconds prior. "We can stop."

"No, no." His fingers squeeze your middle as he sits up a bit. You shake your head, but he's not letting up. "Why stop?"

You firmly grasp his face and his blonde lashes flutter up at you with a seemingly unreadable expression, but you're no stranger to Simon's detachment. Although he loathes to admit it, it happens. The relearning of being intimate is tumultuous for him.

"Because you're not mentally here, my love."

He frowns. "But I want y'to finish."

You exhale sharply. He doesn't even deny it. "No, Simon. I'd feel disgusted with myself if I finished while you weren't here with me."

He struggles to reply. In all honesty, he doesn't know what to say. It's not exactly a common occurrence, but he's not too keen on having a conversation about it. You never pry though. His therapy sessions are his own, unless, of course, you join him if he so desires.

Couples counseling is mandatory. A rule you established when you first decided to tie the knot. If you had problems that were beyond just a sit-down talk, a professional would have to intervene. And Simon agreed. No fuss, no muss. To preserve the sacredness of your relationship, he'd do anything.

He sighs. "'m sorry, dovie." He caresses your sides, feeling the gooseberries on your skin rise. A small smile adorns his lips and you giggle at his smugness.

"Stop it." You begin to get off of him, but Simon holds you firmly. You feel his dick harden inside of you, now kissing your cervix. A little gasp escapes your chest as you readjust yourself.

"Y'like tha'?" Simon's grinning now. It's his confidence gleaming through the abysmal darkness of his mind. The life in his eyes feels revitalized, and you now feel his vigor—literally.

"Yes, but..."

"'m here, love." He reaffirms, squeezing your waist again. "'m here. Please, 'm achin' for you."

He groans a bit and bucks his hips when he feels you pulsate around him. You return your own moan, leaning forward but his fingers thread through your hair and he brings you into a sloppy, heated kiss. His hips thrust into you slowly and deeply, earning a guttural moan from him.

For a moment as you withdrew from the kiss, your gazes meet and Simon's eyes soften and become glossy with tears that brim over his oculars and spill over the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, baby." You coo, holding him close as you kiss his face. His sadness is silent, yet palpable. You're now babbling sweet, sweet words to him as you pepper him with kisses, and Simon holds you as if you're going to slip away. You gently guide him through the double inhale technique you learned from your therapist, and with the sweetness of your voice, the kindness in your eyes, and the tenderness of your touch, he feels at ease.

"I dunno how y'put up with me."

You grin, kissing the corner of his lip. "It ain't easy."

"Oh?" He flips you over on your back, pressing you firmly against the mattress and you giggle into the nape of his neck. "Wanna say that again, love?"

You thread your fingers through his sandy blonde hair and kiss the tip of his nose. "You're not hard to love, Simon."

His eyes soften once more and he kisses you deeply. Simon has never cherished anyone more in his life. You were always so patient and kind from the jump. You were truly the "greater woman" behind the "great man".

He rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes as you gently card your fingers in his hair.

"Thank you, lovie."

[astarionancuntnin]

listen, obviously i love astarion for multiple reasons, but ironically when i first started the game i wasnt interested in him, at all. i was fully commited to finding karlach and dating her bc of what i had seen online about her. i had barely heard or seen anything about him other than him being "the flirty vampire" and i was like eh okay

i ended up keeping him in my party cause his remarks were hilarious and i really vibed with his energy. and then he started opening up and you get to see how the whole overconfidence and flirting was an act, he starts talking about cazador and what he went through and how determinate he is to take him down. he keeps mentioning how he cannot wait to get rid of his master and how satisfied hes going to be, and hes smiling just thinking about it

then we learn about the ritual and theres this sudden spark in him, hes convinced that its the answer to his problems, he gets tunnel vision on the ritual, and if you romance him he also thinks its the only way he can assure not only his own safety, but also yours.

and when you finally win the fight, you have to save him from himself. hes desperate, completely blinded by the power he could potentially have. if he has this power, hes never going to be vulnerable, no one will abuse him ever again.

he is willing to lose himself to make sure he never gets hurt like this. even with high approval, if you dont succeed a persuasion roll or refuse to help him, he either turns against you or leaves your party. in his eyes, at this moment, you are the one who turned against him.

if you suceed the persuasion roll, he agrees that he can be better than cazador, and before stabbing him repeatedly, mentions (again) how hes going to enjoy this

only to break down right after. even though its something hes been wanting to do for centuries, all the suffering hes been through came crumbling down after it was done. cazador is dead, hes the one who killed him, he finally got his revenge, and yet he feels this emptiness.

its done, why do i not feel better?

if you saved him, he talks to you later and admits how he wasn't himself, how thankful he is that you helped him out and most of all, you believed in him. you saved him by believing he could be more than what he saw in himself.

if you talk to him after completing dame aylin's quest in act 3 (after killing cazador), he mentions how he expected her to rejoice after defeating yet another person who intended to enslave her, but shes just tired. hes comparing her reaction to his own experience after freeing himself from his abuser

and after karlach's reaction to killing gortash, he brings up the fact that theres "no justice in this world". contrary to what he believed earlier in the game, its not only him thats been wronged for several years. even though in the end they all got to get rid of the people who ruined their lives, they are still hurting.

hes realising that killing your abuser, although it seemed like the simple, satisying solution of finally having your revenge from years of trauma, might free you, but it will not fix you. they're dead, but you still have to live with what they've done to you.

he is my roman empire

[awkward-walking-potato]

Toupée Time with Wade

You had no idea how you’d gotten roped into this, but here you were, standing in the middle of a wig shop with Wade, as he examined a display of toupées with a seriousness that would make anyone think you were choosing an engagement ring.

“So, what do you think?” Wade asked, holding up a particularly ridiculous blond toupée that looked like it belonged on a Ken doll from the 80s.

You couldn’t help but snicker. “Wade, I don’t think this one is you.”

“Not me?” Wade gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Sweetheart, I’ve always thought of myself as a blonde bombshell just waiting to be unleashed on the world.”

You shook your head, trying to hold back your laughter. “It’s not really the color, Wade. It’s more… everything else.”

Wade squinted at the toupée as if it had personally offended him. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s too ‘Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall,’ and not enough ‘Brad Pitt in Fury.’”

“You know, you don’t have to get a toupée,” you offered gently, knowing that beneath all the jokes and bravado, Wade was more self-conscious about his appearance than he let on. “You look great just the way you are.”

“Aw, shucks, you’re gonna make me blush,” Wade replied, but you could see a glimmer of something real in his eyes. “But a guy’s gotta keep his options open, right? Maybe I want to channel my inner Fabio someday.”

You gave him a soft smile. “Then we’ll find the perfect one. But it’s gotta be something that screams ‘Wade Wilson,’ not ‘Bad Movie Villain.’”

He snorted. “You really know how to flatter a guy, don’t you?”

Wade turned back to the display, this time picking up a sleek, black toupée that looked like it had been stolen from a ’50s crooner. He placed it on his head, adjusting it with precision before spinning around to face you.

“Well?” he asked, striking a pose that was a mixture of Elvis and pure Deadpool absurdity. “What do you think, doll? Am I ready to serenade you under the moonlight, or should I just stick to killing bad guys?”

You bit your lip, trying to keep a straight face. “I think you look like you’re about to sell me a used car.”

“Ouch, tough crowd!” Wade chuckled, taking off the toupée and tossing it back onto the display. “Alright, alright, I see where you’re going with this. Let’s try something a little less… sleazy.”

He moved further down the aisle, his eyes scanning the rows of wigs and toupées until he found one that seemed to catch his interest. It was a simple, short style—brown, a little tousled, nothing too flashy. Wade picked it up carefully, almost reverently, and looked at you with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

“Hey, what about this one?” he asked, his voice softer now, as if he wasn’t quite sure how you’d react.

You walked over to him, studying the toupée and imagining it on him. It wasn’t flashy or over-the-top; it was just… normal. It reminded you of what Wade might have looked like before everything—the experiments, the scars, the trauma.

“I think it’s perfect,” you said sincerely, meeting his eyes. “You’d look really good with it, Wade.”

Wade blinked, a flicker of vulnerability passing through his eyes before he quickly covered it up with a smirk. “Well, let’s see if the ol’ moneymaker agrees with you.”

He slipped the toupée on, adjusting it in front of the mirror. For a moment, he just stared at himself, tilting his head this way and that, as if he wasn’t quite sure who was looking back at him.

“You know,” Wade said after a long pause, his voice unusually thoughtful, “I kinda like it. Makes me look almost… normal. Whatever that means.”

You smiled, stepping closer to him. “You don’t need to be ‘normal,’ Wade. You’re amazing just the way you are. But if this makes you happy, then I’m all for it.”

Wade turned to look at you, the mask of bravado slipping just enough for you to see the gratitude in his eyes. “You know, you’re not half bad at this emotional support stuff. Almost makes me want to buy you something shiny.”

You laughed, lightly punching his arm. “Just having you around is enough for me, Wade. But if you’re offering, I’ve always wanted one of those giant lollipops they sell at the candy store.”

Wade grinned, the playful spark returning to his eyes. “Done. But only if you agree to help me pick out a name for this bad boy,” he said, gesturing to the toupée.

“A name?”

“Absolutely. Every great hairpiece needs a name. I’m thinking something classic, like… Tony. Or maybe Leonard.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade. “How about something a little more… unique? Like… Sir Fluffington the First.”

Wade’s eyes lit up. “You, my dear, are a genius. Sir Fluffington it is!”

As you both walked toward the counter to pay, Wade wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “You know, if I’m being honest, this was actually kinda fun. Who knew shopping for toupées could be so therapeutic?”

You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his presence, and smiled. “Anytime, Wade. Anytime.”

[chasingyuyu]

To Light a Candle - J. YH

Masterlist

Featuring Jeong Yunho as father!stefano

Title : To Light a Candle

Year : 1937

Location : Bologna, Italy

Word Count ~ 9.8k

Genre : drama, romance

Pairing : father!stefano x atheist!reader

Summary : Y/N, an atheist woman hardened by life’s hardships and disillusioned by love, doesn’t believe in fairytales or happy endings. The universe seems to mock her when she stumbles upon Father Stefano, a young Catholic priest whose unwavering faith and compassion are everything she’s spent years rejecting. As their paths cross, the tension between her cynicism and his gentle belief grows, Y/N's life taking an unexpected turn.

Warnings : anxiety and mental health struggles, religion and faith conflicts, past trauma, themes of self-worth and identity, slow-burn romance with emotional tension.

Notes : This work is not read proof. Requests are open. Hope you enjoy!

The rain hit the cobblestones like applause, steady, relentless, drowning out the noise of the world. Y/N’s shoes squelched with every step, her coat soaked through to the bone as she staggered down the narrow alleyways of Bologna. She didn’t care where she was going. The streets all looked the same in this city–gray, ancient, indifferent.

She stopped in front of a pair of massive wooden doors, the intricate carvings half-hidden by the shadows of the night. A church. Of course. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

Y/N hated churches. She hated the smell of incense, the cold judgment of the marble saints, the way the silence pressed on her ears like a vice. And yet, as the rain showed no signs of letting up, she muttered a curse under her breath and shoved the door open.

It creaked like a beast stirring from sleep, echoing through the cavernous interior. The scent of wax and damp stone hit her first, followed by the flicker of candlelight that painted the walls with a golden hue. Y/N paused, dripping on the polished floor, glaring at the crucifix as if daring it to strike her down.

“You’re late for Mass.”

The voice came from somewhere to her left, low, warm, with the faintest hint of amusement. She turned sharply, her wet hair plastering itself across her cheek, to find a man in a black cassock standing by the pews. He wasn’t what she expected. Too young to be a priest, she thought. Or maybe just not tired enough.

“I’m not here for Mass.” She snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “And you don’t need to tell me I don’t belong here. I already know.”

He raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, his shoes making soft thuds against the stone. “This isn’t a nightclub, signorina. You don’t need a membership card to enter.”

She let out a hollow laugh, the sound ricocheting off the high ceilings. “Well, aren’t you a modern priest? What’s next, a cocktail hour after confession?”

“Not a bad idea.” He said lightly, though his eyes studied her carefully. She was trembling, whether from the cold or something deeper, he couldn’t tell. “But I’d still prefer to know why you’re here.”

“Because it’s raining!” Y/N shot back, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. “And I needed a roof. Happy?”

His lips curved into something resembling a smile, but it wasn’t patronizing. It was soft, patient, like he was letting her win a game he wasn’t interested in playing. “The rain has a way of leading people to unexpected places.” He said. “I’m Father Stefano, by the way. And you are?”

“Leaving.” The girl replied, though her feet remained planted. Her defiance faltered as her eyes darted to the flickering candles. For a moment, her expression cracked, just a flicker of vulnerability before she pulled her walls back up.

“Alright, Leaving...” Stefano said, the humor in his tone just enough to disarm her. “You’re welcome to stay until the rain stops. No sermons, no strings attached. Just a dry pew and a bit of quiet.”

Y/N hesitated. Quiet wasn’t something she was used to. Her mind was usually too loud, a relentless cacophony of doubt, anger and the kind of loneliness that gnawed at her ribs. But the warmth of the church, the steady glow of the candles and the calm presence of this infuriatingly unbothered priest... it wasn’t the worst place she could be.

“Fine.” She muttered, brushing past him and collapsing into a pew at the back. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m not confessing. And I’m definitely not praying.”

Stefano didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary before turning back toward the altar.

“Stay as long as you need.” He said over his shoulder.

Y/N leaned back against the pew, arms crossed, trying her best to ignore the warmth seeping through her damp clothes. She wasn’t staying because of him, she told herself. She was staying because the thought of stepping back into the rain felt like a punishment she didn’t deserve.

Her eyes wandered across the high ceilings, where painted angels gazed down at her with pity she didn’t ask for. The candles flickered at the altar, their soft light dancing in the shadows, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from the weight pressing on her chest.

“You’re staring at the ceiling like it owes you something.”

His voice broke through her thoughts, startling her. She glanced over to see Stefano standing near the altar, his cassock flowing as he moved. He wasn’t looking at her, not directly, but there was something about his presence that felt... intentional.

“Maybe it does.” She replied, her tone sharp enough to keep him at arm’s length.

He paused, tilting his head as if considering her answer. “And what might that be?”

She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze dropping to the marble floor. “I don’t know. An explanation, maybe. For why things are the way they are. For why it feels like... like I’m being punished for something I didn’t do.”

Her voice cracked at the end and she hated herself for it. She wasn’t here to bare her soul to some priest with kind eyes and too much patience.

“You think you’re being punished?” Stefano asked, his tone gentle, but not pitying. He stepped closer, keeping a respectful distance. “By God?”

She laughed bitterly. “I don’t believe in God, Father. But if He’s up there, He’s got a cruel sense of humor.”

Stefano didn’t flinch at her words. Instead, he took a seat on the edge of a nearby pew, his hands resting loosely in his lap. “It’s okay to be angry.” He said quietly. “Even at God. Especially at God. I think He understands better than we give Him credit for.”

“Wow...” Y/N said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re really selling this whole ‘faith’ thing.”

“It’s not about selling anything.” he replied simply. “I’m just listening.”

That caught her off guard. She had spent her entire life around people who either wanted to fix her or fixate on her problems. Stefano, it seemed, wanted neither. He just sat there, waiting, as if the silence didn’t bother him at all.

For a moment, Y/N considered leaving. Walking out into the rain and disappearing back into the chaos of her life. But something about the way Stefano sat there, calm and steady, made her stay.

“What’s your deal?” She asked finally, breaking the silence.

He raised an eyebrow. “My deal?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, gesturing vaguely at him. “You’re not like... the others. Most priests would’ve either shoved a Bible in my hands or kicked me out by now.”

Stefano smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I guess I’ve learned that people aren’t usually looking for answers. Sometimes, they just want to be heard.”

“Sounds like something they’d teach you in priest school.” She muttered.

“Not exactly." He said, his tone softening. “I had to learn it the hard way.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. There was a sadness in his eyes, something deeper than she had expected. It wasn’t pity—she could handle pity. No, this was something else.

“What happened?” She asked before she could stop herself.

Stefano hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “That’s a story for another time." He said, standing and brushing off his cassock. “But for now, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. The rain doesn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.”

And with that, he walked back toward the altar, leaving Y/N alone with her thoughts.

She hated how curious she felt. Hated how his quiet presence made her feel something she couldn’t quite name. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like running away.

The rain pounded against the stained-glass windows, each drop a reminder that the storm outside was far less intimidating than the one raging within her. Stefano didn’t push her to talk, didn’t offer any sermons or platitudes. He moved around the church quietly, lighting candles, adjusting books on the pews and straightening the altar cloth. It was almost annoying how at ease he seemed, as though the world wasn’t falling apart around them.

When the rain finally slowed to a drizzle, Y/N forced herself to stand. Her legs felt stiff and she could feel the eyes of the carved saints watching her every movement.

“I’ll go now.” She said, her voice sharper than she intended.

Stefano looked up from where he was kneeling near the altar. “The doors are always open, signorina.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me back.” She shot back, turning toward the door.

“I won’t." He said simply.

That stopped her in her tracks. No argument, no insistence that she should come back, no promises of salvation. She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch him watching her, his expression unreadable.

“Good.” She muttered, pushing the door open and stepping into the damp night. "Oh, and Father?" She turned to look back at him. "I'm Y/N."

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been weeks since Y/N stumbled into the church. Weeks of telling herself she wouldn’t go back, that the moment was a fluke, an accident born of rain and bad luck. But no matter how far she wandered through the city, she couldn’t quite shake the memory of Stefano, the way he had listened without judgment, the calm steadiness of his presence.

She told herself it didn’t matter. She had more important things to worry about, like finding her next meal or a place to sleep that wasn’t a park bench. Yet, when she found herself walking past the church again one crisp autumn afternoon, her steps faltered.

The doors were wide open, sunlight spilling into the dim interior like a hesitant guest. She hovered at the threshold, torn between curiosity and pride, when a voice interrupted her internal battle.

“You don’t need an invitation to come inside.”

Stefano’s voice was warm, familiar and it startled her. She looked up to see him standing in the doorway, his cassock swapped for a simple shirt and slacks. He carried a basket of fresh produce, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with flour.

“I wasn’t going to.” Y/N lied, crossing her arms defensively.

“Of course not.” Stefano said, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You were just... admiring the architecture?”

“Something like that.” She muttered, her gaze flickering toward the basket. “What’s with the groceries? Thought priests lived off bread and wine.”

He laughed softly, a sound that caught her off guard with its ease. “I help cook meals for the orphanage down the street. Today, I’m making minestrone. Would you like to join me?”

Her stomach growled at the mention of food, betraying her. She clenched her jaw, hating how transparent she felt under his calm gaze.

“I don’t need charity.” She snapped.

“It’s not charity.” He replied evenly. “It’s dinner. And I could use an extra set of hands in the kitchen.”

For a moment, she considered refusing. She didn’t want to owe him anything, didn’t want to feel like a stray dog he was taking pity on. But the memory of her last proper meal)–stale bread and half a bruised apple–made her hesitate.

“Fine." She said finally. “But I’m not peeling anything.”

Stefano smiled, stepping aside to let her in. “Deal.”

The church kitchen was small but warm, the scent of fresh basil and simmering vegetables filling the air. Stefano handed her a knife and a cutting board, instructing her to chop carrots while he stirred the pot.

“You’re awfully trusting for someone who just handed me a weapon.” Y/N remarked, eyeing the blade.

Stefano chuckled. “I have faith you’ll use it wisely.”

“Big mistake.” She muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself.

As they worked, Stefano didn’t pry or ask questions. Instead, he told her stories–about the children at the orphanage, the elderly nun who ran it and the stray cat that had made itself a permanent resident.

“You talk too much.” Y/N said at one point, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

“Do I?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. It’s exhausting.”

“Noted.” Stefano said, his lips twitching into a smile. “Would you prefer silence?”

She paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. “No.” She admitted quietly.

They finished the soup in companionable quiet, the kind that didn’t feel oppressive or awkward. When it was done, Stefano ladled a generous portion into two bowls and set one in front of her.

Y/N hesitated, the steam rising to meet her nose. “This doesn’t mean I’m coming back." She said.

“I know.” He replied, taking a seat across from her.

“And I’m not peeling anything next time either.”

“Understood.”

Despite herself, she smirked, picking up her spoon. The soup was warm and comforting, the kind of meal that felt like a hug you didn’t know you needed.

For the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel like running.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Y/N didn’t intend to get involved with the orphanage.

In fact, she tried her best to avoid it. After that evening in the church kitchen, she made a mental note to steer clear of Stefano, his kind eyes and his frustrating way of making her feel seen. But it was hard to avoid someone who seemed to know the streets better than she did.

The next time she ran into him, it was on a narrow cobblestone alley near the bakery where she scavenged day-old bread. Stefano was crouched beside a small boy with dirt-smudged cheeks and mismatched shoes, tying a loose shoelace while the child babbled about something Y/N couldn’t quite hear.

She paused mid-step, her instincts screaming at her to turn around and disappear, but Stefano looked up and spotted her. His smile was as warm as the sun peeking through the clouds.

“Y/N.” He called, straightening up. “Perfect timing.”

“For what?” She asked warily, keeping her distance.

“This is Luca.” Stefano said, gesturing to the boy. “He’s one of the children at the orphanage.”

Luca grinned at her, his two front teeth missing. “Are you the lady who helped Father Stefano cook soup?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “How do you—”

“He told us.” Luca interrupted proudly. “He said you’re very good at chopping carrots.”

Her lips twitched, though she fought the urge to smile. “Is that so?”

Stefano shrugged, the picture of innocence. “I might’ve mentioned it.”

Before she could reply, Luca grabbed her hand with surprising confidence for a boy his size. “Come with us! Father Stefano is taking me to get a new book. I want to show you my favorite one!”

Y/N glanced at Stefano, who looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “He’s persistent.” He said, as if that explained everything.

“I noticed.” She muttered, but Luca’s grip was firm, and before she knew it, she was following them down the alley.

The bookshop smelled of old paper and ink, a comforting blend that Y/N hadn’t realized she missed. Luca darted between the shelves like a whirlwind, pulling out books and chattering to Stefano about each one.

Y/N hovered near the door, feeling out of place among the neat rows of novels and the quiet hum of conversation. Stefano didn’t push her to join them, but every so often, he would glance her way, a silent invitation in his gaze.

Eventually, Luca ran up to her with a battered copy of 'The Adventures of Pinocchio'. “This one’s my favorite.” He announced, holding it out to her.

Y/N took the book hesitantly, running her fingers over the worn cover. “Why?”

“Because it’s about a boy who makes a lot of mistakes, but still gets a happy ending.” Luca said matter-of-factly. “Do you like it?”

She stared at the book, her throat tightening. “I... I haven’t read it.”

Luca’s eyes widened. “You should! Father Stefano can read it to you if you want. He’s really good at the voices.”

“I’ll keep that in mind." She said, her voice softer than she intended as she glanced at the priest.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By the time they left the bookshop, Y/N had somehow been roped into visiting the orphanage.

“It’s just for a quick tour.” Stefano said as they walked. “No pressure.”

“Sure...” She said dryly. “Because you’re not the least bit manipulative.”

He smiled, unbothered by her sarcasm. “Not manipulative. Just persuasive.”

The orphanage was a modest building tucked away on a quiet street, its walls painted a cheerful yellow that stood out against the gray stone surrounding it. Inside, the air buzzed with the sounds of children laughing, arguing, and running down the halls.

Y/N stood awkwardly near the entrance, unsure of what to do with herself as Stefano greeted the nuns who ran the place. Luca immediately disappeared into a crowd of kids, holding up his new book like a trophy.

“Would you like to help serve dinner?” Stefano asked, turning to her.

Her first instinct was to say no, to bolt for the door and never look back. But something about the way he asked–like it wasn’t a big deal, like she wasn’t some project to fix–made her hesitate.

“Fine.” She muttered. “But don’t expect me to be good at it.”

The evening passed in a blur of noise and activity, leaving Y/N more drained than she expected. When the children had finally scattered to their rooms and the last of the dishes were washed, she found herself lingering in the quiet kitchen, unsure why she hadn’t left yet.

Stefano was at the table, carefully folding a pile of napkins. The room was lit by a single oil lamp, casting soft shadows across the worn wooden surfaces.

“You’re still here.” He said without looking up, his voice steady but not surprised.

“Yeah, well... I didn’t want to walk home in the dark." She muttered, though she wasn’t entirely sure it was true.

Stefano nodded, finishing his task before meeting her gaze. “Fair enough. Sit down for a bit, then.”

She hesitated but eventually sank into the chair across from him. The silence stretched between them, not quite comfortable but not unbearable either.

“Why do you do it?” She asked suddenly, her fingers tracing patterns on the tabletop.

“Do what?”

“All of this.” She said, gesturing vaguely. “The orphanage, the soup, the... whatever it is you do every day. Don’t you ever get tired of trying to save people?”

Stefano leaned back in his chair, studying her with that infuriatingly calm expression. “Sometimes...” He admitted. “But it’s not about me. It’s about them.”

“That’s such a cop-out answer.” She said, rolling her eyes.

He laughed softly. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.”

Y/N frowned, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I don’t get it. You don’t even know me and yet you’re–” She stopped, searching for the right word.

“Persistent?” He offered.

“Annoying.” She corrected, though her tone was less sharp than usual.

Stefano chuckled, folding his hands on the table. “You remind me of someone I knew once. Someone who thought they didn’t need anyone, that they could carry the weight of the world on their own.”

“Let me guess.” Y/N said dryly. “You swooped in and saved them too?”

“Not exactly.” He said, his gaze softening. “But I helped them see that they weren’t as alone as they thought.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, the words hitting closer to home than she wanted to admit. She looked away, her eyes landing on the flickering flame of the lamp. “I’m not looking to be saved, you know.”

“I know." Stefano said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t care.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing against her chest. “You’re really bad at minding your own business.”

“It’s a terrible habit.” He agreed, his lips curving into a faint smile.

Despite herself, Y/N felt the corners of her mouth twitch. She quickly masked it by standing up and reaching for her coat. “I should go.”

Stefano stood as well, but he didn’t try to stop her. “The doors are always open, Y/N.”

She paused in the doorway, her hand resting on the worn wood. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

But as she stepped into the cool night air, a part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind the idea of coming back.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The rain came back with a vengeance two nights later.

Y/N hadn’t meant to end up on the church steps again. She’d sworn to herself after that evening at the orphanage that she was done with Stefano and his relentless kindness. But as the storm rolled in, soaking her to the bone and turning the streets into rivers of filth, she found her feet taking her there anyway.

By the time she pushed open the heavy wooden doors, she was shaking from both cold and exhaustion. The church was dimly lit, the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. She hesitated just inside, unsure if she was intruding, when a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

“You’re drenched.”

Stefano stood at the altar, his cassock loose and his hair slightly mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His expression was unreadable, but there was no mistaking the concern in his eyes.

“I didn’t come here for you.” She said defensively, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.

“I didn’t say you did." He replied, stepping down from the altar. “Come on. There’s a fire in the rectory.”

“I’m fine!" She snapped, but her trembling hands betrayed her.

Stefano didn’t argue. He simply waited, his calm presence somehow more infuriating than if he’d tried to insist. Finally, with a defeated sigh, she followed him through a side door and into the rectory.

The small room was cozy, with a crackling fire and a simple wooden table cluttered with books and papers. Stefano handed her a dry towel and gestured for her to sit by the hearth.

She hesitated, hating how vulnerable she felt, but the warmth was too tempting to resist. She sank into the chair, wrapping the towel around herself as she stared into the flames.

“Do you want tea?” He asked, already moving toward a small kettle.

“Why do you care?” She muttered.

Stefano paused, his back to her. “Because someone has to.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She bit her lip, refusing to let him see how much they affected her. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity." He said, turning to face her. “It’s just... care.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and brittle. “Care? You don’t even know me.”

“Then help me understand.” Stefano said softly, his eyes locking onto hers.

For a moment, she wanted to run, to throw up every wall she’d spent years building. But something about his voice, his presence, made her stay.

“I don’t need anyone to save me." She said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.” Stefano replied. “But that doesn’t mean you have to carry everything alone.”

The dam cracked, just a little. “You don’t get it.” Her voice cracked, her hands tightening around the towel. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried to fix things, to be better, but it’s like every time I get close, something pulls me back under.”

Her voice broke again and she hated herself for it. She hated that she was falling apart in front of him, of all people.

Stefano didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pulled a chair closer and sat across from her, his presence steady and unshakable.

“It’s not about being perfect.” He said quietly. “It’s about trying. And letting people help when you can’t do it alone.”

She shook her head, tears burning in her eyes. “I don’t even believe in God. What am I doing here?”

“You’re here because you’re tired.” Stefano said simply. “And that’s okay.”

The honesty in his voice, the lack of judgment, made her chest ache. She looked away, the firelight blurring in her vision.

“I don’t know how to stop running.” She admitted, her voice so soft she wasn’t sure he’d heard her.

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight.” the priest said gently. “But maybe... maybe you don’t have to run alone.”

Y/N closed her eyes, letting his words sink in. For the first time in years, the thought of staying still didn’t feel like a trap.

And as the rain pounded against the windows, she let herself believe, just for a moment, that maybe Stefano was right.

As the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the fire and the rhythmic patter of the storm lulled her into a strange stillness. It was as if the world had quieted around her, leaving only the soft crackle of the flames and Stefano’s steady presence.

Her body betrayed her exhaustion, sinking deeper into the chair as her eyes grew heavy. She fought it at first. After all, sleep was a dangerous thing, a state where her defenses crumbled and memories had a habit of sneaking in uninvited. But here, cocooned in the unexpected safety of the rectory, her resistance faltered.

Stefano hadn’t spoken in a while, but she could sense he was still nearby, perhaps reading or praying silently. That thought, oddly enough, didn’t irritate her. If anything, it anchored her, the knowledge that someone else was awake, someone who wasn’t asking anything of her.

Her lashes fluttered shut despite her protests and her breathing slowed.

Stefano looked up from his place by the table, his gaze softening when he saw her. She was curled in on herself, her knees drawn up slightly as if to shield herself from a world that had been too harsh. He noticed how her face, always so guarded, had softened in sleep, the tension melted away by the fire’s warmth.

For a long moment, he simply watched, his own thoughts a quiet murmur of prayer and questions.

Rising silently, he fetched a blanket from a nearby shelf. With the same care one might show a fragile relic, he draped it over her, tucking the edges gently around her shoulders. The gesture wasn’t calculated or deliberate; it was instinctive, driven by a need to offer comfort where it was so clearly needed.

When he returned to his seat, he found his gaze drifting back to her. She had mentioned she didn’t believe in God, but there was something deeply sacred about the vulnerability she showed now, even if unintentionally. Stefano wasn’t sure what to make of it.

The storm outside began to ebb, the rain now a faint drizzle. The room was quiet save for the occasional crack of the fire, and Stefano leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.

He told himself he was only staying awake in case she stirred or needed something, but a part of him knew it was more than that. He wanted to be there, wanted her to wake to the same calmness she’d fallen asleep in.

And for the first time in a long while, Stefano found himself silently asking a question he couldn’t easily answer: Was this where he was meant to be?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The storm had passed by the time morning arrived, leaving the world outside washed clean and glistening under the early light. The rectory was quiet, the air carrying the faint scent of burnt wood and something earthy, like rain-soaked stone.

Y/N stirred first, the blanket slipping slightly from her shoulders as she blinked herself awake. For a moment, she was disoriented, her surroundings unfamiliar. But then the memories of the previous night came rushing back—the fire, the storm, Stefano.

She sat up quickly, her eyes darting around until they landed on him. He was sitting by the table, head bowed, his fingers lightly gripping a rosary. The beads glinted faintly in the sunlight streaming through the small window.

She froze, unsure what to say. She wasn’t used to waking up in places like this, under blankets that didn’t feel like shields or traps.

“Good morning." Stefano said softly, not looking up.

Her breath caught. It wasn’t his voice—it was how calm it sounded, like he’d been waiting for her to wake but didn’t want to rush her.

“Morning." She muttered, her voice thick from sleep.

He glanced at her then, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There’s tea on the stove. It’s still warm if you’d like some.”

She shifted awkwardly, clutching the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I, uh... I should probably go.”

Stefano nodded, but he didn’t look disappointed. “If that’s what you want.”

His response threw her off once again. She'd expected an argument, some polite insistence that she stay longer. Instead, he rose from his chair and moved to pour a cup of tea, setting it on the edge of the table nearest to her.

“No one’s keeping you here." He added, his tone light. “But you don’t have to leave right away."

Her heart betrayed her, skipping a beat at his words, causing her cheeks to flush. Stefano chuckled softly, his laugh warm but not mocking.

“Fine.” She grumbled, standing and letting the blanket fall back onto the chair. She crossed the room and picked up the teacup, avoiding his gaze as she took a tentative sip.

The tea was earthy and slightly sweet and it warmed her from the inside out. She hated how much she liked it.

They sat in silence for a while, Stefano returning to his seat by the table and Y/N perching on the edge of the chair nearest the fire. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t quite easy, either.

“I’m sorry." She said abruptly, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

Stefano looked up, surprised. “For what?”

“For... falling asleep here. For... last night.” She said, stumbling over the words. “I didn’t mean to–”

“There’s nothing to apologize for." He interrupted gently.

She frowned, her fingers tightening around the teacup. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like... you don’t expect anything in return.” She said, frustrated. “Like you’re just... good.”

Stefano smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not as good as you think, Y/N. I’m just trying to be present. For you, for anyone who needs it.”

She shook her head, setting the cup down with a little more force than necessary. “It’s not normal. People aren’t like that.”

“Maybe they should be." He said simply.

His words hung in the air, and for once, Y/N didn’t know how to respond.

Stefano watched her for a moment longer, then stood and began tidying the table, giving her space to think. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, his movements calm and deliberate.

Y/N sat with the empty teacup in her hands, staring into its depths as if it held answers to questions she hadn’t dared to ask. Stefano, now occupied with clearing the table, moved around the room with an ease she found infuriating. He wasn’t awkward or stiff, even in her presence and that calmness unsettled her.

Her stomach suddenly betrayed her, growling loudly in the otherwise quiet room. She winced, clutching at her midsection as if that could silence it.

Stefano glanced up from where he was folding a dishcloth. His expression was neutral, but there was the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Hungry much?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned and she looked anywhere but at him. “I... maybe. Just a little.”

“Good.” He said without hesitation, moving toward a small cabinet. “You should be.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his easy response. “Why is that good?”

“It means you’re comfortable enough to admit it.” Stefano said matter-of-factly, pulling out a loaf of bread and a small tin of jam.

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. She watched as he set the bread on the table, slicing it with practiced precision. The smell of fresh bread filled the room, making her mouth water despite herself.

“I don’t need much.” She said quickly, as if to justify her earlier confession.

“You’ll get what you need.” Stefano replied with a small smile, handing her a plate with a thick slice of bread, a smear of jam glistening on top.

She hesitated, eyeing the plate warily.

“It’s just bread." He said lightly, taking a piece for himself.

“Yeah, but you’re weird about bread." She muttered under her breath.

Stefano chuckled, a genuine, warm sound that made her feel both exposed and oddly at ease. “Not all bread is sacred. Sometimes it’s just breakfast.”

Her lips twitched despite herself and she finally took the plate. The first bite was tentative, but as soon as the flavors hit her tongue, she realized how hungry she really was. She devoured the slice in quick bites, her appetite overriding her self-consciousness.

Stefano didn’t comment, eating his own piece at a leisurely pace. When she finished, he handed her another without a word.

“Thanks." She said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

The simplicity of the exchange felt... odd. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but foreign. She was used to everything being a transaction, even kindness. But here he was, giving her bread and tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world, expecting nothing in return.

“More tea?” He asked after a moment, his voice light.

She nodded, a tiny smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The days after the storm had passed were quieter, filled with the usual calm that Stefano had long been accustomed to. Y/N, though still uncertain about what she had felt the night before, had started to come around more often. She wasn’t staying in the rectory, but she would stop by to help him with small tasks, trying—unsuccessfully at times—to hide the anxiety that always simmered beneath her calm exterior.

That afternoon, Stefano had asked her to accompany him to the market to pick up supplies for the upcoming week. It had seemed harmless enough, a simple errand—but as soon as they left the quiet of the rectory and entered the bustling streets, something in Y/N snapped.

The noise was too much–the crowded squares, the chatter of vendors, the clatter of carts, the children laughing too loudly–it all felt like a wall pressing in on her, suffocating her. She kept her head down, her breath growing shallower with each step.

Stefano, walking just a few paces ahead, didn’t seem to notice, his attention absorbed in the details of the market: the bread, the vegetables, the vendors waving at him in greeting. His calmness, the easy flow of his movements, made her feel even more out of place.

"Y/N?" Stefano's voice pulled her out of her spiraling thoughts. He turned back to her with a soft smile, a basket in his hands, his eyes warm with quiet understanding. "Are you alright?"

But the warmth in his gaze only made the pressure in her chest worse.

"I'm fine." She snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. The words tasted bitter in her mouth, but they were already out. "Can we just finish this? I don’t need your... your pity."

Stefano’s expression faltered, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. He stepped back toward her, but this time, his hand didn’t reach for her. Instead, he gave her space, his eyes studying her carefully.

“We've had this conversation before. I’m not pitying you, Y/N." He said, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m trying to help.”

"Well, I don’t need help." She said, her voice rising now, the words spilling out faster than she could stop them. “I don’t need anyone’s help! I don’t need your help! You think you can just... be kind and it fixes everything? It doesn’t! It doesn’t make me feel better! It doesn’t make the noise go away or the emptiness inside me go away! It doesn’t change anything!”

Her chest tightened as her words tumbled out, her face flushed with frustration and something darker, something deeper that she had been burying for far too long.

Stefano looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment, and for a terrifying second, Y/N thought he might just walk away. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his gaze softening.

“I... I’m sorry.” She said, the harshness in her voice fading as quickly as it had appeared. She wanted to take back the words, wanted to swallow them down before they could do any more damage. She didn’t want to be angry with him. She never did.

But she had no control over it–no control over the feelings, over the panic, over the way everything felt like it was closing in around her. She took a shaky breath, her hand reaching for her hair, tugging it behind her ear as if the motion could ground her.

"I didn’t mean that." She whispered, her voice trembling.

Stefano said nothing, but he reached out to her. This time, it wasn’t with the gentle touch she had come to expect–it was an offering of space, a quiet permission to fall apart. He gave her a moment.

Y/N closed her eyes, trying to steady herself, but the panic was rising again, making her heart beat faster. She could feel the edges of her thoughts blurring, the familiar sense of losing control creeping in. She couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry.” She repeated, her hands trembling now as she clutched at her sides. “I don’t... I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know how to stop feeling like this, like I’m just... always about to fall apart. It's so exhausting."

Stefano stepped forward, his presence solid and steady. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just stood there, waiting. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was the kind that allowed her to breathe without pressure, as if he were giving her space to be broken without judgment.

“I don’t... I don’t know how to fix it.” She said, her voice breaking now, the tears that had been threatening to spill finally falling. “I just want to be normal, Stefano. I just want to... feel like I’m not falling apart every day.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she struggled to hold it together, but the sobs came anyway, wracking her body with the force of emotions she didn’t understand.

Stefano’s hand was on her arm before she even realized it, guiding her gently into the alcove of a nearby building where they could be out of sight of the bustling street. The smell of fresh bread and fruit was muffled in the space and the noise of the market softened, like a distant hum.

Y/N let him guide her, her head spinning as her emotions overwhelmed her. She hated how much it hurt, how raw it all felt, how much she wished she could just close herself off and pretend she was fine.

“I didn’t mean to...” She gasped, her chest tight with emotion.

Stefano didn’t interrupt her this time. He simply reached out, pulling her gently into a hug, his arms wrapping around her with a tenderness that made her want to collapse. His chest was warm against her cheek, his heartbeat steady and calm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N let herself lean into him, let herself just... break.

“I’m here." He whispered against her hair, his voice calm but full of unspoken strength. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

Her sobs quieted in the circle of his arms, the storm of emotions inside her beginning to settle. She didn’t know how long they stood there, the world outside continuing on without them, but eventually, she pulled away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered again, feeling the weight of her words. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Stefano looked down at her, his eyes soft. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re not broken, Y/N. You’re just... struggling. And that’s okay.”

Y/N shook her head, the tears still fresh on her cheeks. “I don’t deserve your kindness. I don’t deserve anything.”

“You deserve more than you know.” He said, his voice unwavering. “And it’s okay not to be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

Y/N stared at him, her breath still uneven. “But... I’m just a burden, Father. A waste of space and air. I—”

Her voice cracked as the words tumbled from her lips, the self-loathing that had been building for so long spilling over. She could feel the weight of her shame and pain crushing her chest, suffocating her with each breath. She looked away, not wanting him to see the cracks in her carefully built façade.

Stefano’s eyes softened with a mix of concern and understanding, his hand gently reaching up to touch her face. His touch was tender, almost reverent, as if he was afraid that even the slightest movement might break her further. His fingers brushed the dampness of her cheeks, wiping away the last of her tears with a tenderness she couldn’t comprehend.

“Y/N.” he murmured, his voice so soft, so sincere. “You’re not a burden. You’re not a waste of anything.”

His words weren’t just comforting. They were a lifeline, pulling her from the depths of her own mind. His hand stayed on her face, his thumb brushing across her skin in slow, soothing circles.

“I know it’s hard to believe...” He continued, his voice steady. “But you’re worthy of love. You’re worthy of kindness. You’re worthy of more than you know.”

Her breath hitched, and she could feel the tightness in her chest loosen just a fraction. For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes, to let his warmth wrap around her, the security of his presence grounding her.

“But I don’t know how to be that person." She whispered, her voice barely a breath, like the admission of a secret she had kept buried for far too long. “I don’t know how to stop feeling broken.”

Stefano took a step closer, his body just inches from hers, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was like he was offering her the space to feel, to breathe, without rushing her. His eyes, soft and full of patience, never left hers.

“You don’t have to be fixed, Y/N." He said, his voice quiet but intense. “You don’t need to be anything other than what you are. You’re enough, just as you are.”

The sincerity in his gaze made something shift inside her–a crack in the wall she had so carefully constructed around herself. She felt her heart beat faster, not from panic or fear, but from something else–something unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.

“I don’t deserve your kindness." She murmured, her voice trembling as she struggled to keep the emotions at bay. “I don’t deserve anything from you.”

His thumb continued to stroke her cheek, the motion gentle, almost reverent, as if he were memorizing the curve of her face. “You deserve everything, Y/N. Everything good and beautiful.”

The tenderness in his voice was like a balm to her wounds, and before she could stop herself, she reached up, her hand covering his, pressing it more firmly against her cheek. There was something about the way he was looking at her, something in the way he was holding her gaze, that made her feel... safe.

Safe to feel. Safe to be weak. Safe to be vulnerable.

For a long moment, they stood there, not speaking, just breathing. Her heart fluttered in her chest, the feeling of his touch making her head swim with confusion and something deeper—something she didn’t want to name, but couldn’t ignore.

She wanted to pull away, to step back into the comfort of her guarded self, but she couldn’t. His presence was magnetic, drawing her in, offering her something she hadn’t realized she needed: connection.

His eyes never left hers as he leaned in, the space between them growing smaller with each breath. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost a whisper, as if the moment was too delicate to disturb.

“You don’t have to apologize, Y/N. Not to me. Not ever.”

And before she could say anything else, he did something that took her completely by surprise–he gently cupped her chin and tilted her face up toward him, his eyes soft and full of unspoken emotions. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he pressed his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with hers, both of them standing in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat. The simple gesture of his closeness, the warmth of his skin against hers, sent a rush of heat through her. Her pulse quickened, and she was suddenly acutely aware of everything—the faint scent of his cologne, the rhythm of their breathing, the slight tremble in her hands.

“I’m here." He whispered, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear it. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

The words hung in the air, hanging between them like a promise, and for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt something shift inside her. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as broken as she had believed. Maybe she wasn’t beyond saving.

Slowly, she leaned into him, her forehead pressing against his as if she were searching for something–something she hadn’t even known she needed until this moment. His warmth, his kindness, his unwavering presence, it all felt like a lifeline.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” She murmured, the words escaping her before she could stop them. “But when I’m with you... I feel like maybe I could be okay.”

Stefano remained still, his breath steady as his arms slowly circled around her, pulling her closer. His embrace was warm, comforting, and it felt like home.

“You don’t have to know, Y/N.” He said, his voice soft and full of promise. “You just have to be. And I’ll be here, no matter what.”

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to fall into his embrace, the world around her fading away. For the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel so alone.

And for a fleeting moment, as she stood in his arms, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to live without the constant weight of her anxiety, without the chains of self-doubt. What if, just for once, she could allow herself to feel love without fear?

As the rain began to fall again, soft and steady, Y/N let herself believe just for a moment that she could be worthy of it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The days after Y/N's moment of weakness were a strange blend of quiet moments and growing anticipation. Y/N found herself slipping into a new rhythm, one that was defined not just by her own inner turmoil, but by the space Stefano had carved for her in his life. It wasn’t just his kindness that touched her, but also the way he seemed to understand without asking, the way his mere presence soothed her like a balm on an open wound.

But with that soothing presence came a tension she couldn’t ignore. The simple moments started to hold something deeper–a current of attraction neither of them spoke aloud, but both felt in the space between them.

One evening, after a particularly long day of helping him organize church materials, they found themselves alone in the library. The evening sun cast a warm, golden light through the windows and Y/N stood by the bookshelf, tracing the spines of old books without really seeing them. She was aware of Stefano just behind her, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him. The air between them felt charged, like the calm before a storm and it made her heart race in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

Stefano was silent for a moment, watching her. He hadn’t said much since they’d finished their work, but his presence was undeniable, always just a step away. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and soft, but with an edge that made her turn toward him.

“You’re distant tonight.” He trailed off, his eyes dark, scanning her face. “What’s on your mind, Y/N?”

She didn’t know how to answer. The truth was, she wasn’t just thinking about her usual turmoil–she was thinking about him. His hands, his voice, the way he stood so close without ever overstepping. She couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him, an attraction that seemed to grow stronger each day. But it terrified her too. She wasn’t ready to let go of the walls she’d built around herself and yet, being near him made those walls feel like they were crumbling.

“I... I’m fine." She replied, her voice betraying her, soft and uncertain. “Just... tired.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. Stefano stepped closer and his gaze softened, as if he was seeing through her carefully constructed exterior. His hand moved to the side of her face, his thumb brushing against her jaw in that same tender way he always did. But this time, the touch lingered. She could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of her blouse and it made her breath hitch in her throat.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N." He said, his voice thick with an emotion she couldn’t place. His hand slid gently to the back of her neck, his thumb massaging the skin there, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Her breath caught in her chest, the closeness between them making her heart pound. She had never felt like this with anyone–this mix of comfort and desire, of emotional need and physical yearning. It was overwhelming and it took everything in her not to pull away.

“I...” She started, but the words didn’t come. She couldn’t make herself speak.

Stefano’s hand tightened slightly, his thumb pressing into the sensitive spot just below her ear, a gentle but firm pressure that sent a jolt of electricity through her. His gaze lowered to her lips and the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them.

“Y/N...” His voice was barely a whisper, his breath warm against her face. “Is this okay?”

Her heart thudded in her chest, every inch of her body screaming at her to step back, to run, to preserve the safety of her emotional walls. But his touch was gentle, patient, as if he was waiting for her to choose. Waiting for her to admit that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to keep running anymore.

With trembling hands, she reached up, cupping his face in her palms, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. Her fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, his skin awfully smooth against her fingertips and it made her breath catch. She could feel the weight of the moment, the tension between them thick and palpable, like a rope being pulled tighter with every passing second.

“I’m scared.” She admitted, her voice barely audible, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “I don’t know if I can... let myself feel this.”

His hands moved, wrapping loosely around her waist and pulling her gently toward him. His forehead rested against hers and for a moment, they just stood there, the world outside slipping away, leaving only the two of them in the quiet of the room.

“You don’t have to be scared with me." Stefano murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I've said this before, I'm saying this now and I'll say this as many times as needed." He whispered softly. "I’m not going to hurt you. Just... let yourself fall and I'll be there to catch you."

And with that, the last of her defenses cracked.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a kiss so soft, so tentative, that it almost felt like a question. But Stefano responded with the same quiet intensity, his hands pulling her even closer, deepening the kiss, his lips demanding more without words. It was slow, reverent, as if he was savoring the moment, letting her take the lead as much as he was.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their hearts pounding in their chests. Y/N felt light-headed, as if the very air around her had shifted, become heavier with something more. Something dangerous, yet exhilarating.

“Do you trust me?” Stefano asked, voice husky, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored her own, a hunger she's never seen in his his eyes before.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, searching his face, looking for any sign that this wasn’t real. But all she saw was the sincerity in his gaze, the warmth in his touch. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she realized that maybe, just maybe, she could trust him.

“I do.” she whispered, the words slipping from her lips like a secret. And with that, the space between them dissolved, and the rest of the world faded away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Weeks passed and the seasons slowly shifted. The once oppressive weight that Y/N carried seemed to lift, not because it had vanished entirely, but because it no longer felt as unbearable. Stefano had been her steady anchor, his unwavering patience and tenderness guiding her through every storm, whether in her own mind or in the world outside.

They spent countless hours together–quiet mornings at the church, long walks through the fields when the weather allowed and nights where Y/N found herself curled up against him, talking about everything and nothing, her heart finally beginning to find peace. There were still moments of doubt, moments when she wondered if she was deserving of the love she was being given, but Stefano’s presence was a constant reminder that she was worthy, just as she was.

One evening, as the soft glow of twilight bathed the rectory in golden light, they sat side by side on the bench in the garden. The air was cool, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the earth. Stefano had his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, her head resting against his chest. There was no need for words—only the sound of their breaths, slow and steady, as if they had found a rhythm together.

“I never thought I could feel like this.” Y/N whispered, her voice soft but certain. “Like... like I belong. Like I matter.”

Stefano smiled, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. “You always mattered, Y/N. You just needed to see it for yourself.”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with something raw, something tender. She had never imagined that this–a simple, quiet life, filled with love and understanding–was something she could have, but here it was. Here he was.

“I... I love you.” She said suddenly, the words spilling out like a secret she had been holding onto for too long.

Stefano’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes searching hers, as if to make sure she truly meant it. His hand gently cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin. “I love you too, Y/N.” He replied, his voice thick with emotion.

It wasn’t the grand declarations of love she had once imagined, full of fireworks and dramatic gestures. It was quieter, more profound, something that had grown in the small moments, the shared silences, the understanding that passed between them like a silent promise.

Y/N felt her chest tighten with emotion as she gazed into his eyes, seeing the depth of his affection reflected back at her. The love wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t the stuff of fairy tales, but it was real. It was grounding. And it was exactly what she had needed to heal.

With a small laugh, she shifted in his arms, her hands resting on his chest. “I’m sorry for all the times I pushed you away." She said, her voice tinged with regret. “I was scared... and I didn’t know how to let someone in.”

Stefano’s fingers gently traced her jaw, his touch light. “You never had to apologize, Y/N. I never wanted to force you into anything. You’ve come so far and I’m proud of you. I’ll always be here, no matter what.”

The sincerity in his words hit her deeply. There was a security in his love that she had never known before. For the first time, she allowed herself to fully embrace the love he offered, without doubt, without hesitation.

As they sat together, the last light of the day began to fade, leaving only the soft hum of the evening around them. Y/N nestled closer into Stefano’s embrace, a sense of peace settling over her. She had learned, through him, that love wasn’t just about the grand moments or the promises made under the stars. It was about the quiet presence, the steady hands, the shared silences and the understanding that no matter the storm, they would face it together.

And so, as the night embraced them in its quiet beauty, Y/N and Stefano knew, without needing words, that this was only the beginning of their story. A story that had been born from pain, but had grown into something stronger, something full of hope, healing, and the kind of love that would last, no matter the challenges ahead.

For once, Y/N didn’t feel like she was just drifting. She wasn’t alone, and for the first time, she believed in the love they shared, the love that had healed her, that had shown her what it truly meant to be loved.

And in that moment, as she looked into Stefano’s eyes, she realized she was exactly where she was meant to be.

The end.

[aventurineswife]

Yes YES YES

The mmorning after, aventurine just looking at reader who is still sleeping, admiring them (and the love bites he left behind) and wondering how he got so lucky to have someone like them in his life.

Bonus points if reader when they wake up, they reach out to hold his face or ruffle his hair and sleeply call him by his real name

“You are the Reason”

Summary: In a tender morning scene, Aventurine, lies in bed with his partner, watching them sleep. As dawn light filters through the curtains, he reflects on the intimate moments they've shared and the vulnerability he feels in their presence. Their quiet exchange reveals the depth of their connection with Aventurine struggling between his chaotic life as a gambler and the desire for peace and permanence he finds in love.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Vulnerability, Redemption, Emotional Connection, You make him want to keep living 🫶, Healing, Morning Scene, Intimate.

Warnings: Mild Intimacy, Brief mention of character trauma.

A/N: HEHE!! 🤭 THIS WAS SO CUTEEE AND HONESTLY I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN!!

Inspired by and this

The dawn was soft and pale, casting delicate rays that slowly seeped through the heavy curtains. It painted the room in a golden haze, warming the shadows and quietly coaxing the world awake. Yet in the bed, wrapped in sheets and tangled with you, Aventurine had no desire to leave the comfort of your embrace. He lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, quietly admiring the sight of you at rest.

His fingers absentmindedly traced along your shoulder, his touch featherlight as he brushed over the faint love bites dotting your skin. Each mark was a reminder of the intensity they had shared, moments that lingered like a secret between you both, whispers only the two of you would understand. His gaze softened, drinking in every inch of you, from the way your hair spilled across the pillow to the peaceful rise and fall of your chest as you breathed.

For Aventurine, life had always been a gamble, a calculated series of moves and maneuvers. He had won and lost fortunes, outwitted powerful enemies, and survived odds that no one else would dare to wager on. But none of that prepared him for the risk of letting someone into his life like this—of allowing himself to be vulnerable and open. And yet, with you, it felt effortless.

He’d never thought he’d be someone who’d lie in bed simply to watch another person sleep. The irony of it was almost amusing. This was supposed to be his time for scheming, his time for planning the next strategic move. But in your presence, those plans faded into the background, dwarfed by the warmth that filled him as he gazed at you. You brought out something in him he didn’t quite recognize—a part that longed for a sense of peace and permanence in an otherwise chaotic world.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the subtle shift in your breathing as you began to stir. You turned toward him, eyes slowly blinking open, still heavy with sleep. He couldn’t help but smile as you looked up at him, an endearing mix of confusion and affection in your drowsy gaze. Without a word, you reached up, brushing your fingers gently against his cheek, as if to make sure he was really there.

“Kakavasha…” you murmured, barely above a whisper, using the name he rarely allowed anyone to utter. Hearing his true name, the one he kept hidden beneath the layers of his public persona, stirred something deep within him. For a man who wore masks and dealt in secrets, hearing his name on your lips felt like a balm, a reminder of who he was beneath it all.

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes briefly, savoring the warmth of your hand against his face. Your fingers slipped into his hair, toying with the strands in a slow, lazy motion. It was such a simple gesture, yet it made his heart beat faster, filling him with a tenderness he hadn’t thought himself capable of feeling.

“Good morning.” you mumbled, your smile sleepy and soft as you brushed your thumb across his cheekbone.

“Good morning, love.” he replied, his voice low, filled with a gentleness he saved only for you. Aventurine’s hand covered yours, holding it against his cheek, reluctant to let go of this connection. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to feel your skin warm beneath his lips.

You let out a contented sigh, snuggling closer to him, your head resting against his chest. “How did I get so lucky to have you?” he mused aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if the question was meant only for himself.

You opened your eyes, looking up at him with a smile that held a hint of mischief, despite the drowsiness still clouding your gaze. “Maybe the universe decided you deserved a little happiness too.” you murmured, your voice as soft as a secret.

Aventurine chuckled, the sound deep and comforting as he tightened his hold on you, drawing you closer still. He brushed his lips against your hair, inhaling the familiar scent that was unmistakably yours. “If that’s the case,” he said, his tone almost reverent, “then I must be the luckiest man alive.”

You laughed softly, the sound filling the quiet room like a melody, and he felt his heart swell at the sound. In this moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you in your shared sanctuary, wrapped in warmth and each other’s presence.

As he held you, Aventurine couldn’t help but let his thoughts drift back to all the hardships he’d endured—the losses, the betrayals, the near-misses with death. He had always believed that his life would be one long, lonely road filled with battles and clever games, where the only reward was survival itself. But here, with you in his arms, he dared to hope for more. He dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’d found something worth more than any gamble he’d ever taken.

“Stay with me.” he whispered, more to himself than to you, but you heard it. You reached up, placing your hand over his heart, feeling its steady beat beneath your fingers.

“Always.” you murmured, your voice a sleepy promise that felt like a vow. Your eyes began to drift shut again, and you nuzzled closer, seeking his warmth. As you nestled against him, your breathing slowly evened out, slipping back into sleep with a serene smile on your lips.

Aventurine stayed like that, watching over you, content to hold you in his arms as the morning light gradually grew brighter. The world outside was waiting, filled with challenges, schemes, and risks he would inevitably have to face. But for now, in this quiet moment, he allowed himself to simply be Kakavasha—a man deeply, irrevocably in love, willing to bet everything he had to protect the rare and precious happiness he’d found in you.