#there's just something about the way his face looks in that one frame | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

osarina · 16 hours ago

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ᡣ𐭩 I WISH I WAS YOUR GIRL

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you don't know why dazai has suddenly become so standoffish with you the last week—there's something that everyone isn't telling you, but you can't even bring yourself to make that your biggest concern. you're just so at your limits with the back and forth with him that you can't concentrate on anything else. mishima is hosting a ball is this evening and you think that this is it: if things are going to happen between the two of you, it'll be tonight or it'll be never. you can't wait forever on someone who's just going to string you along the rest of his life. you won't.

(wordcount: 6.3k; fem!reader, sfw but a bit of tension, angsty)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: hihihihiiiiiii guys ^.^ happy friday. we've gotta angsty fic for tonight. i fear this one does not end happily but TRUST the universe does <33 but angst is necessary to move the plot forward. the price you pay for a happy ending is an angsty path there. specially dedicated to my beloved sophie who hates angst <33 happy birthday luvr

You are severely unhappy.

You finished getting dressed almost an hour ago, but you still haven’t left your room. You’re sitting at your vanity staring at yourself—you’ve changed your jewelry three times already, and you’re about to change it a fourth. It’s not that you’re not satisfied with how you look, it’s more that you’re just frustrated and fidgety.

More than that, you’re upset. Dazai hasn’t spoken to you in a week, and you don’t even know why. It has something to do with the incident that happened a week ago with the child called Kyusaku, but you’re not sure what because you don’t know what was real and what was concocted by the child’s ability after you were affected by it.

As much as Dazai likes to pretend to be aloof and unbothered, he’s easily worked up by small things, and he’s been upset with you before, but never like this. He’ll usually sulk where he knows you’ll see him and wait for you to ask him what’s wrong so he can use the opportunity to guilt you into watching a shitty movie or going out to buy him snacks.

But this? Radio silence. He came up to your apartment once when you weren’t here to do his laundry and was gone before you got back. You don’t even know where he’s been staying, because you went looking for him at the shipping container and he wasn’t there. You don’t know what happened. You guys were good, more than good—you really thought that maybe the two of you were making progress past this awkward more than friends, not lovers stage, but now it’s back to square one. Worse than square one, because at least at square one, he was still talking to you.

A low whistle comes from the entrance to your room and you raise your eyebrows as you look up in the mirror, catching sight of Chuuya leaning against the doorframe, head tilted to the side as he observes you. He’s already dressed up—out of his normal outfit and in a sleek black suit instead, he looks different without his hat, but you don’t even have it in you to make a teasing comment about it. You can’t help the disappointment that clogs your throat at the sight of him: you’d still been holding out hope that Dazai would show up.

“I forgot how nice you cleaned up,” Chuuya murmurs. “It’s been a minute since we attended an event together.”

You turn in your seat to face him, eyes roving over his form once before you say, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your hat. I almost thought you might be balding beneath it.”

Chuuya instantly rolls his eyes as he pushes himself off the door frame to make his way over to you. You give him a simpering smile as you look up at him, but you can tell it doesn’t reach your eyes from the way he frowns at you. He reaches out to straighten the necklace you’re wearing and then holds a gloved hand out to help you up, ever the gentlemen.

Even though it’s unnecessary, you still take it and sigh as you rise to your feet, smoothing out your dress once you’re upright. You look up at him and ask, “I take it you’re the one escorting me tonight.”

“Don’t sound too pleased,” Chuuya replies dryly, holding out his arm for you. You sigh as you hold his bicep loosely, making your way to the elevator. “He still hasn’t talked to you?”

“Not once,” you answer bitterly. “I thought for sure he would get over whatever his problem is to be my escort tonight, but I guess not. I don’t even know what happened, Chuuya. I feel like people just aren’t telling me something.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, your gaze is cutting to the side to observe Chuuya’s reaction. He grimaces instantly and averts his gaze, and you take in a deep breath, realizing you hit it right on the nail. What the hell are they hiding from you? You know now isn’t the time to get into it, but you make a note in the back of your head to do some snooping as to what really happened during the incident last week.

“Interesting,” you say, just to let Chuuya know that he needs to work on his poker face. He catches the implication and sends you a scowl, but you only raise your eyebrows at him with a small smile, waiting for the elevator to come up to your apartment. “He’s not coming tonight at all then?”

“No, he’s coming,” Chuuya corrects absently and the smile on your face freezes.

“Is that so?” you ask tightly. “Who is he attending with then?”

Chuuya gives you a long, knowing look as the elevator gets to your floor, holding it open and waiting for you to step in before joining you. You’re tense as you wait for his answer, and you know he’s getting back for the balding comment with how long he’s taking to give you it.

“No one,” he finally says, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Chuuya barks out a laugh. “Jesus, you’re so embarrassing—get yourself together. Who the fuck would actually be his date? No one wants to get within ten feet of him.”

You give Chuuya a withering look and then reply primly, “I would.”

“The entire Mafia knows that,” Chuuya says dryly, making your face hot. “You make me sick.”

“Likewise,” you scoff and pointedly look away from him. After a few seconds pass, you ask, “Are you sure he’s not bringing anyone?”

Chuuya groans. “What would it even change if he does?” he asks, which does not settle your nerves at all. “You’re just going to work yourself up thinking about it.”

“It changes whether or not I’m going to have Akutagawa Ryuunosuke on standby to eliminate a potential threat to Dazai’s life,” you say with a sweet smile. “Assassins come in many forms, but most frequently in dates at big events. We shouldn’t take that risk with our most valuable executive, naturally.”

Chuuya’s jaw drops as he fully turns to look at you. “Sometimes, I wonder why you like that fucked up bastard so much, and it’s only very rarely that I’m reminded that you’re just as evil as he is.”

“I’m kidding,” you complain, waving him off. Although, now that the thought is in your head, it’s becoming increasingly more appealing. “I think.”

The elevator doors slide back open and Chuuya holds his arm out for you again. You take it, lifting your hand to wave at Hinata, an older man who's been working with the Port Mafia since longer than you’ve been alive. He ran with Hirotsu in the Black Lizards before he was hurt on a mission and put on desk duty—you stole him from Mori when you came back from Kyoto. On paper, he’s just your doorman, but he’s helped you a lot with mission planning the past year and a half; you honestly contribute half of your success to his experience.

“Good luck tonight, hime, Nakahara-san,” Hinata says as the two of you make your way out of the building.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and toss your head to the side to look back at him with a smile. “Hinata-san, you should come and be my date instead of this bum.”

“Why am I always catching strays from you?” Chuuya scowls, but you ignore him as you flutter your eyelashes at Hinata, who only laughs at you.

“I’m far too old for that to work on me, hime,” Hinata replies. “I’ll have the scout reports from Sapporo ready by the time you get back tonight.”

“My hero,” you sing. “Thank you.”

You wave at him one last time before leaving the building with Chuuya. As soon as you’re out of sight, your smile drops and Chuuya gives you a concerned look, stopping before the two of you can get in the car so he can turn to look at you head on.

“Do you think he’ll show up with someone to spite me?” you ask quietly.

You know Dazai—he doesn’t like feeling wounded, so when he does, he lashes out tenfold. He gets cruel and vicious, and because he’s Dazai, he knows exactly what to do to make people hurt more than he does. You don’t know what you did to upset him, but it has you on edge now because it will hurt if he shows up with someone else, knowing that you were waiting for him back at your apartment.

Chuuya says your name quietly, and because it’s not an immediate ‘no’, you know that he knows that Dazai might very well stoop that low to hurt you. You swallow thickly and look away—it’s fine. You’ll act unbothered, you have an appearance to keep up and that’s more important than anything. And anyway, it’ll hurt him even more when he doesn’t get the reaction he wants from you.

“Hey, look,” Chuuya says, forcing your attention back on him. “Dazai’s being a fucking dick, alright? But what else is new? You look beautiful—make him regret that you’re not coming in on his arm, yeah?”

You smile softly and look away before saying, “It’s unnerving when you’re sweet.”

You don’t have to look at Chuuya to know he’s rolling his eyes at you. You hear him open the car door for you and sigh as you look back over to him.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go.”

———

As always, your entrance is something to marvel over. It never fails to be the highlight of the night, and it’s only more of a spectacle when you enter on the arm of Nakahara Chuuya.

Lingering looks in your direction, wary stares in his—you’re grateful that he came to escort you, because if you’d come alone, you would’ve swarmed with suitors as soon as you got down the steps. Chuuya is not quite as much of a deterrent as Dazai would’ve been, if only because Chuuya won’t actually kill someone in the middle of Mishima’s ball and nobody can ever be sure of what Dazai is capable of, but his presence and reputation will keep unwanted annoyances away for most of the night at least.

By the end of the night, they’ll get more desperate for a conversation, and only Dazai and Mori himself are capable of keeping them away from you at that point, unless Chuuya steps up his game, of course, but he has as much of an appearance to keep up as you do. You’re not looking forward to it—your eyes keep darting up to the ticking clock, knowing each passing second draws closer to suffering.

You didn’t even want to come tonight. You weren’t going to come, you’d gone to quite the lengths trying to fake being sick, and you thought you succeeded until Mori messaged you this morning telling you that you could either come to the event or go deal with Shikibu Murasaki’s little stunt in Sapporo that has your biggest weapon supplier backing out on your next shipment. Since he knew very well you didn’t want to deal with that, the only option was to come to the ball—someone must’ve ratted you out to him, but you don’t know who. You almost think it must’ve been Chuuya, because Dazai hasn’t spoken to you in over a week.

You still haven’t seen him, which you suppose is a good thing because if he was going to shove in your face that he came here with someone else, then he would’ve done it by now. You aren’t even sure if he’s here; you’ve tried to keep an eye out for him, positioning yourself in a way that your gaze can always stray to the edges of the room in hopes of catching sight of him, but you haven’t seen him at all in the three hours that you’ve been here.

You’re standing with Chuuya and two of Mishima’s daughters now. Noriko keeps trying to shift closer to you, lashes fluttering and lips curled up into a soft smile. Usually, you would entertain the girl—she’s pretty, and at the very least, makes for entertaining conversation, which is more than you can say for the rest of the Sun and Steel upper echelon, but you’re so occupied with Dazai that she can hardly hold your attention for more than a few seconds.

“I haven’t seen him at all tonight,” you say quietly when Mishima himself comes over to your small group, a stern expression on his face as he beckons his daughters over before giving both you and Chuuya an apologetic look. “Have you?”

“No,” Chuuya says, taking a sip of his champagne as he leans against the wall. “I know he said he was coming though.”

Your expression twists in annoyance as you take in a deep breath. Your glass is empty, and usually, there are people circling to keep them full—your old mentor always used to warn you not to fall for the trap. The hosts of events always like to liquor up the attendees; drunker you are, the looser your lips, and you’re usually quite careful to keep it to one drink and never finish your second.

Tonight, you are on your fifth. Dangerous work, because you’re still going to have to entertain people when they inevitably start coming up to you—which is any minute now, you can feel the lingering stares and you can see how people are creeping closer. But you’re just so bothered by everything with Dazai that every time you finish a glass, you’re seeking out the next to try to numb your nerves.

“You know something,” you accuse quietly, giving Chuuya a cold side-eye. He stiffens, but neither confirms nor denies, which is a confirmation in itself. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“I can’t,” Chuuya says tightly, and you raise your eyebrows because you expected him to say ‘it’s not for me to say’ like he usually does when he feels like you should hear something from someone else. He can’t, does that mean… “I just…”

“You can’t because you’ve been ordered not to,” you realize, face shifting in confusion. “Mori ordered you not to. What happened during the incident last week, Chuuya?”

The expression that crosses Chuuya’s face is haunted, and it makes your mouth dry, because what the hell happened and why is no one telling you the truth? You don’t even get the chance to badger him about it, because Noriko and Michiko are coming back over, both of them looking incredibly displeased by whatever their father said.

“He’s so annoying,” Noriko complains, immediately clinging to your arm and resting her head against your bicep dramatically. “You two are so lucky that you don’t have parents to helicopter you like he does.”

You and Chuuya immediately exchange a look at her words, and even Michiko cringes a little, but you otherwise don’t react beyond just trying to not roll your eyes. These girls are so out of touch with reality that it’s almost concerning, but they, more than anyone else at this event, have loose lips that you like to take advantage of.

“No,” you sigh lightly, “I only have Mori. Somehow, I feel that’s worse.”

Noriko giggles like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world, and you miss Dazai desperately. At least him being here would have Mishima’s daughters acting a little more subdued, would maybe even chase them off. You don’t like how they act around him because you know it used to bother him, but you’re not gonna complain when you could be benefiting from it if he wasn’t being an ass.

She starts to say something else, but before she can, Chuuya’s eyes shoot open as he looks at something behind you. You instantly straighten, turning your head to follow his gaze and your breath catches when it lands on just who you thought would draw that reaction from Chuuya.

Dazai.

He’s finally made his appearance, and you can’t draw your eyes away from him. He never gets dressed up for these events like you and Chuuya do, so he’s still wearing that same black three-piece suit he wears every day, just without the dark trench coat he usually wears over it. He’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest and a cold expression on his face as he stares in your direction. He doesn’t meet your gaze, but he does stare at where Noriko is clinging to your arm, lip twitching in irritation; Noriko seems to notice too from the way she lets go of your arm and tries to casually shift away from you, an annoyed look on her face as she does.

You hear her let out a noise of disgust, side-eyeing in Dazai’s direction, and you raise your eyebrows at her pointedly. You know that it was directed toward Dazai’s sudden appearance, but you’re not about to sit here and let that slide, so you turn a cool look onto her in response. Noriko instantly looks down to the ground, an ashamed look crossing her face—not for the disparaging attitude toward Dazai, but for being obvious enough for you to notice it.

You feel a bit more tense now as you force your attention off of Dazai back to Chuuya, who exchanges a short look with you before pointedly glancing over to where one of Mishima’s newer executives, Ibuse Masuji is whispering with one of his colleagues, looking in your direction a bit too frequently for comfort. He’s going to come over and ask you for a dance soon, probably around the same time Michiko starts tugging Chuuya in the direction of the hardwood floor at the center of the room—Noriko won’t ask you now that Dazai is here.

Wonderful, you think to yourself bitterly. You don’t really want to deal with Ibuse tonight, but you suppose you’ll probably get better information from him than Noriko. Noriko likes to ramble about more general gossip—who’s sleeping with who, who’s mad at who, and all of that is useful to an extent when you need to figure out what’s going on with Sun and Steel internal politics, but Ibuse has loose lips about more meaningful matters, and you’ve heard some nerve-wracking rumors about the Red Chamber recently.

The things you do for the Port Mafia.

You straighten your necklace, gaze lifting to Chuuya again as you withhold a sigh. You can see Ibuse starting to make his way across the event hall in your direction, and Chuuya gives you a pitying smile that instantly freezes as his eyes pin to something behind you again. You also freeze, because you know it could only mean one thing.

Dazai is coming over.

You raise your eyebrows at him pointedly, wanting to know whether or not Dazai’s approach is a good or bad one—if he’s coming over to finally address you, or if he’s coming over so he can more blatantly ignore you. Each one is equally possible, and the way Chuuya grimaces and shrugs only makes your anxiety spike more.

But you get your answer as soon as he arrives.

You inhale sharply when you feel Dazai’s fingers brush over your hip as he comes to stand directly behind you. You can feel his chest brushing your back, his presence warm and looming directly behind you. With his sudden arrival, the conversation happening between Noriko and Michiko comes to an abrupt halt, and you can see Ibuse freeze mid-step from where he was drawing closer to you. The two girls avert their gaze to the ground, not acknowledging Dazai, and it irritates you, they’ve never hidden how unnerved Dazai makes them, and though you don’t think it bothers him anymore, you know very well it used to.

Your throat spasms when Dazai’s hand settles more firmly on your hip, and you turn your head slightly to the side to look up at him, breath catching when you find that his gaze is already lidded and focused on you, visible eye far too dark and tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Dance with me,” Dazai murmurs, only for you to hear.

“You want to dance?” you ask, a bit incredulously, trying not to be hyper-focused on how he’s touching you. You don’t know what has gotten into him, but it has your heart racing. “Dazai, what-”

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a request, you realize, taking in a sharp breath as his gaze becomes more intense. You can feel curious eyes on you from around the room; it’s to be expected, it’s you and Dazai. Of everyone here, the two of you always have the most eyes on you at all times, but it’s different now.

Dazai usually keeps to himself during events, he wanders up and down the length of the room, keeping to the edges to observe what’s happening unless he’s looking for information from someone. He really stays true to his moniker, a black wraith haunting the shadows and keeping everyone on edge. You can’t remember the last time he willingly stepped out of them to interact with people, much less engage in things like dancing.

“Okay,” you agree quietly, not even bothering to look back at your previous companions as Dazai’s hand slides from your hip to your lower back, guiding you to the hardwood floor where several other couples are already swaying along to the music being played by the quintet in the corner of the room. “What’s gotten into you?”

Dazai doesn’t answer your question, looking down at you from the corner of his eye for a moment before looking back ahead. He doesn’t have to search for a spot on the dance floor—as soon as people realize that’s where he’s headed, they’re quick to leave a wide berth for the two of you, no one wanting to get too close to the most infamous Port Mafia executive.

Your heart races as he leads you to the center of the hardwood floor. Though you can feel dozens of eyes pinned on the two of you, all you can focus on is him. You can hardly breathe when he turns to face you, one hand resting on your hip while he holds the other out for you to take. You swallow thickly as you place your hand into his. He entwines your fingers with his instead of the traditional palm-to-palm, and he pulls you toward him so that your chests are brushing. You’re so close to him that you catch the faint and familiar scent of smoke and iron and it makes you dizzy.

Distantly, you know that this probably isn’t smart. If people think that you and Dazai are together, it will only be harder for you to get information from them. They’ll be wary around you in fear of him, and you’re not even sure if your ability will be enough to counteract the anxiety he triggers in people. You shouldn’t be risking that just for a dance, but…

But you can never think straight when he’s around, even less when his skin is warm against yours, and the way he’s looking at you… His dark eye is heavy with so many emotions, too many for you to even place a single one—you’ve always been good at reading people, but never him, and now, more than ever, you wish you could. You want to know what he’s thinking. You want to know what he’s feeling. You want to know him, because as much as you claim you do, you know that he masks himself from you. You want to ask him again—what’s gotten into you? Why have you been avoiding me? But you think it’ll scare him off, so instead, you ask:

“When did you learn to dance? Today?”

He’s better than you thought he would be. He effortlessly spins you across the dancefloor. Each step is quick and precise—you’ve had training in this type of dancing, but you still struggle a little to keep up with him. Though, you think it’s less because of your own skill, and more because of who exactly your partner is.

“What makes you think I haven’t known how?” Dazai drawls, voice low and languid, dark eye glittering with amusement. His grip on your hand tightens just a little as he pulls you into a half-spin. He presses when you don’t immediately respond, “Hm?”

“Because you’re you,” you finally answer with a fleeting smile. “So? When did you learn?”

“Tonight,” he tells you. “I’ve been watching them.”

“Hah,” you say—of course he’s this good just through observation. Ever the mirror. “You better not embarrass me.”

“Like this?” he asks with a smile that puts you on edge, and you give him a dirty look when he purposely takes a wrong step, forcing you to overstep in order to not land on his foot. You’re careful to make it look casual—a wider turn rather than a misstep—but with the number of eyes currently on the two of you, you know very well that people probably caught it. His apology comes in the form of an airy, “Whoops,” that you know he doesn’t mean.

His lips curl up into a smug smile, and your breath catches when you feel his hand slide from your hip to your low back so he can pull your body flush to his for the next turn. Your throat spasms as you tilt your head back to look up at him, and again, there’s that unreadable look in his eye as his eyes rove over your face.

“Why?” you finally brave yourself to ask, voice quiet and too breathy for your liking. You don’t specify what the why is, and that’s intentional, this way he can pick what he wants to answer and won’t feel as cornered by the question.

His visible eye narrows for a moment, and then something akin to reluctance spreads across his face, and then resignation. You wonder if he’ll answer, hardly even able to breathe as you wait for him to speak. But after a few tense moments, disappointment hits you hard, because a teasing smile spreads across his lips and you know he’s going to evade the question.

Still, your heart races when Dazai dips you down, lowering his face so that his lips brush your ear as he says, “You looked like you were bracing yourself for a bullet with Ibuse getting ready to come over. Figured I’d rescue you.”

Though the music continues, Dazai doesn’t lift you from the dip. He does pull his face back so that he can look you in the eye. He’s so close to you that you can feel his warm breath fanning across your lips and it leaves you dizzy. The look in his eye now—you almost want to dare to believe you know what it is—it’s too close to the same emotion you feel whenever the two of you are curled up on the couch watching a movie. It’s too similar to longing, yearning, the desperate need for more, the desire to be yours just as badly as you want to be his, but you don’t want to get your hopes up when you know he can crush them in an instant.

His gaze drops down to your lips and then drags back up to your face, and you know he won’t kiss you, not in front of all of the eyes currently pinned on the two of you. Not in front of Mori. It’s nice to imagine though.

“Is that really why?” you breathe out, eyes searching his for an answer.

Something new crosses his face—it’s sharp and it’s angry, something that promises violence, not toward you, but toward the one who provoked it. His gaze cuts to the side briefly in the direction of where Ibuse Masuji is still standing frozen in the middle of the event hall, staring at the two of you, and then he looks back down at you, lips tilted up into a wry smile.

“Partially,” he says, but doesn’t give you the chance to question any further, finally pulling you up from the dip to fall in line with the last steps of the dance.

He turns you so that your back is pressed to his chest, palm cupping the back of your hand, fingers interlaced. His free hand slides around to your abdomen, holding your body flush to his. The music slows as the song comes to an end, but Dazai doesn’t release you. You turn your head to the side and tilt your head back to look up at him, inhaling when you find that he’s already looking at you, dark hair hanging in his lidded eye as he watches you.

“Are you… coming home tonight?” you finally ask, voice soft and hesitant.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, but his eye is glittering playfully, so you know that he’ll be home waiting for you by the time you get done at the event. He always manages to leave early—no one has the nerve to try to stop him. He dips his head a bit lower, lips ghosting your ear as he says, “You should thank me, you won’t have to worry about anyone else bothering you tonight.”

He finally lets go of you, your arms fall limp to your side and your breath is a bit too shaky for comfort. He tosses a wink in your direction before shoving his hands in his pockets and making his way back toward the outskirts of the room.

And he’s right—for the rest of the night, not a single person dared to approach you.

———

Even though you’re fairly certain Dazai will be there waiting for you, you still hold your breath as the elevator doors slide open to your apartment. Your feet are aching, you hardly got a chance to sit once during the night and you’re ready to curl up on the couch and watch a movie.

As you step into your apartment, you can’t help the way your heart drops when you don’t immediately see him, and you especially can’t help the relief that spreads through you when you realize he’s lounging on the couch, out of sight from the angle you entered at. At once, you can breathe again—you’ve missed him the past week, more than you ever could’ve imagined.

“Hi,” you say quietly, coming to stand at the foot of the couch.

Dazai shed his black waistcoat, his shirt is untucked and his tie is loose around his neck, head resting on the far armrest as he looks up at you with a lazy grin that lights your nerves on fire.

“Hi,” he echoes. “I picked a movie.”

“A good one I hope,” you tell him with a small smile. “Let me go get changed.”

You turn on your heel to make your way up the steps to your bedroom, but before you can get to the staircase, Dazai speaks up again, “Can you even reach the clip?”

You hesitate as you glance at him over your shoulder. You technically can, but… “No,” you reply, and then lie, “Chuuya helped me get it on.”

Dazai’s lips flatten, but he does push himself to his feet to follow you up the stairs. You spare a glance behind you, catching the hard expression on his face as he stares at your back. You raise your eyebrows at him and it instantly washes away, replaced with a teasing smile as he raises his right back at you. You squint at him, but shake your head as you reach the top of the stairs, stepping into your room.

When Dazai steps in after you, you swear the temperature in the room rises.

You turn to look at him, and he tilts his head to the side idly, dark eye dancing with amusement as he slowly approaches you. He looks a mess with how his shirt is untucked and his tie is loosely hanging around his neck, hair tousled from laying back on the couch—he looks a mess, and you’ve never wanted him more.

You’re sick of the back and forth with him—it’s been a year and a half of it and you’re tired—you want to be his, you want him to be yours. Every time you think Dazai might finally make the first move, he ends up taking fifty steps backward for whatever reason. You don’t want to push it because you have a feeling it will only make him even more standoffish. Tonight has been more progress than you’ve made in a while—if you and him are going to happen, it’ll be now or it’ll never happen. Your pride won’t allow you to chase and pine for any longer.

He comes to stand directly in front of you and you think he wants you to turn around, but just when you’re about to, he gives you a sharp smile that instantly has you on edge, and then he lowers himself to his knees in front of you. Your lips part in shock, heart beat stuttering in your chest.

“We should get these off first, right?” he hums, reaching down for the clasp of your heel, knowing damn well the effect he’s having on you from the smug expression on his face. Although you can’t help but notice that his eye is darker than usual, pupil blown wide as he undos the clasp and slides your heel off.

“Right,” you agree breathily, lashes fluttering when you feel the pads of his fingers press against your ankle as he places your foot back down on the ground before shifting to do the same for the other one.

This time, his throat bobs nervously and his fingers fumble over the clasp. When he finally gets the clasp off, he looks up at you through his lashes as he slides your heel off, but he doesn’t rise to his feet right away once he sets your foot down. Your fingers twitch at your side to reach out and brush them against his face, but you refrain, if only barely.

After what feels like an eternity, Dazai finally rises to his feet, and he’s standing all too close to you. You can feel the heat of his body, you have to tilt your head up to look at him and when you do, you can feel his breath against your lips.

“Turn,” he murmurs.

You swallow thickly as you do as he asks, and your breath audibly catches when you feel his fingers brush the nape of your neck as he shifts your hair out of the way. You expect him to tease you, but you realize his breathing is almost as unsteady as yours is, you can feel each puff against the back of your neck and it has your hair on end. Your lashes flutter as Dazai slowly unzips your dress, the cool air of your room stark in contrast to the line of fire left behind with each brush of his fingers against your spine.

When he gets the zipper all the way down, he doesn’t move away, hands settling on your hips as he hovers behind you. You think your heart might race right out of your chest, head foggy and unsteady on your feet.

For a few long moments, neither of you speak.

And then, you make a terrible mistake.

“Why have you been avoiding me the past week?” you ask quietly, desperate for some sort of answer as to what happened between the two of you that made him go cold on you like this. His grip on your hips tightens, and you instantly want to eat your words. “Dazai?”

He doesn’t even deign you with a response.

Your heart is lodged in your throat when you feel his hands drop from your hips and his presence leaving from behind you. You’re cold, your body is, your heart is, and now you really are unsteady without his hands to ground you. You whip around to face him, knees wobbly as you call after him again, but you don’t chase after him—not this time. Bitterly, you think you’ve spent the last year and a half chasing after him and all you ever get in return is him running away.

You watch him disappear down the steps, frozen in place because how did one question ruin everything. For the first time in weeks, you thought you were actually making progress with him and just like that, it’s back to square one. You feel like you don’t breathe until you hear the elevator arrive on your floor, signalling that he’s left.

“Shit,” you breathe out shakily, sitting back on your bed and burying your face in your hands. You can feel all of the champagne you drank earlier in the night threatening to come up and your head feels light. You fumble for your phone, clicking on a familiar contact and gasping his name as soon as he answers the call, “Chuuya?”

“Yo,” you hear him ask, concerned. “You good? Aren’t you with-”

“Can you come over?” you push out before he has the chance to say his name. “I just-I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep waiting. I can’t-”

“I’m coming,” Chuuya tells you when your words cut out into a sob. God, you can’t remember the last time you cried like this. Your whole body aches as you pull your knees to your chest and rock yourself back and forth trying to calm yourself down. “I’ll be there in five. I’m coming.”

You told yourself before that it was tonight or never, and you’re done waiting for him. No matter how badly it hurts to force yourself to move on—you’re done.

You have to be, for your own sake.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

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writeriguess · 2 days ago

Note

Ghost x soap x reader but no one knows about reader yet and the boys are just getting home from a mission and Johnny gets a call telling him to come down to the police station to pick you up and they refuse to get him any context so he tells ghost they have to hurry and they somehow all just end up going and even they get there they see their sweet curvy little alt princess waiting for them only to find out she knocked some guy out that tried to robe her

Trouble in Fishnets

The hum of the aircraft was familiar, a soothing backdrop to the quiet relief of another mission done and dusted. Ghost sat in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, letting the post-op exhaustion settle into his bones. Soap, ever restless, was flicking through his phone, sighing now and then at the lack of decent signal.

They were almost home when the call came through.

Soap’s brows furrowed at the unknown number, but he answered anyway. “MacTavish.”

A tired-sounding voice crackled over the line. “Sergeant MacTavish, this is Officer Reynolds with the—”

Soap immediately sat up straighter. “Aye, what’s this about?”

“We need you to come to the station.”

Ghost turned his head at that, eyes sharp beneath his mask. Soap shot him a quick glance but focused back on the call. “What for?”

The officer exhaled like they’d had a long night. “We can’t give details over the phone, but you’re listed as the emergency contact.”

That made the air in the cabin shift. Ghost sat forward now, boots planting firmly on the floor, tension running through his frame.

Soap’s stomach twisted. “They alright?”

“She’s fine,” the officer said, but the words didn’t exactly make Soap feel better. “Just get here.”

The line went dead.

Soap was already unbuckling himself before the aircraft had fully landed, muttering a string of curses under his breath. Ghost followed suit, only asking, “Who?”

Soap looked over at him, eyes flickering with something uncertain. “Her.”

Ghost didn’t need any more than that.

The ride to the station was quiet, save for the tapping of Soap’s fingers against his knee. Ghost, ever the observer, could see the way his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking slightly as he chewed over worst-case scenarios.

Ghost wasn’t far off from those thoughts himself.

Neither of them spoke, but when they stepped into the station, the sheer force of their presence turned heads. A few officers stiffened at the sight of them—one masked man and another who looked just as intimidating in his own way.

Soap was seconds from slamming his hands down on the counter when a weary-looking officer behind the desk recognized him. “Sergeant MacTavish?”

“Aye,” Soap said, clipped. “Where is she?”

The officer barely had time to answer before Ghost nudged Soap’s arm, nodding toward the waiting area.

There you were.

Sitting cross-legged on a metal bench like you had all the time in the world. Your ripped jeans and fishnets showed off the curve of your thighs, and your oversized band tee hung just right off one shoulder. Your boots tapped idly against the floor, and despite the faint smudge of your lipstick, you looked… fine.

Better than fine. Relaxed, even.

Soap let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Jesus, love, you nearly gave me a fuckin’ heart attack.”

Your eyes flicked up, lighting up when you saw them. “Johnny! Took you long enough.”

Soap’s hands found his hips as he shook his head, more exasperated than anything. “What the hell happened?”

Before you could answer, the officer who had called Soap stepped forward with a folder. “She’s free to go. It was self-defense.”

Ghost finally spoke, voice low and edged with curiosity. “Against who?”

The officer pinched the bridge of his nose. “Some guy tried to mug her.”

Soap blinked. “And?”

“She knocked him out cold.”

Silence.

Then—

Soap let out a low whistle. Ghost exhaled what might’ve been a short laugh.

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a—” Soap ran a hand down his face before crouching in front of you, eyes scanning your face and hands for any sign of injury. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, which were slightly red but otherwise fine. “Did you punch him?”

You shrugged. “More like elbowed. He got too close, so I put him down.”

Ghost crossed his arms. “How?”

Your lips twitched. “You wanna see a reenactment?”

Soap snorted, but Ghost only tilted his head. “You trained with us long enough. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

The officer, who had been listening to this entire exchange with increasing disbelief, finally handed Soap the paperwork. “She’s good to go. Just… maybe tell her not to cause any more trouble?”

Soap smirked as he pulled you to your feet. “Aye, good luck with that.”

Ghost, still watching you, let out a low hum. “We’ll talk about what ‘self-defense’ means when we get home.”

You grinned up at him. “Jealous I got to him first?”

Soap laughed, throwing an arm around your shoulders as he led you toward the exit. “C’mon, princess. Let’s get you home before you start takin’ out more poor bastards.”

Ghost followed, shaking his head slightly. He should’ve known that their sweet little alt princess wasn’t as fragile as she looked.

And, if he was being honest?

He was damn proud.

#simon riley x reader #cod mw2 #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #mw2 x reader #cod imagine #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost #cod ghost #simon riley x you #ghost x you #cod x reader #simon riley imagine #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader x soap #ghoap x reader

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munsonify · 1 day ago

Text

polaroid

pairing. eddie munson x reader

summary. a polariod of you slips out of eddie’s wallet that makes you a little emotional

warning/s. so much cutesy fluff, eddie being a total loverboy about you, pet names (sweetheart), not proofread. this should be gn.

word count. 669

———

eddie’s ringed hands pat the pockets of his dark jeans, eyebrows furrowed together. he gently rocked his hips forward, hands patting his back pockets too, in search of the one thing he needed before the two of you went in and ate.

“have you seen my wallet, sweetheart?” he questioned, voice smooth as can be. if he were completely honest, he wasn’t sure he even left the trailer with it. that didn’t stop him from asking, though, hoping the black leather had found its way into his van.

you started to pat yourself down, too, the same way he was, letting your eyes scan the interior of his vehicle. your eyes eventually landed between the center console and your seat, the chain hanging off of his wallet catching the sunlight from outside perfectly. you whispered an ‘aha,’ before reaching a hand down and fishing it out for eddie.

“knew i had it, thank you,” your boyfriend said, small smile playing on his face as you hand it to him. he didn’t notice the polaroid that fell right out the top of it like you had. you were quick to grab ahold of it, your gentle hand holding it up for you to see.

in eddie’s cute handwriting, the white space below the picture wrote ‘sweetheart - 7/12/85’. you didn’t recognize the date at first, though the moment you processed what the picture was, you remembered. it was you, a bright toothy smile on your face, your hair pushed behind your ear in a way that perfectly framed your face. there was a beautiful sunrise behind you, the same one you were giddily looking up at.

it was one of the first dates eddie ever took you on. you were out about 45 minutes from hawkins on a ledge that he claimed he found all on his own. his uncle used to take him camping there when he was younger, but he wanted something to brag about to you, even if it was a small white lie.

a pink blush prickled up eddie’s neck and to his ears when he saw you holding the polaroid, as if he was caught red handed with something he wasn’t supposed to have. you were aware he took it, the flash giving it right away. you just weren’t aware he kept it, let alone in his wallet. tears began to well up on your lower lash line, tears your wonderful boyfriend caught onto the moment they appeared. one of his hands reached out to your free one, giving it a firm squeeze. before he could say a word, you started to blabber over him.

“i didn’t know you kept this,” you choked out. “i remember this, i loved every second of that date. this is so sweet, eds. you’re so sweet.”

you weren’t sure why these emotions overcame you, and you hated that they did. eddie didn’t seem to mind, the hand that was on yours moving to your back, rubbing up and down it soothingly.

“a’course i did,” he whispered back to you, a small smile on his lips. “you look beautiful, how could i not?”

he seemed to ponder his next sentence, though opted to tell you. the both of you could be emotional together. “i look at it when i miss you,” he trailed off for a second before continuing. “which is a lot more than i’d like to admit.”

more tears welled up in your eyes, an emotional sigh slipping out of your mouth. such a small act made you feel so loved. you quickly gathered yourself the moment you decided your emotions were getting a little too much (something eddie would wildly disagree with), patting your tears away with your free hand.

you slipped the polaroid back into eddie’s wallet, offering him up the same small smile he’s been giving you this entire time. you then pressed a soft, loving kiss to the corner of his mouth, before opening up your door.

“let’s go get some food, loverboy.”

#munsonify #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things 4 #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson blurbs #eddie munson blurb

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honeyncherry · 1 day ago

Text

we never tell - joe burrow

summary who could blame you? the night before thanksgiving was never meant to be innocent — especially not when the boy you’ve known forever looks at you like he’s already decided to ruin you

content 18+, smut, language, alcohol

The bar is loud. Too loud. Voices crash over each other, music shaking the walls, laughter splintering through the chaos. The air swirls with spilled beer, sweat, and cheap perfume. A cocktail of regret already in the making. It all clings to you, settling within your skin.

The heat inside is nearly unbearable, a sharp contrast to the biting Ohio cold just beyond the fogged-up windows.

You push through the crowd, brushing past bodies pressed too close together, faces blurring under the neon glow. Familiar ones. Unfamiliar ones. Ones you hoped you’d never see again.

Same bar, same people, same exhausting routine playing out like clockwork.

You don’t usually look forward to this night — this annual reunion of your hometown’s finest washed-up athletes, ex-prom queens, and guys who still bring up their glory days at state championships like they happened yesterday.

But it’s tradition.

And tradition says you show up, smile when people ask about the semester thus far, dodge questions about your major, sip overpriced drinks, and pretend you care about who got engaged or knocked up this year.

This is only your second Blackout Wednesday.

Sophomore year means you’re not a newbie anymore, but you’re not a regular either. You know the drill now. The way the bartenders barely glance at the fake IDs slid across the counter, even though they grew up with half the people using them.

You’ve watched guys you went to elementary school with order rounds of shots like they didn’t once throw up grape juice in the cafeteria. Girls who used to sneer at you in the hallways now drunkenly grabbing your hand in the bathroom, slurring about how much they "missed you soooo much."

It’s all fake. A well-rehearsed play where everyone pretends they aren’t counting down the minutes until they can escape this town again.

Still, you’re here.

Because what else is there to do?

You’re halfway through your first drink when you see Joe.

It shouldn’t be surprising, Thanksgiving means everyone comes home.

Home from his first year at LSU, taller and broader, shoulders filling out the long-sleeved black shirt stretched over his frame. He looks different, but not in a way that makes you stare, more in a way that makes you double-take.

You remember when he was deciding where to go after graduating OSU. The transfer talk had stretched through the beginnings of the year, the same names cycling through every conversation your brother and his friends had at the house. North Carolina? Nebraska? Alabama?

And then it happened:

Cincinnati.

Your head had perked up. Just slightly. Just enough for you to feel stupid about it later.

It wasn’t like it would’ve meant anything. It wasn’t like you would’ve seen him, not really. The University of Cincinnati was huge and you were wrapping up your freshman year. You weren’t sure why it even mattered. Why, for a brief second, the idea of your worlds overlapping for the first time beyond family ties, felt like something worth entertaining.

But then, suddenly, it wasn’t a thought at all.

Because LSU happened.

And when his family held that small going-away gathering, there was no red and black in sight. No UC decorations, no Bearcat colors bleeding into the napkins or tablecloths. Just purple and gold. Bold, glaring, almost mocking.

You remember standing in front of the dessert table, staring at royal frosting of all things like it had personally insulted you.

Some nights, when the dorm was too quiet and your phone screen was the only light in the room, you’d find yourself typing his name into Google. Just once. Just to check.

Never interest. Never anything more.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

It wasn’t hard to keep up. LSU was making noise, and so was he. His name started popping up in articles, on Twitter, tucked into game recaps with words like poised and potential thrown around like confetti. You’d skim them, half-engaged, never needing to look too hard because if you didn’t see his name online, you’d hear it from your mom.

"Robin says Joe’s adjusting well down there…" she’d mention casually, somewhere between asking if you needed more laundry detergent and updating you on which neighbors had finally sold their house.

Sometimes, she’d go on. He really likes Baton Rouge… Jimmy says the coaches are impressed… Robin says they miss having him around.

But sometimes, she wouldn’t.

And when enough time passed without a mention, without hearing his name tucked neatly into conversation like it had always been, you’d find yourself searching again.

Just to know.

And then you’d close the tab, lock your phone, roll over in bed, and never think about it again.

Until now.

Because now, he’s here, standing in the middle of your hometown bar like he isn’t creeping into conversations, like his name isn’t slipping into headlines, like he isn’t the reason some guy at the other end of the counter is repping purple and gold instead of Bengals orange.

He’s different. Or maybe it’s just that, for the first time, you’re seeing him as something other than the annoying older boy who was always there, easy to roll your eyes at and even easier to ignore.

You look away.

It doesn’t matter.

Or at least, it shouldn’t.

But something lingers. The kind of awareness that prickles along your skin, that makes your fingers tense around your drink, that keeps your shoulders squared even as you force yourself to focus on something else.

He’s not looking at you.

Not that you can tell.

But you can feel him.

Somewhere past the crush of people near the bar, past the bodies leaning against sticky tabletops, past the haze of smoke and too-loud music and bad decisions waiting to happen: he’s there.

And maybe it’s just in your head, it could be nothing. Maybe it’s that he’s familiar, but not in the way he used to be.

Because you know the set of his shoulders, the way he pushes his hand through his hair when he’s thinking, the way his jaw tenses when he’s listening but not speaking.

You know him without knowing him.

And yet, the weight of his presence is pressing into you like a hand at the small of your back.

You huff and try to shake it off.

"Bathroom?" one of your friends says beside you, looping her arm through yours before you can respond.

You let her pull you along, weaving through the throng of people, past someone attempting to order another round, past a couple making out against the wall like they’ve forgotten they’re in public.

The bathroom is a war zone, as expected.

Girls pressed together in front of the mirrors, smudging eyeliner with unsteady hands, fixing lipstick that’s already faded from stolen kisses and mixed drinks. Strangers throwing compliments like candy: oh my god, your hair looks amazing and I love your dress, where’d you get it? whispered between girls who wouldn’t acknowledge each other outside of tonight.

You slip into a stall, locking the door, leaning against it for just a second.

The bass vibrates through the walls. The distant hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

And if you say it enough times, maybe you’ll believe it.

By the time you wash your hands and step back into the crowd, your drink is gone, condensation leaving a damp circle on the table where you left it. Your friends have drifted toward the dance floor, the blur of movement and music swallowing them whole.

You decide on another drink, pushing your way toward the bar and waiting your turn only for someone to shove past at the last second, slamming a twenty onto the counter and barking out their order over the noise.

Your eyes narrow. Brandon Wilkes.

Of course it’s him. Always cutting ahead, always acting like he was owed something. You roll your eyes and shoot him a glare, resisting the urge to call him out. Some things never change.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here."

The words slip through the noise — smooth like they belong there.

Your breath catches. A pause, just long enough for recognition to crawl up your spine.

Joe.

Closer than before, the sharp angles of his face softened by dim lighting, his eyes flickering with something unreadable as they settle on yours.

You swallow, tilting your chin slightly. "Didn’t think I’d see you either."

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Guess we’re all bound to make a few questionable decisions tonight."

You nod, shifting your weight onto your other foot. "Wouldn’t be Blackout Wednesday without a little regret."

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Regret, huh?"

"Regret," you confirm.

His eyes flicker down to your empty hand, then back up, considering. "What are you drinking?"

It’s not a question, more like a next move.

You hesitate for a second before giving him the answer.

Before you can even think about ordering yourself, Joe lifts a hand, barely even a motion, and the bartender is there in an instant. Of course.

You bite back a scoff as she leans in, all too eager, but Joe doesn’t so much as glance at her. Just gives your order, smooth and easy, like it was never up for debate.

And just like that, the bartender slides a fresh drink across the counter, and Joe beats you to it, picking it up before you can reach for it.

Your fingers brush when he hands it to you.

And it’s nothing.

But it’s also not.

You take a sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. "Trying to get me drunk, Burrow?"

His smirk deepens. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, quick, unconscious. He leans in just slightly, just enough to see if you’ll move. "Don’t think you need my help with that."

Your stomach flips and you hate that it does. You hate the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up. The way the bar suddenly feels too warm, the noise fading into something distant, like nothing else matters except the inches of space between you.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid.

It’s inevitable.

One drink turns into two.

Two turn into stolen glances, subtle but unmistakable. A slow, unraveling pull that neither of you acknowledge out loud.

The brush of his arm against yours, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fabric of your sleeves. The way your conversations slip into something easier than they should be, like you’ve done this before, like you’ve always known how to hold a conversation between each other.

And then a touch.

A simple thing, really.

It’s subtle at first, fingers grazing the fabric of your shirt like a passing thought, something fleeting and unintentional. But then he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand sticks, settling against your waist, his thumb brushing over your side in a way that feels effortless but also like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away.

He leans in, voice low, threading through the noise of the bar like it belongs there. His breath is warm against your skin, steady, even, completely at ease. The conversation around you dissolves into background static, something distant and irrelevant, because suddenly, this is the only thing you can focus on.

Your breath catches, you glance up, and that’s the moment everything shifts.

Because when you meet his gaze, when you catch the flicker of something dark, something hungry in his expression, you know.

And so does he.

All you can hear is the low thud of the bass and the shallow breath you take in when Joe shifts closer, when the heat of him presses into your side. His palm flexes just slightly, enough for you to feel it, enough to make your stomach tighten.

And then he leans in.

Slow. Unhurried. Like he’s savoring the moment before it happens.

His breath is warm against your skin when he speaks, just for you. "You gonna stop me?"

You should.

You know you should.

You should think about what happens after this, about how easy it would be to fall into something that was never meant to be.

But you don’t.

Your body betrays you first, tilting toward him, your fingers brushing his forearm where it rests against the bar. His jaw tenses at the contact, his fingers curling tighter against you, his head tipping down just slightly, just enough for his lips to hover above yours.

His eyes flicker, searching yours, asking a question without saying a word.

And you answer by not moving away.

It would be so easy.

So easy to close the gap. So easy to give in, to let this spiral into something neither of you can take back.

But then—

A sharp burst of laughter, too close, too jarring, snaps you back into reality. A body stumbles into Joe’s back, jostling both of you just enough to break the moment. The spell fractures, and you blink, breath catching in your throat as the bar crashes back into focus. It’s loud and crowded. Filled with too many people, too many eyes.

Joe’s gaze flicks past you, scanning the room. His fingers squeeze once more against your skin before he pulls back. "Come on," he murmurs, barely audible over the noise.

Your pulse pounds as he nods toward the door. You hesitate for less than a second before following behind him, glancing over your shoulder and realizing everyone is too busy to notice the two of you leaving together.

The air outside is crisp, sharp against your flushed skin, but it does nothing to cool you down. Joe walks ahead, his pace slow and measured like he’s thinking. Like he’s trying not to think.

The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few cars left. You recognize his truck instantly, parked toward the back under a flickering street lamp and distant from the other cars.

He stops beside the driver’s side, one hand gripping the handle, the other resting against his side. He exhales, his breath visible in the air and his head tips back slightly before he looks at you.

It’s different out here.

No music to drown out your thoughts. No crowd to get lost in. Just the sound of the wind, the distant hum of traffic, the weight of his stare. The space between you feels bigger now, stretched thin by the cold and the quiet. More time to think. More time to overthink.

His gaze locks onto you like he’s seeing something he can’t turn away from and that makes his jaw shift, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to move, to close the last bit of space between you.

But then he does.

A step forward. Then another.

His hand lifts, fingertips grazing your wrist first, barely there, before slowly sliding up the length of your arm. His palm finds your waist, the same way it had inside, only now there’s nothing stopping him.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but instead he dips his head, his nose brushing along your temple before his mouth finds your jaw. The first drag of his lips is barely a kiss, more of a test, a question traced against your skin to make sure this is real.

Like he needs you to know that this is happening.

"Tell me you want this."

The words come out against the soft skin beneath your ear. His lips linger, moving slowly, tracing a path down your jaw, stopping just at the corner of your mouth.

Your body answers before you do. Your fingers tighten into the fabric of his shirt, your breath hitching and head tilting slightly, giving him more. Giving into him.

"Tell me." His pulse hammers beneath your touch, a steady, thrumming beat against your palm as your hands slide higher, over his shoulders, curling around the back of his neck. Joe exhales sharply, the sound making it seem like he’s barely holding himself together.

You don’t answer him with words.

You tilt your chin up, closing the space between you, pressing into him until there’s nothing left but heat. Your lips part, hovering just close enough that you can feel his breath mix with yours, can feel the way he’s waiting, hanging onto the moment like he needs it just as badly as you do.

And then, he gives in.

His mouth crashes against yours, a searing pull that steals the breath from your lungs. His fingers tighten at your waist, flexing like he’s making sure you don’t slip away, like letting go isn’t an option.

The kiss starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way. Not when your nails scrape lightly against the nape of his neck. Not when he groans against your lips, the sound low and raw, before his grip tightens, his other hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you into him.

He pulls you closer and closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and the undeniable weight of whatever this is. His tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes you, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

His hands are everywhere; on your waist, your back, your hips — all like he can’t decide where to touch you first, like he’s trying to memorize every curve of your body.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes search yours, "get in the truck."

You don’t hesitate. You climb into the backseat, the leather cold against your hands, but you barely notice. Joe follows, his movements quick and borderline impatient as he shuts the door behind him. The space is intimate, the windows already fogging up from the heat of your bodies.

Joe’s hands are on you again, laying you down gently while his fingers sliding underneath the hem of your top. His lips find yours once more, his kiss harder this time, more demanding. You can feel the need in him, the way he’s holding back, the way he’s trying to keep control.

But when your hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard lines of his body through the fabric of his shirt, he groans against your lips, the sound vibrating deep in his throat. "You’re driving me fucking crazy.” His hands slither up your thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.

"Do something about it," you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears it. His eyes darken, his jaw tightening. Before you can say anything else, he’s pulling your jeans down, his hands rough but careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you.

A flicker of self-consciousness washes over you, but it disappears as quickly as the heat of his body sinks into you, settling himself between your legs. His hands caress your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. "Couldn’t stop looking at you all night,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You can feel the hardness of him pressing against you, the sensation stealing the air from your lungs. You lift up to capture his lips, nipping at him, unable to stop the way your hips instinctively arch to meet him. Your body moves on its own, desperate for more.

Joe’s breath hitches, his lips trailing a path of fire as they move lower, scattering kisses across your collarbone. His hands, calloused yet gentle, slide up your sides, pushing the fabric of your top higher until your skin is exposed to the chill of the truck’s interior. But you can’t feel the cold, not when his touch burns hotter than anything else.

“So soft,” he murmurs, his voice almost reverent as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. His touch is slower now, as though he’s savoring every inch of you. His lips follow, kissing a line down your sternum, his breath warm against your skin.

You shiver, your hands tangling in his hair and urging him closer. His name escapes your lips in a whisper, a sound that seems to ignite something deep within him. He groans, the vibration of it sending a jolt through you.

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a moment he just watches. His chest rises and falls with the same urgency that’s coursing through your veins, and then, without a word, he lowers his head again, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your panties.

Your back arches, a soft gasp escaping you as his hands move up your thighs, his fingers hooking into the lace and sliding them down. His touch is teasing as if he’s testing your limits.

When his lips finally meet the heat between your legs, you nearly cry out. His mouth is warm, his tongue sliding against you in a slow, skilled motion that has your fingers tightening in his hair. He’s relentless, his movements measured yet unwavering as though he’s determined to unravel you completely.

“Jesus—” he chokes out your name, his voice muffled against you. “Taste so good,” the vibrations of his words send a shiver up your spine. His hands grip your hips and hold you in place as his tongue circles that one sensitive spot, driving you closer to the brink with every flick, every stroke.

You can feel the tension building, coiling tight in your core, but Joe doesn’t let up. His pace quickens, his tongue moving faster, more urgently, until you’re gasping for air, your hips bucking against him.

“Joe, I—I can’t—” you stammer, your voice breaking as the pleasure crests, threatening to overwhelm you.

But he doesn’t stop. His hand trails up, fingertips skimming over your stomach, teasing, exploring, until he reaches the lace of your bra. There’s no hesitation, just an easy push of the cup, baring you to him. His thumb grazes over your nipple before he pinches, rolling it between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive.

The sensation sends a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as the sharp edge of pleasure tightens, unraveling the last threads of restraint. Your body tenses, a cry slipping from your lips as the wave builds, crests, and crashes over you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Joe doesn’t stop — not yet. His mouth still moves against you, coaxing out every last shudder, every last breathless moan. His hands hold you steady, his grip firm, grounding, as if he’s keeping you tethered to him while you fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips glisten and he watches you — really watches you. For a split second, something flickers in his eyes. Guilt? Hesitation? Regret?

But then it’s gone.

His gaze darkens, hands sliding up to frame your face, thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles over your cheeks. Like he needs you to feel it, to feel him. To know he’s here.

And then he moves.

His body presses flush against yours, the heat of him searing through the layers still between you, his length hard and insistent against your thigh. The thought, the uncertainty, dissolves beneath the weight of him, beneath the way his mouth finds yours in another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier.

You taste yourself on his tongue, and the sound that leaves you is nothing short of desperate. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, gripping, pulling, needing more.

Joe groans, the sound reverberating between you as his hips roll forward, grinding against you, the friction sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight through you. His breath shudders against your lips, his hands tightening where they hold you, like he’s just as lost in this as you are.

“Please,” you beg, your voice trembling with need.

Joe hesitates, his eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering in their depths. His jaw tenses, his breath uneven, and then he nods, his fingers curling around the waistband of his jeans. The sound of his zipper is deafening in the quiet of the truck, each metallic click sending another pulse of anticipation through you.

And then he’s there, guiding himself to you, his breath catching as he pushes inside.

A sharp gasp escapes you, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he stretches you, inch by excruciating inch. He goes slow, like he’s savoring every second, his forehead pressing against yours when he finally sinks all the way in. His body shudders against you, “you feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice rough, almost pained.

Your fingers twitch against his skin, needing more, needing to feel him. You reach for his shirt, bunching the fabric, pushing it up just enough to reveal the solid warmth of his stomach, the defined ridges of his abdomen. Your palms slide over him, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way his muscles tense under your touch.

He grunts at the contact, his body responding instantly. His hips shift, just slightly, but the movement is enough to have you whimpering, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper.

That’s all the encouragement he needs.

His grip on your hips tightens as he starts to move, slow at first, dragging every thrust out like he wants to commit this to memory. But it doesn’t last, his control frays too quickly and soon, he’s driving into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs.

The sounds between you; his breath, ragged and uneven, the wet slap of skin against skin, the soft creak of leather beneath you, fill the small space, drowning out the world beyond the truck.

Every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you, every noise he makes only fuels the fire burning inside you. His hands roam, gripping, teasing, pushing you closer to the edge until it’s too much, until the pleasure coils so tight you feel like you might snap.

“Joe, I’m—” The words are barely out before he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot that has your vision blurring, your body bowing into him, every thought dissolving into pure sensation.

He groans, his pace quickening, his thrusts turning rougher, more desperate, his breath hot against your skin. “C’mon,” he rasps, voice thick with need. “Let me feel it.”

And you do.

Your body tightens, your back arching as pleasure overtakes you, crashing through you in waves, leaving you breathless, trembling beneath him. The sound that escapes you is involuntary, raw, and it sets something off in him. Joe follows a second later, his hips stuttering, his movements turning jerky as he buries himself deep, a ragged groan ripping from his throat as he comes.

For a moment, the only thing that exists is the sound of your heavy breathing, tangled together, filling the confined space of the truck. His forehead presses against yours, his body still trembling with the aftershocks, and for just a second, everything else fades.

But then his grip on you loosens. The heat of his hands disappears, replaced by the cool air settling in the space between you. Reality creeps back in, slow but certain.

Joe exhales, shifting back against the seat, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of uneven breaths. He moves sluggishly, almost like he’s reluctant, lifting his hips just enough to drag his boxers and jeans back up. His fingers fumble with the button before securing it, and then he rakes a hand through his damp hair.

And just like that, the shift is instant.

The momentary haze shatters, and cold clarity rushes in.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, your skin still tingling where his hands had been, but the weight of what just happened slams into you all at once.

You move fast, scrambling to pull your pants up, to fix your shirt, to smooth down the mess of your hair — to piece yourself back together before it all slips too far out of reach. Your fingers shake as you fumble with the fabric, your breath still uneven, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You need to leave.

Just for a second, your eyes lock with his. Joe doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t try to stop you. He just watches with an unreadable expression and parted lips, like he might speak.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t wait for him to. Your fingers wrap around the door handle and you push it open, stepping out into the night. The air is sobering, biting against your skin, but it does nothing to take away the feel of him.

You don’t look back, because no amount of distance can undo what’s already been done.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you

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slightly-knot-insane · 18 hours ago

Text

Gentleman's Cage (part 1)

Monstertober 2024 - day 29 [ Caged Beast ] by @/ozzgin

[ m!werewolf x fem!reader ]

a/n: some regency smut, my first one so please be gentle! i was greatly inspired by @regency-monster-love and they were so kind to help me out too! thank you, dear! content: slightly nsfw

He can’t calm down. He knows you will be there, and he is getting very impatient to see you. Especially since you told him you find his courting very pleasing. It took him a while to reveal that he is a werewolf. But instead of running away screaming, you smiled and touched his hand. You even looked excited.

Just reminiscing about those few minutes put a smile on his face, his sharp canines showing underneath his lips. But thinking about you too much is also dangerous. His body - his lower body, to be more precise - reacts to the mere idea of you as if you're right next to him. Naked.

He groans, feeling his erection pushing against the fabric of his finest trousers. Being born with werewolf blood is both a blessing and a curse. He is aware that people will notice; anyone with eyes will notice the hardness alongside his inner thigh. That's why he hopes his little metal tool will help him. Or else, the scandal will follow him wherever he goes.

***

The fancy gathering is as lovely as he expects. People dance, eat and drink, and converse on various topics that barely interest him. He is looking for you with every sense he has - but they find nothing. He wants to ask someone, but even a mere question would raise suspicion. He doesn’t want anyone to know, not yet, that he fancies you rather intensely.

But he shouldn't think about you too much! He shifts his legs a little bit to position the metal contraption between his legs in a more comfortable way. Cock cage, they called it. Even while flaccid, it was hard to push his manhood inside. But he managed to lock his desire in - physically, at least. Mentally - not so much.

Finally, he catches a whiff of your sweat. You aren’t just fashionably late, you are very late so you were probably rushing down the path and up the stairs. Perhaps you were frustrated and nervous about some mishap, furiously fanning yourself in your carriage. And perhaps - only perhaps - you were thinking of him. Thinking about his eyes and teeth and tall frame. Perhaps you held your knuckle between your lush lips while the fingers of your other hand secretly wandered underneath your skirt and—

The painful jolt underneath his belt wakes him up from his daydreaming. Stop it, you fool! He curses internally and immediately turns toward the window, pretending to observe the night sky. He forces himself to think about what to eat for breakfast and what letters need answering, and then - just as his erection is starting to deflate - he hears your voice:

"Hello, Mr. Werewolf! Lovely evening, isn't it?"

And there is another strong pulse between his legs. While he would love to jump through the window and run, it would be improper and rude not to greet you. With a disturbing mental image of his grandfather bathing in his mind to cool him down, he turns to greet you: "Indeed, and you are..."

But he trails off. You've never looked as beautiful, so elegant. The cut on your dress is so deep he can enjoy your every curve and birthmark. He hopes he will be able to memorize all of them, like constellations. And your skin is so flushed and glowy he can barely stop himself from touching your cheeks, shoulders, or... He swallows hard.

You notice his terrified expression and can't help but giggle a bit. He, on the other hand, is not entertained even the slightest. "I apologize, my lady, I must... get a breath of fresh air!" And he hastily leaves you.

You hide your smile behind your fan and follow his trail carefully.

***

He has to do something! The cage... It's too tight! As he hides inside the hedge maze, he runs to the fountain that was standing just around the corner, hoping that the rush of water will hide his torture. He unbuttons his trousers and is not surprised to see his manhood swollen and pulsating between the metal sheets. The pain is mixed with a strange dose of pleasure edged with anticipation. Even though some other time he might've enjoyed exploring this sensation, now is definitely not a good moment. He needs to get rid of this self-imposed prison before he hurts himself more, but... he left the key... at home.

An exasperated sigh is all he can do right now. And thinking about dead puppies to somehow reduce the painful swelling.

Just as his mental torture is starting to work, he smells something. Something sweet, potent, and familiar. So familiar. His erection re-emerges. Desperately, he turns around, attempting to hide his shame, and pushes himself (and the cage) into the hedges. He must look absolutely ridiculous.

"Oh my, you're here. Are you well?"

It is you. You followed him here. He takes a deep breath and smiles over his shoulder. "Y-yes, perfectly fine. I just needed some fresh air."

You approach his long tail, admiring his broad back and inhuman muscles. He is very tense - and you think you know why. "I'm sure the air will smell a lot fresher outside those hedges."

The tension struck his spine like lightning - he stands upright, not breathing. He knows he can't keep hiding. Hoping - praying - his shame is not so obvious.

He turns toward you, with a stiff and awkward smile, holding one of his huge hands over his crotch, trying to look relaxed. "Indeed... It's a lot f-fresher."

You can't actually look down since your curiosity would be too obvious then. Luckily, he is towering over you so his abdomen is leveled with your face, and it takes only a deep curtsy to see what you have been curious about since the day you met him. Only to not see what you expected. But you're sure his hand is hiding something scandalous? And delicious.

"Did your claws grow?" you ask him innocently.

The naïve werewolf lifts his hands to check them, uncovering his crotch. There is definitely an interesting and twitching bulge there.

"I don't think so. Are you... worried?" His yellow eyes grow in worry. "I would never lay a finger on you!"

You hum as if you are terribly bored. "Oh. That's a shame."

The beast in front of you looks entirely confused, the poor thing. "Shame?"

You approach him slowly, like you're dancing, and his eyes don't leave your figure. "I would love a bit more than a finger on me. Perhaps an entire hand." You cup his heavy, hairy hand. You feel exceptionally bold - there won't be many opportunities like this in your future. Only a boring life awaits you - if you allow that. "All over me, in fact."

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lubdubology · 22 hours ago

Text

Come A Long, Long Way

SYNOPSIS: His days are long and his nights are longer. He comes to you during those hours when the rest of the world stills, lured in by something almost like fate.

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 12.2k

WARNINGS: smut 18+, mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, scars and healing; gratuitous sexual tension; mentions of alcohol/alcohol consumption; dirty talk; frottage; nipple play; surprise appearance by Charles; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected p in v; sex with feelings; cowgirl; mating press; creampie; brief mentions of Laura; happy ending because I said so

A/N: The idea for this story came to me through a song--My Fair Lady by Kaleo. I was struck by this verse: I'm weary from my travels // I've come a long, long way // I haven't felt a woman // Since last that I was here // Oh, won't you bring me whisky // And run your fingers through my hair? // Oh, won't you whisper sweet words // Oh, so softly in my ear? I thought, "Wow, that's so Old Man Logan" and this is what I birthed from that. This may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, and I sincerely hope you think so too. Huge, huge thank you to @yxtkiwiyxt for betaing this for me and making the final draft what it is; you helped end this in such a beautiful way. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

He shouldn’t care about the car pulled over on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking as the rain pours down.

For three days, Logan’s entertained a rowdy bachelorette party, chauffeuring them from bar to bar, dinner to dinner. The scent of cheap perfume and desperation still linger inside the limo, the drunken, whispered advances still burn against his skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted down to his very marrow and he wants nothing more than to crawl onto his sagging mattress and steal whatever amount of sleep his shattered mind will give him.

So, no. He shouldn’t care about the car.

But he finds himself easing off the gas, the limo starting to slow as he nears. He feels drawn, like a month to a flame, as if some unseen force has wound itself around his sternum and is pulling him forward.

Pulling him to you.

As the limo approaches, he spots you crouched down by the front left tire, struggling with a lug wrench, the tool slipping in your rain-soaked fingers. He can almost hear the curses spilling from your lips as you glance up and look towards where he’s sitting.

Logan knows you can’t see him, not well anyway with the headlights shining directly upon you and the rain pouring down in sheets, but he swears you find his gaze, your eyes seeming to pierce down directly to his soul. He feels the flutter of something deep in his chest and he feels exposed, like a raw wound that hasn’t quite healed.

For a moment, he hesitates, and wonders if you’re a siren, out here in your element to lure him to his death. Then your gaze drops and the thought dissolves but only just. Before he can talk himself out of it, Logan’s throwing the car in park and opening the door.

The rain is frigid, the cold biting at his skin as the downpour soaks him down to the bone. You glance up at him as he approaches, your fingers loosening around the wench but still keeping it firmly in your grasp. Straightening up, you push wet strands of hair out of your face, your fingers trembling from the cold.

“Need a lift?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. What he should do is swap out the old tire for the spare and let you go on your way. But those eyes of yours are piercing him again, the hook you’ve sunk deep in his sinew pulling taut once more and Logan feels compelled to take you home.

For a few moments, you continue to silently assess him, your gaze flitting between your car, the limo behind him and back to his now soaked frame. Then, you stand and open the driver’s side door, tossing in the wrench and pulling your purse close to your chest. You follow him to the limo and climb into the backseat as Logan slips back in behind the wheel.

He glances back at you through the rearview mirror, watching as you lean back into the seat, your wet clothes clinging to every curve of your body. Which is another thing he shouldn’t care about and yet…

Clearing his throat, he turns up the heat. “Where you headed?”

“North. About twenty miles or so.”

Logan nods and shifts the car into drive, heading back down the road as the rain continues to come down. Several minutes pass in silence, save for the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers. Finally, your voice breaks through the silence, soft and lilting.

“Got a name?”

“Who’s asking?”

A half smile tugs at your lips as you slide from the seat and slip into the row directly behind the partition. Logan can feel the damp of your skin as you lean into his space, the scent of rain flooding his nostrils almost intoxicating. You say your name and wait for him to respond in kind.

“Logan,” he answers, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Life hasn’t been kind to you, has it, Logan?” you ask, his name dripping from your lips like honey and just as sweet.

Logan stiffens, his grip tightening on the wheel as your words cut through the night. There’s no pity in your tone, which he’s silently grateful for, but an unsettling mixture of curiosity and understanding.

At the best of times, he doesn’t like anyone trying to scratch below the surface, to worm themselves into all the soft and vulnerable bits he tries so desperately to hide away. Now that he’s older and feeling every bit of his age, the weight of his bones threatening to drag him down with each step, he likes it even less.

“It’s not kind to anyone,” he answers, turning his head just enough to glance sideways at you.

You tilt your head slightly, a wordless noise humming in your throat. “Maybe,” you concede, voice soft, like you’re mulling over his words. “Except your life has carved itself into you a little more than most.”

He wants to be annoyed, to slam his foot on the brake and send the limo careening into reverse back towards your broken down car. But something stirs in him, thrumming in time with the pulse beating in his veins—a spark of irritation mixed with that pull that’s been gnawing at him since he first saw you.

“You a therapist or somethin’?”

You chuckle softly, the sound low and intimate, as you lean back into the seat, finally putting some space between you. “No. Just intuitive.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you through the rearview mirror with a scowl. “Intuit less. Just tell me where I’m goin’.”

A soft, chiding “tsk” falls from your lips and you shake your head, but Logan doesn’t miss the smile playing on your lips. You give him directions to your house and for moment you both sit in silence but the air remains heavy with unspoken tension.

Logan pulls off the highway, beginning to wind through the smaller streets of the town as he gets closer to your place. The thought of this ride ending, of you leaving this car, both thrill and disappoint him.

“You believe in fate?”

The question cuts through the silence, pulling Logan’s focus back to you. He glances at you briefly, your expression thoughtful as you wait for him to answer.

“No,” he finally says, voice flat.

A soft hum escapes your throat. “Unsurprising. But don’t you think, Logan,” you begin, leaning back into his space, “that maybe fate is what brought us together?”

You have that knowing look in your eye again, a sly smile tugging at your lips. As if you’re in on some cosmic secret he’s not privy to. It unnerves him.

But it intrigues him, too.

“I think a broken down car brought us together.”

“Or maybe life decided to be kind to you,” you challenge. “To bring me to you.”

Logan turns into a quiet subdivision as your words rattle around in his brain. The rain has mostly subsided, but is still falling in a gentle drizzle as he pulls up in front of your house, a single porch light illuminated in welcome. It looks small, yet homey, the kind of place he could have seen himself in once if life had been kinder to him.

“You should come in,” you say as you gather your belongings. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

Your eyes meet his again through the review mirror, a mischievous glint in your gaze and an even more sinful smile on your lips.

It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone. The thrill of finding a partner for the night having lost its luster around the time his bones started to ache. More often than not, his sexual escapades involve his own calloused hands and memories from when he was a younger man.

“Think about it,” you offer as you open the door and slip out of the limo. “Door’ll be open.”

Logan sits, hands gripping the steering wheel, contemplating whether or not to follow you into the house.

Your offer is tantalizing, ripe for the picking, and the baser part of himself wants to accept—follow you into sin. You’ve already injected yourself into his veins, he might as well see the high through.

The rational part of his brain knows he should leave, throw the limo in reverse and tail it back to the life he’s carved out for himself in the desert. Experience has hardened him, left him unable to, or maybe unwilling to, open himself to others. He doesn’t need whatever it is you think you can offer him, no matter how alluring and sweet your words may be.

The weight of his wet clothes against his skin begins to feel almost suffocating and with a low curse under his breath, Logan steps from the limo and follows the path you took up the porch and into the house.

A trail of water leads from the front door to a small laundry room just off the foyer and then damp footprints lead deeper into the house. He can hear the low rumble of a dryer as he steps further into the space, the squeak of his shoes against the hardwood doing nothing to hide his approach.

Logan finds you in the kitchen, lights dimmed low, standing in only a pair of mismatched underwear, the damp fabric barely concealing what’s underneath as you gently swirl a glass of whiskey. A second, untouched glass sits next to your hip on the counter.

“You seem like a whiskey man,” you say, your smile curving around the glass as you take a slow sip. “Did I get it right?”

Stopping in the doorway, he flexes his hands at his sides, and wills himself to move—forward, backward, he’s not quite sure. The muted light catches along your curves, the damp sheen of your skin enticing, the dark outline of your nipples and curls between your thighs acting like a beacon. Logan can feel himself hardening against his slacks.

He can smell you—bright and earthy and wholly intoxicating. Your heartbeat echoes in his ears, quick, but steady, betraying no fear.

“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it by now,” you say and he has half a thought to wonder if you can read his mind.

A sly smile spreads across your face as his eyes finally meet yours, a knowing edge to your expression that further sets him off balance.

“What’s happenin’ here?” Logan finally rasps, his voice low and rough.

You give a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as you grab the glass next to you and take a step towards him, your movements slow yet deliberate. He doesn’t move, rooted to the spot as you approach him.

“That’s up to you,” you reply, handing him the glass. “You can get out of those wet clothes and enjoy this whiskey with me, or,” you pause to step closer, “you can walk back out that door and pretend like you weren’t curious about what’s waiting for you here.”

Logan’s fingers grip the glass in his hands just a little too tight as you stare up at him, holding his gaze a beat longer than necessary. You’re challenging him, daring him to act, and he knows the minute he breaks, he’s done for. He won’t be able to stop.

You risk another step closer, leaving barely a breadth of space between you. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can smell the rain on your skin, as your closeness overwhelms his senses. He wants to drown in you.

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask in a whisper, your fingers trailing along the edge of his belt buckle.

Your touch and proximity ignites something primal in him, something he thought long extinguished. Logan can feel pure want, need, surge through his veins and lick flames along his skin. His free hand moves on instinct, wrapping around your wrist, halting your teasing fingers before they venture any further. His restraint is hanging by a thread, fraying and threatening to snap.

“You sure this is what you want?” His voice is low, all gravel and grit as he stares down at you, his eyes darkened by a hunger begging to be fed.

Your lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as you press yourself fully against him, soft and warm. Rising up onto the balls of your feet, you drop your gaze to his lips before flicking your eyes back up to his and ghosting your mouth along his jawline. “Stay with me,” you whisper, sliding your hand up his chest. “Just this once.”

Logan’s restraint snaps. The glass tumbles from his hand, shattering against the floor, but neither of you seem to notice. His hand moves to the small of your back, wanting to press you impossibly closer as his lips crash into yours, hot and demanding.

You respond in kind, a whimper dying in your throat as your fingers tangle in his damp hair, urging him closer. A growl tumbles from his lips as he trails his mouth down your neck, nipping and tasting as he goes, his tongue finding your pulse point and sucking. His hands roam freely, his calloused fingers sliding over your smooth flesh, palming your hips and gripping you as if you’re the only thing grounding him to earth.

He feels alive. Every cell in his body hums beneath your touch, the constant aches and pains temporarily erased. You’re a balm to his very soul, smoothing the ever deepening cracks and making him feel whole.

You gasp as he nips at a spot just below your ear and he smirks against your skin, the sound spurring him on. “Tell me where your room is, or I’m fuckin’ you right here on the table,” he husks, his voice thick with desire, breath fanning over the shell of your ear.

Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips swollen and eyes dark, you reach for his hand and wordlessly lead him past the living room and down the small hallway to your room. Once inside, he pulls you back towards him, mouth slanting back over yours, stealing the very air from your lungs.

His cock is almost painfully hard as he walks you towards the bed, only pulling his mouth away from yours as your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Instead of sitting back on the bed, you reach for the buttons on his shirt, easing them open before sliding the fabric from his shoulders. There’s an eagerness to your movements, your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle as he sheds his undershirt and tosses it somewhere behind him.

Logan watches with a hooded gaze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as you shove his pants down his legs, barely getting them past his knees before you’re reaching for the waistband of his boxers.

His fingers curl around your wrist, halting your movements and you gaze up at him, licking your lips. “Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “We have all night.”

A shiver runs through you and then his mouth is on you again, hungry and all-consuming. He drinks you in like a man parched, lips and teeth mapping the curve of your jaw, the solid edge of your collarbone as your pretty little moans and gasps fill the air. You tilt your head back and offer yourself to him, your hands grasping at his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle to keep him close.

His hands are rough against your skin as he slides them up your sides, tracing the soft, damp skin below the band of your bra. Unfastening the clasps, he trails the fabric down your arms, his eyes darkening as he finally takes in your bare breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice dripping with raw want.

Any final restraint he has evaporates and he kicks the last of his clothes off before tightening his hands around your waist and setting you down on the bed. Logan steals the gasp from your mouth as his body covers yours, easing himself between your thighs and thrusting once against your clothed cunt.

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to wet the skin. “Last chance,” he husks, his breath fanning across your lips. “Last chance to stop before I ruin you.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to elicit a growl, his teeth bared. A sinful smile spreads across your face. “Oh, Logan,” you coo, “who says I’m not going to ruin you?”

Logan lets out a deep, guttural sound, something between a growl and a groan before he slots his mouth back over yours and follows you into temptation.

“Figured you’d try and sneak out.”

Logan whirls around at the sound of your voice, claws slowly unsheathing from between his knuckles. Blood wells up from the wounds, dripping between his fingers as he finds you dressed in an oversized shirt, the hem just concealing the edge of your panties. Your expression belies no fear as you take in the metal jutting out between his skin, your eyes alight with an acceptance he’s not use to.

Fear, disgust, repulsion, but rarely acceptance.

Slowly, he retracts his claws as you move further into the kitchen, stopping at the sink to grab and moisten a washcloth before coming to stand in front of him. Logan instinctively pulls away from your touch, but you’re undeterred, taking his hands in yours and wiping the blood away from his skin. Your movements are gentle, taking care to avoid the still healing slits.

Washed of blood, you finally glance up at him. “You can stay, you know.”

“I’m not the stayin’ kind, sweetheart,” he mutters.

One of those slow, knowing smiles tugs at your lips as you release his hands and Logan actually mourns the loss. “We’ll see,” you say with a shrug, stepping back just enough to put space between you. “I don’t think fate is done with us yet.”

Your words hang in the air like smoke, curling around him and pressing into his skin. He wants to argue, the words burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t. Because despite his earlier claims that he didn’t believe in fate, he can’t deny the unnatural pull you have on him. A pull Logan doesn’t necessarily dislike.

At his silence, you lean up and press the faintest of kisses to the corner of his jaw. “I’ll leave the light on for you,” you whisper into his skin.

It’s then he knows—he won’t be able to stay away.

Logan shows up at your door again two weeks later.

He’s been driving around some bigwig CEO, chauffeuring him from conference to conference during the day and dropping him off at random hotels during the night. When he gives Logan the address to tonight’s hotel, Logan knows instantly he’s in trouble. Just his luck the hotel is in your town.

Pulling off the freeway, he feels that familiar tug behind his ribs. His hands itch with the want, the need, to turn the wheel towards you instead of the address on his GPS. Since that night, you’ve haunted him, your face showing up in his dreams, waking with the sensation of your softness burning into his skin.

Logan knows he could stay at the hotel or sleep in the back of the limo like he’s done so many times before. But as he slowly inhales at his cigar and waits for Mr. CEO to stop fingering his mistress in the back seat and get the fuck out, the need to be near you only grows stronger.

And damned if he knows why.

He doesn’t need a relationship, or whatever the hell this is. Enough of him has been spread to others, for better or worse, and he’s already worn thin. The last remnants of any family he has are hanging off a very precarious ledge and he can’t bear the heartache of more loss if he opens himself to you.

But as much as Logan keeps telling himself he’s closed off, fortified against anything new, he can feel himself bleeding through the cracks.

By the time he finally turns down your street, it’s well past a respectable visiting hour. Most houses are dark for the night, but not yours. The front porch light illuminates just like it did two weeks ago and the dim lights of the kitchen shine through the pulled blinds. You’re up and a frisson of anticipation shoots through him.

He parks the limo and stamps out the cigar before walking up your driveway. As he approaches the door, he hesitates. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. While your final words to him were open ended, did that give him the right to just show up in the middle of the night?

You open the door as he contemplates and when his gaze finally focuses on you, he relaxes. A well worn robe is tied around your waist, your hair tied up in a messy bun, your face cleaned of makeup and yet you’re more alluring to him than you were that night in the rain.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he confesses, stepping just a bit closer towards you.

A slow, soft smile spreads across your face. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” you reply. You open the door to allow him entrance and he steps in after you.

Logan follows you into the kitchen, where you already have a glass of whiskey ready for him. Handing him the glass, you nod your head towards the living room. “Come. Relax for a bit.”

He follows you into he living room, the single lamp casting a soft glow within the space. You settle onto the sectional, tucking your legs beneath you and turning yourself towards him as he joins you. For a moment, neither of you speak, but the silence isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable, like it always is around you.

“You look tired,” you say, finally breaking the quiet. Your voice is soft, a sense of familiarity laced in with your words, as if you understand the magnitude of his fatigue.

Logan huffs as he swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Honey, I’m always tired,” he replies. “Comes with the territory.”

You give a small hum, your head tilting to the side as you assess him. “You’re in pain, too.”

Logan freezes at your words, his eyes flicking up to your face. His gaze locks with yours, sharp and guarded, like you’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t ready to expose. And yet, you’ve been doing this since the beginning. Finding the cracks in his facade and wedging yourself in until the gap widens, uncovering the raw nerves underneath.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, his tone challenging.

You gaze remains steady and calm, holding a softness that unnerves him more than the question itself. “Because it’s written all over you,” you say simply. “I see it in your scars, in the way your hands are always clenched, as if steeling yourself against a blow that’ll never come.”

Logan exhales a low, humorless laugh before taking a long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down his throat. “Don’t even notice it anymore,” he lies, shifting in his seat.

Your mouth tugs into a gentle frown as you shift, crawling closer to where he sits. You pluck the glass from his fingers, swallowing down the rest of the whiskey before setting it on the coffee table. Logan watches as you swing your legs over his lap, your robe riding up to reveal the smooth expanse of your thighs.

The weight of you against his lap sends a rush of arousal down his spine and he can feel his cock stir in his slacks. If you notice, you ignore it, instead reaching for a small bottle of lotion on the end table and squeezing a dollop into your palm. You rub your hands together twice before reaching for his right hand.

Your thumbs dig into the meat of his palm, a low groan slipping from his throat before he can stop himself. You bite your lip, but Logan can see the sly smile beneath.

“You help take care of everyone else,” you begin, rubbing the lotion further into his calloused palms. “Who helps care for you?”

Logan feels flayed open, that pull that spins him into your orbit only growing stronger as you see down to his very soul. Caliban swore you weren’t a mutant but Logan still couldn’t shake the idea that you were something more.

“What are you?” he asks, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, watching you concentrate on his hand.

You slide your fingers along the pink, puffy lines between his knuckles, a slow hiss escaping between his teeth as you massage the tender flesh. He wonders if you know how sensitive his skin is now, how each time his claws come out it hurts just a little bit more than the last time.

“I’m human,” you reply, positioning his hand to focus on the back, tracing the fine scars there. “Same as you.”

“I ain’t human.”

Your eyes flick to his as you drop his right hand and reach for his left. “You’re human where it counts,” you say, beginning to massage his hand.

Logan scoffs. “Yeah? And where’s that?”

You release his hand and place your palm in the center of his chest, your fingers splayed over his heart. “In here.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where your fingers are resting against him. You touch him like you’re unafraid, undeterred by the metal in his bones and the sometimes primal rage that courses through his blood. His killed—for the sake of war, self preservation, and for reasons not so innocent—but you can somehow still see past that, to some soft part of him that still lingers.

Logan itches to touch you, to pull you closer and—

“You can touch me,” you say, as if pulling the thought from his head. “I like when you touch me.”

Logan slides his palms up your thighs and around your hips, pulling you flush against his lap, your clothed center pressing against the fly of his slacks. He doesn’t miss the gasp that falls from your lips or the shift of your hips as you try and press closer.

That thrum of aliveness begins to churn in his veins as he slowly unties the sash of your robe, allowing the fabric to fall to the side. You’re bare underneath and Logan can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to the center of your chest.

“You dress like this jus’ for me?” he asks, dragging his lips towards your breast and pulling a nipple into his mouth, working into a taut peak beneath his tongue.

Your fingers wind themselves into his hair, holding him close. “Yes,” you breathe, a whimper falling from your lips as he moves to your other breast. “Only for you.”

A surge of possessiveness rushes through his veins and Logan can feel the prickle between his knuckles, his claws threatening to unsheathe at the thought of you with another man. Instead, he doubles his focus onto you, his beard scraping against your skin as he licks a hot stripe across your nipple. “Damn right, only for me,” he growls.

You shift your hips in response, seeking more friction against the hard length of his cock pressing against you. Logan groans, his fingers digging deeper into the flesh of your hips, urging you to move against him. The soft, wet heat of your cunt through the thin fabric of your panties and his slacks sets his control on a razors edge.

Logan leans back slightly to lock eyes with you, your pupils blown wide with want, your skin flushed with desire. You find his gaze, hazy with pleasure, but focused and then you smile at him, bottom lip pinned between your teeth.

“And you, Logan,” you whisper, your hands sliding down the column of his neck, “you’re only for me.”

That hook you’ve lodged in him sinks deeper and he’s too far gone to care. The mystery behind your presence in his life is one he’s willing to spend the rest of his days unraveling so long as you stay right here, continuing to bewitch him with the beauty of your soul.

Your allure was more potent than any pheromone, more intoxicating than any aphrodisiac. In his waking moments, Logan found his thoughts drifting to you more often than not and the frequency between his visits grew shorter and shorter until he found himself lured into your embrace almost every night.

He was good at lying to himself, writing off these visits as nothing more than comfort—the need to find warmth in a world that so seldom offered him that luxury. But that lie grew bitter, warped in the liminal space between midnight and dawn where you stripped him down to his very bones, saw through the gruff and grit he wrapped himself in. Saw him as something more than the sum of his sins.

Logan couldn’t hide from you and he didn’t know if he wanted to. Those carefully crafted walls that surrounded him cracked and crumbled, turning to dust at his feet. In that mysterious way of yours, you always knew what he needed—a warm meal; your tender, healing touch as you helped him stitch the worst of his wounds; the soft, pliant feel of your skin on his as you kissed him deep, the kind of kiss that burned like wildfire and whiskey.

God help him as your gravity pulled him in closer, your orbits circling tighter and tighter, destined for an inevitable crash.

“What am I to you?”

Those five words root him where he stands, flaying him down to his very marrow. Logan should have expected this question, should have known that eventually you’d ask.

He wants to tell you the truth, speak those words that burn against his tongue, begging to be said.

He wants to tell you of his need to find you when the days are long and the nights are longer. When the weariness he feels in his bones aches more than usual and seems to bleed into his very soul.

When he needs to feel something more than the hollowness that seems to grow inside his chest. The slow carving away of his humanity that’s been scraping closer and closer to emptiness for years.

When he needs to be wrapped in warmth and set afire by something almost like love. Like home.

But he says none of this as he gazes over at you sitting at the kitchen table, one knee pulled up to your chest. You look small sitting there, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen before.

And instead, he remains silent, praying you’ll let the conversation slide. But he knows better.

You glance up at him, your gaze piercing straight through the heart of him and then you devastate him with three simple words.

“I love you.”

The air punches from his lungs and for a moment it feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Your words tear through him, cutting deeper than any knife, and his hands curl into fists as you slice him open.

“Don’t,” Logan rasps, his voice rough, barely more than whisper. He avoids your eyes, knowing that if he looks and sees the sincerity in your gaze, it’ll be his undoing. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks with emotion as you push away from the table, your arms wrapping around yourself. “What about those words can’t you hear?”

His jaw clenches and for every step you take closer him, he takes a half step back, as if he’s trying to distance himself from the truth beginning to swirl between you. You can’t love him. Loving someone has brought him nothing but misery and pain, loss and suffering and he’ll be damned if he drags you down that road.

So, instead he lies, the words bitter in his mouth.

“This ain’t love, sweatheart,” he says, gesturing between the two of you, “This is fuckin’.”

You inhale sharply between your teeth and your expression twists into disbelief, the beginning of tears welling in your eyes. “Fucking?” you bite back, your voice trembling but still firm. “You think after all these months that this is just fucking?”

Logan doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t move. He simply stands there, jaw clenched so tightly he could shatter bones. He can’t say yes. If he does that, if he voices that lie into existence, he’ll have to spend the rest of his days remembering the look in your eyes right now—destroyed.

Your breath starts to shudder as you continue to step closer towards him. And he can feel you, warm and comforting, even though you shake with barely contained anger. “Look me in the eye and tell me that’s all this is,” you demand, your voice thick with emotion. “Tell me that when you come to me in the middle of the night, broken down, bloody and bruised, it’s just fucking. Tell me that when I touch you, hold you, love you, that it means nothing.”

He remain silent.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “God, for someone with heightened senses, you’re blind to what’s right in front of you.” Your trembling voice matches the shake to your hands, your fury pouring off you in waves. “You really are a coward, aren’t you?”

Logan nostrils flare at the insult and he can feel the prickle of his claws between his knuckles. He knows his rage isn’t with you, but himself. And yet he can still feel his lips curl into a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he growls.

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you seethe, your voice now raw, pain bleeding through every syllable. “You can’t even look me in the eye when you lie.”

His jaw clenches impossibly harder and he swears he can taste bone. Then, he finally meets your gaze head on, eyes flashing. “You think this ends well between us? You think I get to have somethin’ like this? Like you?” Logan’s voice cracks in a way that he loathes. “I can’t—”

The crack of your palm against his face is deafening. He barely moves from the impact, but emotionally you’ve landed him on his ass. Your eyes are wide as you stare up at him, unblinking.

Logan stands there, immobile, as he processes the sting of your slap. It doesn’t hurt, not physically. It’s the fact that you did it, the fact that you’re standing in front of him, chest heaving from the effort of your breathing as if you just ripped yourself open for him.

“Get out of my house,” you seethe, your voice softer than before, deflated.

Your words shouldn’t sting as much as they do. They shouldn’t wreck him and make him feel like he’s been ripped apart limb from limb. He should relish them, the push, the shove. He should revel in the confirmation that you’re finally seeing him for what he truly is—something undeserving of all the warmth and love you’ve given him. A stray animal that never should have been fed.

Logan swallows, his throat tight as he gives you a small nod. And then he does the only thing he knows how to do.

He turns. And he walks.

His legs feel like lead, each step a feat and his brain is screaming at him to turn around. To fight. To beg. To plead. To say something, anything.

But he doesn’t.

Logan exits the house, the front door slamming shut behind him. As he steps off the front step, the porch light above him clicks off, plunging the house into darkness. Your guiding light is gone, lost in the storm of his destruction.

Of all the wounds he’s ever taken, of all the scars that mar his skin, nothing has ever bled quite like this.

Charles watches with sharp eyes as Logan enters the old water tank and shuts the door behind him. The older man is in his wheelchair, tending to his plants as Logan walks around the place, picking up random bits of trash and the tray from breakfast.

A soft “tsk” falls from Charles’ lips and echos in the small space. “Will you ever learn, Logan?” Charles’ voice seems tired, weary.

Logan pauses and looks over at him, irritation already prickling along his skin. “Stay outta my head,” he snaps, slamming the tray down on a nearby table.

He doesn’t need this, doesn’t want Charles sifting through his mind, seeing those pieces of you he so deeply cherishes. Pieces he doesn’t deserve. Pieces he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have within his grasp again.

“She loves you,” Charles continues, seeming to ignore his request.

Logan strides over to where Charles is sitting, unable to keep the ire from boiling over. He wants to sweep all the plants to the floor, destroy the one creative outlet Charles has, retaliate for the way he presses into the fresh bruises on his mind. “I’m begging you, just—”

Charles lifts the spray bottle beside him and directs the spray in Logan’s face, showering him in a fine mist of water. Logan freezes, water dripping from his face as his lips tighten in a thin line. He grits his teeth, an ache already blooming in his jaw.

“What the fuck was that for?” he growls.

“Are you a cat?” Charles asks, lowering the bottle. “No? Then stop being such a pussy.”

Logan stares at Charles, the vulgarity of the of man’s words leaving him temporarily speechless. He scrubs a hand down his face, wiping the rest of the water off with the sleeve of his shirt, scowl deepening.

“You’re pushin’ it,” Logan warns.

Charles simply smirks, finally setting the bottle down on the table. “Someone should. God knows you won’t push yourself. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”

Logan sucks in a sharp breath and steps back from Charles, sitting down on the bed across from him. The old metal springs groan beneath his weight. He wants a bottle of whiskey, to quiet the thoughts in his head, at least temporarily, and fall into a drunken stupor. Anything but flaying open his feelings, especially his feelings about you.

“What are you so afraid of?” Charles asks gently. “That she’ll see all your broken pieces?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charles raises his eyebrow. “No? Logan, she’s already seen them. She knows what you are and she’s still here.”

“That’s not the point!” Logan roars, his voice echoing off the metal walls. His breathing comes out in short gasps and he knows he needs to rein himself in. Not only for himself but for Charles. It doesn’t take much to trigger a seizure these days and he doesn’t need the stress of this conversation to become a catalyst.

Charles remains quiet, expression calm and Logan hangs his head, his voice softening into something raw. “It’s not about what she knows. It’s about who, about what, I am. I don’t deserve her.”

Bracing his elbows on his legs, Charles leans forward, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “She knows all that, Logan. And she chooses you. Every night you come to her, she chooses you. How can you not see that?”

Logan doesn’t respond, but the weight of Charles’ words hang heavy against his shoulders. He looks down at his hands, seeing the callouses and crisscrossing scars. His body is a physical map of violence, each faded pink line a story of pain, regret and death.

But you’ve never seen them that way. You’ve only ever looked at them with reverence, traced your fingertips along each one and wondered about their stories. Made him feel whole instead of broken and used.

“You have a choice to make, Logan,” Charles says, interrupting the silence. “Let her in…or keep running. Don’t make her choose for you.”

For days, Logan’s mind is plagued by replays of his last moments with you and his conversation with Charles. His already sleepless nights are further tormented by dreams of you, the devastated expression on your face haunting him.

The memory of your face, the crack in your usually steadfast voice, the tremor in your hand after you struck him. They all play in a nauseating loop in his brain, punishing him in a way he’s never felt before.

His life reverts to autopilot—drink, fight, drive, but nothing quells the gnawing ache in his chest. He couldn’t stay in the smelting plant with both Caliban and Charles staring at him, watching his every move as if he were a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. Charles was running out of medications, a few days supply left at most, and Logan knew he was better off leaving Charles in Caliban’s care than his own.

Now, he sits on the edge of a dingy motel bed, the scent of cheap whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. His eyes are dry and heavy with exhaustion and his skin is itching with that familiar want to be near you. It started as an annoying tug, but has now grown into a maddening want.

He knows he should ignore it. But he was never that strong.

Before he can talk himself out of it, convince himself that this is an astronomically stupid fucking idea, he’s on his feet, keys in hand and driving down those lonely roads towards you.

It’s late when he reaches your house, like it usually is, and he half expects the porch light to remain dark, a cold, bleak reminder of how badly he’s fucked up. Instead, he finds that single porch light illuminated, shining like a beacon of hope. Logan walks up onto the porch, but you don’t open the door like you’ve done so many times before.

He contemplates leaving, turning around and getting back in the car and drinking himself into a semblance of sleep. But then he hears you, your heartbeat echoing beyond the wooden frame, as steady and as comforting as it’s always been. Logan pauses, wondering if he should try the knob and come inside—if you’ll even let him.

If you even should.

With a sigh, he lowers himself to the ground, his joints aching in protest as he rests his back against the door. “I’m not good at this,” he finally says, hoping you’re listening. “I’ve been alive for too long. Seen too much shit.” Logan pauses, his words burning in his throat. “I’ve lost too many people.”

He hears you shift behind him, your head thudding softly against the door as you listen. His relief is almost palpable knowing you’re there, that you’re at least willing to listen to him. Leaning back, Logan closes his eyes and exhales a heavy breath. “The only way I know how to keep people safe is to push ‘em away. And I need to keep you safe.”

The words feel foreign leaving his mouth, as if they’re uncovering a truth he’s long kept secret. He feels exposed in a way he’s not used to, raw and honest, and the truth of his words burns. Logan can still hear you on the other side of the door, your breathing slow and steady, yet laced with something—hesitation, maybe, or hurt. It makes his chest ache in a new and unfamiliar way.

“I’m tired,” he continues, his voice softer. “I’m so fuckin’ tired, sweetheart. Tired of fightin’ when all I want—” Logan swallows hard. “All I want is you.”

The porch light hums above him, the night is alive with the chirping of crickets, but the silence that follows is almost deafening.

Logan doesn’t deserve you, he knows that. You should turn him away, tell him to leave, to kick him back to the desert to lick his wounds alone. He doesn’t know how to be someone’s partner, their lover. He’s not sure if he ever has, really, too hung up on all the ways he paints himself as a bad man. Someone unworthy.

Except with you, he finds himself wanting to fight. To prove he’s not as hard and unyielding as the metal bones inside him. That somewhere deep inside him there still lingers warmth and affection and the capacity to love.

He’s bracing himself for the worst when he hears the faint sounds of the lock turning. The door creaks open and he shifts to look up at you. One of your well used blankets is wrapped around your shoulders, your hair tousled from sleep and your eyes are red and wet with unshed tears. Logan’s heart thuds heavily in his chest as you stand there and he turns to face you, pushing up onto his knees. Your expression is carefully masked, betraying little of your underlying emotions, and he carefully crawls forward, testing the waters of how close you’ll let him get.

His knees ache as he kneels on the hard concrete, but he’d crawl through glass if you asked him to. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to him as he nuzzles his face into the softness and warmth of your belly. Your comforting scent floods his senses as he waits for your anger, your rejection.

Instead, you sigh, a long pent up breath released in a steady exhale and your fingers sink into the disheveled hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close to you. “You’re an asshole,” you finally say, though your tone lacks any venom or spite.

Logan feels it then, the tension slowly easing from your body as you allow him to sink further into your frame. His heart lurches his chest, the faintest flicker of hope fluttering against his ribs.

“Yes,” he mumbles into your shirt.

“You hurt me.”

He pulls back as you gently push at his shoulders and sink down to the ground in front of him. But you don’t push him away any further and instead, lace your fingers through his. “I should tell you to fuck off,” you continue, your eyes focused on where you’re touching him. “But I can’t.”

His voice comes out in a whisper. “Why?”

Your eyes meet his and your gaze pierces straight through his soul. “You know why.”

And he does. In truth, he thinks he’s always known, long before you ever spoke those three little words out loud. Words so simple, yet so profound. Words he rarely speaks, while others casually toss them around. Words he has rarely felt, but with you feel as natural as breathing, as the sun rising in east.

Words he’s still afraid to say, despite everything, despite every cell in his body screaming at him.

You look at him like you know, because of course you do. You’ve always known him, in that uncanny way of yours since he first saw you standing in the rain. So instead of ire or disappointment at his lack of response, you simply squeeze his hand, grounding him to your reality.

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, your voice soft and steady. “Not yet.”

Logan looks at you, his brows furrowed. He can’t fathom what he’s done in this life to deserve you, your patience, your unwavering belief in him. “You make it hard not to,” he finally rasps, his voice rough and uneven. “Love you, I mean.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, raw and jagged, much like him. It’s close to what you want to hear, but not quite. And yet he sees something warm and bright blossom on your face.

You lean in, raising your free hand to lightly trace the curve of his jaw, scratching at the scruff there. “You’re a man of action, Logan,” you say, pressing in closer, your breath mingling with his. “Wanna show me instead?”

This—this is a language he’s fluent in.

Using his lips, tongue, hands and cock to write on your body all the words he cannot say. He’s mastered your shape, the way your hips curve beneath his palm, the softness of your belly and breasts, the heat between your thighs stoked hotter only by him. He knows exactly where to press, where to nip and suck and tease to elicit all those pretty little moans and gasps of pleasure.

Logan’s already drawn one orgasm out of you, his fingers still thrusting against you as you ride out your high, your thighs shuddering against his forearm. You’re flushed and breathy as you reach for him, urging him up from between your thighs.

You pull him close, fingers sinking into his hair as you lick into his mouth, not caring that your slick still stains his beard and lingers against his tongue. He swallows your gasp as he knocks your knees apart and slots himself between your legs, his cock heavy against your belly.

He wants you. In all the ways he can think of and not just like this, naked and pliant beneath him. He wants your sleepily whispered hellos each morning and your softly murmured goodnights each evening. He wants the warm, weighty press of your body against his as you sit on the couch beside him sipping whiskey.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

As his kisses grow more fervent, you grow impatient and push at his chest, urging him back. “Lie back,” you command softly, your breath damp against his lips, “Let me take care of you.”

He wants to protest, deny you this request. This is supposed to be about you, about using his body to show you all the things his words can’t say. He’d spend the whole night between your thighs, using his mouth, tongue and fingers to worship if you’d let him. But there’s something in your gaze that forces him to comply and he gives in, rolling onto his back.

You straddle his thighs, your slick cunt sliding along the length of his cock. Logan groans and his hands reach for your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh as he encourages you to move. “This is s’pose to be about you,” he husks as you slowly begin to rock your hips back and forth.

“Oh, it is,” you answer, licking your lips as you brace your hands on his chest. “Who else can get you hard and needy beneath them?”

A low growl escapes from his throat. “No one.”

A wicked smile curls at your lips as you drag your heat along him, the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit with every slow, deliberate rock of your hips. The sensation has his control unraveling and he slides his hands along your thighs to palm the curve of your ass.

You press into his touch, continuing to roll your hips as you lean forward to press an open mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw. “You see,” you murmur, “this is for me.”

Reaching between your bodies, you grasp him in your hand and line him up. Slowly, almost tortuously slow, you sink down on his cock, taking him inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. A sharp inhale escapes him as your warm, tight walls surround him and Logan knows this feels different.

This isn’t merely fucking anymore, the melding of flesh for the pure sake of pleasure, of briefly escaping the nightmare of his life, of finding solace in sin. You’ve somehow managed to bleed yourself into him, to wrap yourself around his heart.

You feel as if you’re a part of him, lodged deep between his ribs and that if he were to try to remove you, he’d kill himself in the process. A part of him knows this feeling has always been there, back when you first entered his limo. The feeling threatens to choke him, to fill his love soaked lungs until all he can breathe is you.

He loves you.

Pure and unfiltered and it terrifies him.

“I—fuck, I,” he chokes out, the words caught in his throat. “I feel—”

Your hands run over his chest, up along his collarbones, your fingers blazing a trail over his skin. “I know, Logan,” you whisper, your hips rocking languidly against his.

He grips your thighs, almost tight enough to bruise, helping guide your movements, but also prove to himself you’re real. Logan’s chest heaves as he watches you ride him, your hips rocking harder, faster, dragging moans out of both of you. You lean back just enough to change the angle, driving him deeper and he bucks his hips, meeting your thrusts with a force that has you crying out his name.

And yet it’s not enough. He needs to wrap himself around you, twine his fingers through your hair and hold your mouth to his until he’s completely consumed you. His hands slide up your back towards your waist and he pulls you down against him, mouth hot and insistent against your neck as he continues to fuck up into you.

In one fluid motion, Logan grips your thighs and flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him, cock still sheathed deep within your cunt. You arch beneath him as he sets a brutal, devastating pace, the raw intensity of his movements stealing short, gasps breaths from your lips with each thrust. A shiver ripples through you as he draws a nipple into his mouth, his name tumbling from you like a prayer.

“Fuck, there it is,” he growls. “I love all those little sounds you make.”

His choice of word isn’t lost on either of you and your eyes meet his as your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint red crescents as you cling to him. “Logan,” you gasp, your voice trembling as he hits that soft spot deep inside you. “More.”

“You want more?” he rasps, gripping your thighs and pulling them higher around his waist. The new angle has you crying out, the sound echoing in the room as he continues to slam into you with a force that has the bed creaking beneath you.

“Ah, fuck, yes,” you moan, your head tipping back.

Logan takes advantage of your offering, his lips and teeth marking a path down your neck, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that’s sure to leave a burn come the morning. There’s a possessiveness to his touch, a need to claim you, to prove to you that this is all he needs—your embrace, your warmth, your love.

“You’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he growls against your skin, his hand sliding down between your bodies and finding where you’re joined. He can feel himself pounding into you, your combined arousal coating his fingers as he finds your clit and begins to rub in tight circles. “So goddamn perfect. You were made for me, sweetheart, you know that?”

Your cunt flutters around him and he knows you’re close, your thrusts against him growing erratic. He feels his own impending release, but he needs you to come first, needs to feel you shatter against him. His fingers press more firmly against your clit and with a breathy moan, your body tenses, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes into you.

“That’s it,” Logan groans, his own thrusts faltering as he feels you tighten around him, pulling him in deeper. “Look at you, comin’ so pretty for me.” He slows just enough to prolong your release, his thrusts deliberate as he draws out every ounces of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him.

It’s overwhelming—the sensation of you beneath him, around him; the cling of your fingers to his shoulders; the warm, damp breath against his neck; the absolute perfection of this moment right now. In all his years on this earth, he’s never experienced anything like this. The desire to completely consume someone, body and soul, and be consumed return. He wants his dying breath to be your name.

Something inside of Logan snaps, and as you try and catch your breath as you come down from your high, he presses your legs higher, folding you beneath him in a way that has his cock pressing deeper than before. The change has you whimpering and he looks down to find your expression as wrecked as he feels. He pauses his thrusts just long enough to grasp both your wrists and pin them above your head before he picks up his pace again, fucking into you with an almost ruthless intensity.

“I love you,” he growls, his thrusts growing erratic, his control quickly unraveling with every whimper and cry of his name. “God, I fucking love you.”

For a few moments, he doesn’t even realized what he’s said. Then he looks down at you, your gaze trained on his face and that soft, knowing smile of yours on your lips. “Logan,” you gasp, “I know. I’ve always known.”

Logan lets out a rough, shuddering breath, his entire body trembling with the weight of his confession. Any response he has dies in his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his entire body wound tight. He’s so fucking close, can feel his orgasm coiling hot and tight in his gut, but it’s more than your warm heat drawing him in—it’s everything.

“Tell me,” he grits out, his hips chasing, chasing, chasing that release.

You lean up as much as you can with your hands still pinned above you and lick an open mouthed kiss against his lips. “I love you, Logan.”

And that’s all it takes. He groans into your mouth as he finally lets go, his body tensing as his release crashes into him. He spills himself deep inside you, shallowly thrusting into your cunt as his rhythm slows.

Logan releases your hands, and for a long moment, there’s only the sound of heavy breathing, of heartbeats slowing, the two of you tangled in the aftermath.

Logan’s restless and unable to sleep despite your smaller frame tucked alongside him, the weight of your head resting against his chest. From his periphery, he can see his phone illuminating with unread texts, no doubt from Caliban urging his return. Charles has been deteriorating faster than Logan cares to admit, his mind gone more often than not, raving about new mutants. He needs drugs faster than Logan can procure them.

His mind churns, the reality of the outside world looming closer and he contemplates slipping from your grasp when you shift, curling yourself further into him. You don’t speak, not yet, but he can tell you’re alert, floating somewhere in that space between sleep and full wakefulness. Your fingers start to move of their own accord, the gentle pressure of your fingertips tracing over an old scar along his ribs, mapping out an old battle he no longer remembers.

Beside him, his phone buzzes again and Logan sighs.

“Sounds important,” you murmur, voice thick with sleep.

He wants to keep ignoring it, stay wrapped in the quiet cocoon you’ve thrown around him, but Logan knows he can’t. It’s a cruel reminder of the chaos that plagues him beyond the sanctuary of your embrace.

“You can go to him, Logan,” you continue, fingers never stopping their slow path along his skin. “I know you’ll be back.”

“How,” he starts, licking his dry lips, “how do you always know?”

Logan’s asked versions of this question before. You’ve always brushed him off, given a coy answer and steered the conversation towards something else. For a moment, he thinks tonight will be the same.

But then you answer.

“I can feel you,” you answer softly, your breath warm and damp against his skin. “I just—” You pause and turn to look up at him and then disentangle yourself from his embrace. “Stand up,” you urge, nudging at his side until he complies.

He blinks at you in confusion, but you just smile at him, soft and sleepy, and gently cup the side of his face. “Now, close your eyes.”

Logan does as he’s told, chasing after your touch as you step back from him, settling somewhere beyond him on the bed. “I’m going to move and you tell me where I am.”

The soft rustle of bedsheets follows and then, stillness. You’re quiet, but he can sense you, just off to his right, but too far away to touch. “My right, but farther back in the room.”

You move again, keeping your movements light. Again, he pinpoints you, this time towards his left, closer, but still too far away to grasp. “Left.”

A final movement, this time even closer, your proximity flooding his senses, sending a rush of warmth down his spine. Logan reaches out, finding the curve of your hips, hands tucking underneath the shirt you had slipped on earlier in the night, splaying his palms against your back. He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, alive in the predawn glow.

“How did you know?” you ask, looping your arms around his neck.

Understanding dawns on him, the answer so simple, yet so profound. Pinpointing where you were had nothing to do with his heightened senses and everything to do with just you—the way you’ve molded yourself to him like a second skin. “I could feel you,” he answers. “I could—I just knew.”

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. Logan sighs into your mouth, his eyes fluttering close as you press your forehead to his. “It’s like that,” you whisper. “This undeniable pull, an invisible string that connects me to you and it tug, tug, tugs, until…there you are.”

His phone continues to buzz, growing more insistent as the soft blues and grays of the morning bleed into more golden hues. With a reluctance you both feel, Logan peels himself away, finally answering the phone with an irritation he doesn’t bother hiding.

You watch him go, standing on the porch with the light casting a halo around your head. Your smile is gentle, but stained with worry and yet you remain stoic, the steady pillar holding up the fractured remains of his life.

As he drives away, he catches one last look at you in the rearview mirror and he’ll spend the next few months wishing he told you—he feels you too.

The last one hundred miles have dragged on for eons, the road before him stretching into an almost infinite distance. Logan finds himself darting his eyes towards the dashboard clock, growing increasingly frustrated when the numbers move only a few minutes at a time, the slow passage of time seeming to taunt him.

It’s been months since he saw you last, though no fault of his own. His memories are hazy—a swirling fog of confusion, pain and burning fever. He’s not even sure how he survived, whether it was modern medicine or sheer stubbornness. Or something more.

You believe in fate?

Your words echo in his mind, soft and sweet, and he feels a familiar pang of longing in his chest.

Fate or not, something kept a spark alive in him, pulsing through his veins with each sluggish beat as he slowly and painfully healed. His wounds are still pink and tender to the touch, more of his skin marred by death and destruction.

As he turns into your subdivision, the night quiet, a cold, creeping anxiety snakes along his spine. What if you’ve given up on him? Figured this last absence was the real deal, all his idle promises of staying away finally coming to fruition.

But as Logan drives down your street, he sees it—the single porch light illuminating in the night. Acting like the beacon it’s always been, leading him safely to land.

To you.

Logan pulls into the driveway and shifts the truck into park. Turning in his seat, he glances back towards the young girl curled up on the backseat. Laura’s face is relaxed in sleep, her hands tucked protectively under her chin. She fell asleep several hours ago, the soft rhythm of the tires against pavement lulling her to sleep.

Logan’s been many things in his life. Son, brother, fighter, friend. Lover. He never thought he’d add father to that list. While he can’t quite find it in him to call himself that just yet—even though Laura readily and easily calls him dad—he no longer denies the protectiveness he feels towards her.

Easing the door to the truck open, Logan steps out and gently shuts it behind him, loathe to disturb her just yet.

Here he is showing up at your door like he always has—late, quiet, and carrying a heavy weight he feels only he can shoulder. His hand is poised to knock, knuckles clenched, but he pauses, unsure if he even has the right to be here.

But then there you are, the front door opening to reveal your tired but relieved face, months of worry etched into your skin, your eyes already brimming with unshed tears.

“Logan,” you breathe, pulling him gently by the wrist and leading him inside. You don’t ask why he’s there. He suspects you already know.

The air inside the house is just as he remembers. Warm and inviting and laced with the faint, comforting smell of you. Logan inhales deeply, letting the scent settle somewhere in the parts of him that still feel alive, that thrum with the memory of your touch.

Your fingers still linger against his wrist and he can feel the heat radiating from your body, but you’re not close enough. And yet, he’s afraid to reach out, pull you into his arms. Afraid of the pity or obligation you’ll feel to comfort him, to allay all his fears.

As if reading his thoughts, you gently cup the side of his face, your nails scratching along his jaw. Logan flinches slightly, his body so used to pain these past months he’s almost forgotten the tenderness of your touch. But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he closes his eyes, a ragged breath falling from his lips and his head dips forward.

“C’mere,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his waist.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, but then he slides his arms along your back, pulling you against him. You feel real and solid and alive pressed this close. Never one for overt physical touch, Logan’s surprised by how much he missed this—the simple act of just holding you. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he inhales deeply, his breath warm and damp against your skin.

He doesn’t say anything, unsure where to even begin. The weight of his grief, his weariness, feels heavier than any burden he’s ever shouldered before and it’s almost desperate the way he clings to you. Like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. If you were to let go, he’d fall apart.

Logan doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the hot trail of tears against his cheeks. You run your fingers through his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as you hold him.

“I couldn’t feel you, Logan,” you whisper into his neck. “Several days of just…nothing. I thought that—”

The words lodge themselves in your throat, but he knows what they are just the same.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, your eyes glistening with tears that match the ones rolling down his weathered face. Your expression is marred with pain, raw and unfiltered, but also with a bright flicker of relief.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice rough with emotion. “I got dragged into some bad fuckin’ shit. I almost…we—”

You quiet him with a soft brush of your fingers against his lips. “It’s okay, Logan,” you whisper. “Tell me about it later. I’m just happy you’re home.”

Home.

Logan gaze softens at your words, but guilt gnaws at him. He doesn’t deserve this—your unwavering faith in him, the patience you’ve shown him, the light you’ve been in his dark, endless nights. But here you are, giving him everything he’s never asked for but so desperately craved.

“C’mon,” you murmur, dragging him from his thoughts, “Let’s get you settled.”

It’s well past two in the morning by the time Logan finally carries Laura into the house, tucking her comfortably into the guest bedroom. Turning from the bed, he finds you there, leaning against the doorframe. You reach for him, in that soft, gentle way you always do, and lead him into your bedroom.

He doesn’t protest when you sit him down at the edge of the bed and begin undressing him. Kneeling before him, you unlace his boots and peel off his socks, setting them aside. With a slight press to his knees, you force his legs wider, slotting yourself between them.

Despite the late hour, the weariness and fatigue tugging at his bones, Logan feels his cock twitch as your fingers brush underneath the hem of his shirt.

It’s been so long since he’s felt you.

He dreamt of you, in those fevered moments where he didn’t know where one part of his body began or ended. When his entire existence had been boiled down to raw nerves and sluggishly knitting flesh. Through the haze of pain, he wondered if he’d ever feel your kiss again, feel the frantic press of your fingers into his shoulders, feel the warm, wet heat of your cunt stretching around him.

You toss the shirt aside and he can feel your gaze lingering over the new scars, the pink, raised lines of flesh that are still healing. With a reverence he’s not worthy of, you trace your fingertips along the three jagged scars from where X-24 had ripped into him.

“What happened to you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper as you move to trace more of his scars.

Logan tells you then about Pierce and the Reavers, about Laura and the other mutant children. His throat grows tight as he continues, relaying the loss of Caliban, Charles and the Munsons, and the final confrontation between himself and his clone.

He tells you how Laura saved him. How her and the other children brought him to safety over the Canadian border. How he spent the next months fighting with every fiber of his being to knit himself whole.

For you.

You lean into him as he looks away, jaw tightening as he tries to shove down the memories of everything he’s lost. Your touch is light against his face as you trace the angle of his jaw, and reach up to press the lightest of kisses against his lips.

Logan exhales into your mouth as you kiss him again, soft and tender and warm. You seem to breathe him in, imbue life into his weary flesh and reignite the spark he’s kept alive for you.

He wants to do more—to pull you into his arms, to taste you, to fuck into you until he can’t breathe. But exhaustion pulls heavily on his bones, threatening to sink him.

Logan knows you can feel his hesitancy because you keep kissing him softly, punctuating each press of your lips with whispered reassurance. Your fingers card through his hair as you lean back. “Just let me hold you?”

Your voice cracks at your request and Logan can only nod, unable to deny you. You help him shuffle out of his pants before coaxing him further into the bed. He moves slowly and he knows you don’t miss the creaking of his joints, the soft groan of discomfort.

Coming to rest on his side, you tuck into him, throwing a leg over his hips and pulling him close. He sighs into your touch, the weight of the last few months pressing just a little bit less as you press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“Don’t leave me,” you whisper into his skin, soft and damp.

Logan feels his heart clench at your words. He’s hurt you. He knows that. Not just inadvertently with his most recent disappearance, but all the other times, too. Those times when he ran, afraid of what your words and touch meant. Afraid to accept what you’ve always so freely given.

His hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingers splaying across your back. “You kept the light on,” he husks, unable to keep the break out of his voice.”

Your lips quirk into a soft smile. “I always will, Logan.”

#logan howlett #logan howlett x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fic #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x fem!reader #wolverine smut #wolverine x men #wolverine fanfiction #old man logan #old man logan x reader #old man logan x you #old man logan smut

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h8aaz · 3 days ago

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❝ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 .ᐟ ❞

SUMMARY .ᐟ . . . dean can't keep his eyes off of you while you're researching in the library. the 'only way' to get him back on track is a quickie between the bookshelves; according to him, of course.

WARNINGS .ᐟ . . . f!reader . piv unprotected . quickie . blowjob . horny dean . established relationship . petnames . kissing .

GABS YAPS .ᐟ . . . idk just a lil something that i thought of bc i miss early seasons dean sm. likes, comments, + reblogs are very appreciated!!

dean smirked as he turned his head and stared at you, admiring you. how yor plush, pink lips pouted when you focused on the words in the lore book in front of you, the strands of hair falling and framing your face, your innocent eyes scanning the pages and going over the loops of the letters forming complex monster names, how one arm hugged over your chest, pushing your breasts up slightly.

"dean," you called out, breaking him from his trance. "if you keep staring, we're gonna completely fumble this case because you're too busy undressing me with your eyes to find out what stupid creature that thing was." you spoke. you could just feel the smile on his face.

he leaned closer to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "c'mon, baby, you know i can't focus when you're sitting there all pretty like that." he whispered as he glided his hand down your back and to the curve of your ass in the chair, you back instinctively arching at his touch.

"please, sweetheart. it's the only way." he begged while squeezing your skirt-covered ass. you rolled your eyes at his infamous line, how annoying it was to hear; yet it always worked.

"goddammit," you grumbled before turning your face to him. "just a few minutes, okay? make it super quick." you whispered back. his eyes practically lit up through his long lashes. he grinned fully with a small, hushed, and half-assed 'yeah, i promise' before smashing his lips onto yours.

the kiss was heated from the jump, tongues fighting against each other. you reached your hand down to his lap under the table, groping the bulge in his pants, eliciting a groan from him as you rubbed his jean-covered cock, fully hard and ready from his daydreams about you.

you pulled away, shushing him softly before pecking his lips and grabbing his hand while you got up, him gleefully following you between two large bookshelves. the two of you looked around and found zero cameras or way to be seen by any passerby. after making sure the coast was clear, your hands were on each other in an instant. frantic roaming of soft and calloused fingertips across rough clothing and warm skin along with the wet sounds of colliding mouths filled the corner you stood in; with you sandwiched against the wall and dean's large body.

you unbuckled his belt and undid his jeans, pulling the fabrics that blocked him off down, freeing his throbbing cock, giving him a few pumps. dean lifted you up, your legs wrapping around his torso. he moved your underwear and lined himself up before pushing inside you, a small whine came from you, being muffled by his lips on yours.

he let you adjust for a few seconds before thrusting up into you. breathy whispers of moans slipped from both of your mouths as he pounded you against the wall. "fuck, sweetheart, you're so- hah- so tight." dean quietly whimpered into your ear. "please, please!" you choked out as hushed as you could at the sound of him.

dean shushed you softly before colliding his lips with yours again, mouths swollen. you came undone quickly with suppressed moans into his mouth and your fingers tugging at his hair. his thrusts stuttered, becoming sloppier as he got closer after feeling you clench around him.

as if silently spoken, you pushed off of him, being lightly set back down. your legs shook while your arousal dripped down and soaked your panties. you got onto your knees and enveloped his dick with your mouth, tasting yourself on him. you bobbed your head rapidly as gentle mewls spewed from his perfect lips.

you swirled your tongue on his tip while your hand worked his shaft until he came into your mouth, pushing your head all the way onto himself with a small gag vibrating from you.

he let you go soon after you swallowed, a pop could be heard when his cock left your mouth. "you gonna work now?" you asked through pants. dean hummed and gave you a small smirk, "maybe...maybe not." he said. you smacked his thigh lightly before getting up, calling him a idiot as you did so. he caught you as your legs began to shake again, smiling before crashing his lips onto yours once more in a bruising, breathless kiss.

tags: @bejeweledinterludes @j2archives @sunsbaby @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @immodestly-marina @legalmente-loca @angelicjackles @mystic-writings @deansbeer @bluemerakis @figthoughts @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @cowboysandcigarettes @vmiina @sunsettsam

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invisible-lint · 2 days ago

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Take Me With You

Rhys x Tamlin's sister!reader

Summary: ECBO but if the mating bond snapped when Rhys and the former Night High Lord came to murder the High Lord of Spring and your brothers

Warnings: almost angst, Tamlin being Tamlin

Word Count: 1k

You're not sure what it was that woke you up; the coppery tang of blood that had permeated the air, or the sound of your door being opened. You bolt upright, clutching the blankets to your chest; something is wrong. Your gaze falls on the door frame and you catch a glimpse of dark hair and violet eyes as the male closes the door, a finger to his lips.

You take a moment to gather your wits, blinking in the dark, before all but leaping out of bed and stumbling into the hallway. The smell of blood is stronger out here, and you look around, taking in the carnage as you make your way down the hall. Two of your brothers and both your parents are dead. Tamlin and you are the only survivors. You chase after the male, you see him walk out the door as you're running down the stairs. You vaguely register Tamlin calling after you, but you ignore him. You run out of the manor, barefoot, following the dark haired male into the garden.

"Rhysand!" He hesitates, allowing you to catch up with him. You grab ahold of his sleeve and he turns to face you. The two of you watch each other for a moment; him steady, albeit confused by your actions, and you eyes wild and loose hair being whipped around by the wind. "Kill me too. Please. I want you to kill me too."

You watch as the emotions dance across his face, faster than you can name them. He shakes his head.

"I can't do that. I won't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Too many have died here already.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You were fine killing my entire family, but draw the line at me?” You shove at his chest, angry and confused. Why did it matter to him if you lived or died?

“I'm sorry. I…” He trails off, his eyes going wide with surprise. He curses under his breath.

“You're sorry?” You laugh again, still shoving at him. He grabs your wrists, gently trapping them against his chest. “Do I need to beg?”

“No. I won't do it.” Rhysand looks at you, as if by staring he can figure out why it is you so desperately want to die.

“Then take me with you. Please. Anywhere else has to be better than here. Rhysand, please.” He's about to deny your request when he sees the expression on your face shift. The mating bond had snapped into place for you too. He catches you as your knees give out, sinking to the ground with you.

You beat at his chest; hot, angry tears rolling down your cheeks. He just lets you, feeling as if he deserves it. You're his mate and he caused you this pain.

“Get away from her!” Tamlin growls. Rhysand tries tucking you behind him, his instincts taking over despite his better judgement. You smack his hands away, placing yourself between the two males.

You hold your hands out towards your brother, as if trying to placate a wild animal. “Tamlin…”

His see his gaze dart between you and Rhysand, a growl rumbling deep in his chest when he realizes what has happened

“No.”

“Tam…”

“I said no,” he all but snarls. Tamlin closes the space between you, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from Rhysand. You cry out, sharp pain shooting up your arm like lightning as you're pulled. You glance over your shoulder at the violet eyed male, your mate. You can see the fury in Rhysand's eyes, but he doesn't move, worried that anything he could do might cause you further harm. You tug on the fledgling bond, trying to reassure him.

“Tamlin! Let go! You're hurting me!” He releases your arm, backing away as if you had struck him with your words. You back away from him, your eyes staying on his as you get closer to Rhysand.

“You know the laws, Tam. You know this isn't your choice. It is mine, and I choose to go with him.” Tamlin falls to his knees, reaching out to you. “I know what would happen to me if I stayed here. I would be forced to marry one of Beron Vanserra’s sons. Father already came to an agreement with him. You lose me either way. But this way, I get a choice. I decide what happens to me.” He calls out your name, begging you to stay. “I'm sorry. I truly am.” You take Rhysand's hand and he winnows the two of you away.

Rhysand lets go of you, stepping back when you arrive wherever it is he's taken you, dropping to his knees, not meeting your eyes.

“I understand if you wish to reject the bond because of what I have done. I have no regrets, except for the pain it may have caused you. Please, before you make a decision, allow me to explain myself.”

You kneel in front of him, cupping his cheek to tilt his face so that his eyes meet yours.

“I already know. I know what my father and brothers did. I saw the wings in my father's study. I do not hold any grudge against you for what you have done. I am well aware of the type of males they were.”

“Your mother… He wasn't supposed to kill her.”

“My mother was… It's more complicated than my father, I'll admit. But her love for him made her blind to his treatment of us. She was more concerned with shaping me into the perfect bride than she was with what he was doing. I will not reject the bond because of what happened tonight.”

Rhysand's eyes light up, as if filled with stars, twinkling in hope. “Really?”

You nod, already knowing you would do just about anything to see his eyes light up again. “Yes. It will take me time, and I wish to have a proper courtship first, but I have no intention of rejecting the bond.” You tug on the bond, smiling when he tugs back.

“I would do anything. You can take as much time as you need. Anything you want is yours.” You pull him to you, holding him tight, as you imagine the new future before you. One where you get to choose.

A/N: I guess I'm writing AUs for my own story now oops. This may be a standalone, but may also have two more parts. I have a Cassian fic that should also be posted this weekend, so keep an eye out for that!

Feel free to keep sending in requests!

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

#rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhys acotar #acotar fic #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #maasverse #acotar x you #acotar imagine #fanfiction #imagine

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muletia · 2 days ago

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God I need to get Optimus pregnant and it's not even in a necessarly horny sense anymore.

It's the way Optimus referred to "family" as a strictly human concept to Ultra Magnus. Over his time on earth he's grown utterly enchanted by the idea of having one, especially once you're in the picture, but knows it cannot be. No matter how badly either of you want it.

I need him to one day, when everything settles down and you start living out in your little cottage, start noticing a bunch of strange symptoms: He's oddly fatigued, as if his frame is suddenly dumping power somewhere new. He's simultaneously overcome with an unexplainable hunger and nausea, as if his tanks are clamoring for fuel other than energon and reformatting to process it.

I need him to nearly break out in joyful sobbing when Rachet disbelievingly explains his scan's findings to you. Doesn't even have it in him to scold you both for being this irresponsible, not when his old friend looks so... fulfilled. Sincerely thanking him before turning and all but collapsing into you. It's probably best Rachet gives you both a moment of privacy with the news...

(Pregnancy glow hits Opti hard btw)

oh my god, OH MY GOD this is so peak

Me thinks Optimus, at first, would be completely unaware of the meaning behind all these symptoms. Sparked up bots on Cybertron were extremely rare, not to mention that after the war began, there was neither the time nor the opportunity for the creation of new sparklings. Optimus never really had much — if any — exposure to carrier bots. His knowledge of reproduction is limited to the basic understanding that his species is capable of it (something must have ignited that first spark of drive toward reproduction, after all) and that he very, VERY much wants to have one with you. All of the symptoms associated with being sparked up are completely foreign to him.

That’s why, at first, he isn’t concerned. He rationalizes the oddities as simply his body adjusting to a new, slower, more peaceful life. The shift from Autobot leader to house husband, whose most stressful responsibility is remembering to refill the hummingbird feeder, is drastic. No wonder his frame is responding to it. And the fact that these symptoms have persisted for weeks, months, even? Well. Maybe he just needs a lot of time to fully adjust.

Until you begin to notice that something strange is going on with Optimus.

The energon supply is disappearing at an alarming rate. More than once, you’ve woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of him rummaging through cupboards and the storage shed, searching for more. He snacks constantly, even though he’s just refueled. And lately, he’s been so clingy. Always wants to be close to you, touching you in some way, whether it’s cuddling or simply maintaining some form of contact. He’s stopped going on his usual walks to watch birds just so he can spend more time with you.

And most concerningly, he’s started whimpering when you are ready to leave for work, begging you to stay home. With him.

The realization strikes you like a bolt of lightning the moment you finally notice the slight swell of his abdomen (since we’re already fully committing to human pregnancy symptoms, why not give him a little baby bump?)

"Opti… are you… pregnant?"

And suddenly, everything clicks into place for him, too.

Ratchet is contacted immediately. Then comes disbelief. Shock. And joy. So much joy. The old medic has never seen his friend so genuinely happy, so full of life. Optimus' usual reluctance toward PDA is completely overridden by his sheer need to share his happiness with you. He covers your face in kisses, confessing that his greatest dream has just come true.

And while, at first, it’s incredibly difficult for you to process the idea that a robot can even get pregnant, let alone with an entirely different species, his joy is so raw and so pure that you can’t help but be swept up in it, too. For now, you don’t want to think about how or why. You just want to stay in this beautiful moment with him.

But, of course, there’s no avoiding a very long lecture from Ratchet about responsibility and how in Primus’ name is this even possible?!—it’s an unskippable cutscene. But the sting of his scolding is completely overshadowed by the sweetness of this joyous revelation.

and you are so real for the pregnancy glow. that Opti face card is gonna be LETHAL

#be silly #transformers x reader #optimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #valveplug #i guess??#tagging as valveplug just in case

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hansmic · 1 day ago

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𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌

felix x reader

summary: you forget to pack your pajamas for a weekend getaway, so felix lets you borrow his . It becomes a tradition where you both sleep in oversized clothes, finding comfort in each other’s presence more than anything.

genre: fluff, romance

word count: 729

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It had been a long day of traveling to their destination, and the two of you were exhausted. As you both prepared for bed, you realized with a sinking feeling that you had forgotten to pack your pajamas. You sheepishly confessed your dilemma to Felix, and to your surprise, he didn't seem to mind at all.

"It's no biggie," he said with a shrug. "You can just borrow some of my clothes to sleep in."

Without a second thought, he rummaged through his suitcase and pulled out a soft, oversized cotton shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants. He handed them to you with a smile, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Here you go," he said. "These should be comfortable enough to sleep in."

You thanked him for his thoughtfulness, feeling a bit embarrassed about your forgetfulness. As you slipped on the oversized clothes, you couldn't help but notice how comfy and cozy they were. They enveloped your body like a soft, warm hug, and the scent of Felix's familiar cologne lingered on the fabric, making it even more comforting.

Felix couldn't help but notice how cute you looked in his oversized clothes. He had never seen you in anything this casual and comfortable before, and he found himself admiring the way the shirt hung loose on your frame, the way the sweatpants pooled at your ankles.

"You look cute," he said with a small smile, flopping onto his bed and getting comfortable.

You blushed at his words and quickly clambered into bed next to him. Even though this wasn't how you had expected to spend the night, you found yourself feeling strangely comfortable and at ease. As you lay in bed, you couldn't help but feel grateful for Felix's kindness and his willingness to lend you his clothes.

The room was quiet, the only sound being the soft rustling of the sheets as you both settled in. You closed your eyes, feeling a sense of contentment washing over you. It was almost as if wearing Felix's clothes made you feel a little closer to him, like you were wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and familiarity.

"Thanks again for letting me borrow your clothes," you said softly, snuggling further into the blankets.

"No problem," Felix replied, his voice low and soothing. "I don't mind at all. In fact, maybe we should make this a tradition. Every time we go on a trip, you borrow my clothes to sleep in."

You chuckled, finding the idea amusing. "A tradition, huh? I guess that means I'll have to keep forgetting to pack my pajamas."

Felix chuckled, a sly smile crossing his face. "I mean, if it means I get to see you in my clothes more, I'm fine with it."

You rolled your eyes playfully, swatting at him lightly. "You're ridiculous."

But deep down, the idea of making this a tradition made you feel strangely happy. There was something about wearing Felix's clothes that made you feel safe and cared for, and the thought of repeating it every time you traveled together was weirdly appealing.

"Ridiculous, huh?" Felix teased back, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you. "I prefer to call it 'being clever.' Plus, it's a win-win situation. You get to be comfortable, and I get to see you looking adorable in my stuff."

"You're impossible," you said, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

But it was true, there was something almost magical about slipping into Felix's oversized clothes. They felt like a warm, comforting hug, and the faint scent of his cologne always lingered on the fabric, making it even more personal and intimate.

"Fine, I guess it's a tradition now," you conceded, pretending to be reluctantly.

"I knew you'd come around eventually," Felix teased, a smug look on his face. "And I have a feeling this tradition is going to become my favorite one."

He lay back down, pulling the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes. "Goodnight, my lil' pajama thief."

You swatted at him again, blushing at the nickname. "Goodnight, weirdo."

But as you lay there in the darkness, surrounded by the comforting scent of Felix's clothes, you couldn't help but agree with him. This tradition was definitely something you could get used to.

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hope you liked it

masterlist is here

#skz #skz stay #skz felix #felix yongbok #felix x you #felix fluff #felix x y/n #felix imagines #lee felix x reader #stray kids felix #lee felix #felix x reader #felix #stray kids imagines #stray kids x you #stray kids ff #stray kids fluff

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captainkirkk · 7 hours ago

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✩ MONTHLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

The fics I’ve read and enjoyed for the month of February. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

DC (Batman)

Light A Match, Pull The Pin (You Are Not Who You've Been) by WakingNightmares

Part 2 of I've Given Every Piece Of Me (And I'm Breathing)

“Games,” Dick says softly. “He… he likes to play games. With your… with your head. He won’t…” He shakes his head a bit, some of the distance in his eyes fading. “He won’t come at you head on. That’s not… That’s not what he does. He wants you scared, first. Helpless. Knowing there’s nothing you can do. He… He calls it… softening up the target. So when he… when he actually shows up… they’re so afraid they… they panic.”

“And if he does…” Jason swallows. “If he does, you… there’s no way out. He won’t… If you fail, he doesn’t care. What you do. It doesn’t matter. He won’t stop no matter how much you…” Jason blinks a few times, and Roy’s fairly positive he’s trying to blink back memories. “He’s going to do what he’s going to do. You can’t stop him. He doesn’t care.”

Roy takes a deep breath. Let’s it out slowly, so it’s only an exhale, and not a sigh, because Jason looks haunted, and Dick looks blank.

Set immediately after Screaming In The Dark.

Captive Prince

Blood, Bones, Voice, Ghost by sunsmasher

Damen’s grip on his arm is painful. His face in Laurent’s is ashy and sheened with sweat.

He says, “There was something in my drink.”

(Damen is poisoned, Jokaste is framed, Laurent must find them an heir. He's put it off for so long already.)

Miraculous Ladybug

the art of living lies and a fine mingling of letting go by blueh

“Ms. Bustier,” Marinette says a little desperately. “I have been fighting akumas nonstop for the past twenty four hours, I’m running on seven expresso shots right now and I can barely read the words on the board. Can we please reschedule the test?”

Adrien doesn’t look up from where his head is buried in his arms but he waves a hand and says, “Agreed.”

Or: the world knows their identities, but life goes on.

Sewing Needles and Cat Paws by SailorChibi

Later, they agree that Hawkmoth did it on purpose.

But in the moment, Chat Noir can’t think that far. His head is pounding, possibly from a concussion, and he has just enough time to look into Ladybug’s scared blue eyes before the flash of light overtakes them both. Then, suddenly, he’s looking at Marinette Dupain-Cheng and the journalists around them are screaming. Their names, including Adrien’s real one, are so loud that it’s disorienting.

The Growing Pains Of Child Soldiers by BloodWolf13 (+ podfic)

What do the citizens of Paris do, when they realize that their heroes are literally growing up before their eyes? They freak the fuck out.

Or everybody realizes that the heroes of Paris are young teenagers and are a little (extremely) worried about children fighting a terrorist.

Yesterday was plain awful by zipadeea

"WHERE IS LADYBUG? The headlines scream Sunday morning, and Caline Bustier feels her stomach just drop."

After a terrifying akuma attack, Paris and its heroes are left reeling. All most people want is to know what has happened to their beloved Ladybug and Chat Noir.

Marinette and Adrien just want to be okay.

Alternatively: Plagg has a whole lot of feelings, Marinette lies and says she's fine every other paragraph, and Adrien cries more in two days than he has in two years.

Miraculous Ladybug x DC

Bad news, Paris by BlueTee

Part 1 of Paris vs Gotham

Tim: @notTHATtim Are you parisians all right??? #onlyinParis Nathaniel Kurtzberg: @nathanielkart Replying to @notTHATtim hahaha no.

In which Nathaniel only wanted to pass some information but shenanigans issues and he ends up starting a twitter war.

Severance

Lay Me Back Down by EightMinutesToSunrise

Mark S. escapes Lumon and finds himself alone in an unfamiliar house. Or, not quite alone--his outie's with him.

Click. Click. by EightMinutesToSunrise

A few days after the destruction of Lumon and the innies' escape, Mark S. requests that his outie take their consciousness, and not swap back for anything. Not even (especially not) for their rebellion's firecracker leader, Helly Riggs.

From Lightswitch AU--a separate but related continuation of my fic "Lay Me Back Down."

As the Elevator Dings by Sdove

Breaking company rules is a form of self care. OR a story about the revolutionary act that is choosing to love yourself. OR the aftermath of the party and Mark S.'s role in it-- part character study, part plot, all angst, baby!

A Light In The Storm by Alooxis

Ever since the court order requiring that Lumon employees be provided with co-neural switches - a modified version of the overtime contingency device - Mark's world had become so much larger than he’d ever imagined.

Unfortunately, with a world of new experiences comes a world of new fears.

I.e.: Mark S. experiences his first thunderstorm. It does not go well. Thankfully, Devon is there to help.

#i know i technically only posted my janurary round up a few weeks ago but that was me just forgetting to hit post ksjdsj #but this one is on time !!#my posts #monthly fic round up #fic recs #ml recs #dc recs #cp recs #severance recs

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aventurineswife · 2 days ago

Note

ok uhhh dr ratio with an s/o who is just as intelligent as he is

so when they have their first kiss, the reader gets so nervous that they start mumbling random facts about ancient egypt / etc. :3

Facts Between the Kisses

Summary: In the grand library of the Intelligentsia Guild, Ratio shares a rare moment of vulnerability with you, his equally brilliant partner. After hours of intense discussion, a surprising first kiss leaves you so flustered that you begin rambling about ancient Egyptian medical practices.

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Kiss, Nervous Reader, Banter.

The Intelligentsia Guild's library was vast, a labyrinth of shelves and tomes brimming with knowledge. Ratio sat at one of its ornate desks, the golden owl ornament on his shoulder glinting in the low lamplight. His eyes, framed by his wavy hair, scanned the pages of an ancient manuscript. A faint smirk curled his lips as he heard the approaching footsteps—light, deliberate, and unmistakable.

“Late for our discussion on temporal mechanics, are we?” he said without looking up.

You grinned, stepping into view with a stack of books tucked under your arm. “Only because I was busy proving your theorem on recursive algorithms incomplete. Again.”

Ratio’s smirk deepened. “I expected no less from you. Care to enlighten me?”

You set your books down with a soft thud and leaned forward, gesturing at one of the diagrams in his manuscript. The two of you dove into an intense debate, trading ideas and insights like dueling swords. Your conversations were always this way: sharp, challenging, and utterly exhilarating.

After hours of discourse, the library grew quieter. The steady hum of your voices faded into a companionable silence as you both sat back, basking in the afterglow of shared brilliance.

Ratio’s gaze lingered on you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “You know, it’s rare to find someone who can keep pace with me,” he said. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity that made your heart skip a beat.

You laughed nervously, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “Well, someone has to keep you grounded. Otherwise, your ego might collapse into a singularity.”

He chuckled, a low, melodious sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Perhaps. But you’re not just an equal—you’re… more.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotion. Before you could respond, Ratio leaned closer, his striking eyes locking onto yours. His confidence was palpable, but there was a hint of hesitation, as if he was stepping into uncharted territory.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You nodded, your breath hitching as he closed the distance. His lips brushed against yours, gentle at first, then firmer as the moment deepened. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in that perfect, fleeting instant.

When you pulled back, your heart was racing, your thoughts a jumbled mess. Instead of saying something romantic or profound, your nerves got the better of you.

“Did you know the ancient Egyptians used honey as an antibacterial ointment?” you blurted out.

Ratio blinked, clearly caught off guard. You clapped a hand over your mouth, mortified, but the corners of his lips twitched into a grin.

“Fascinating,” he said, his tone teasing. “I assume this is your way of processing… overwhelming stimuli?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

He gently pried your hands away, his smile warm and uncharacteristically tender. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s endearing.”

You gave him a skeptical look, but his gaze was so earnest that you couldn’t help but relax.

“Besides,” he continued, leaning back with a smug expression, “it’s fitting that our first kiss would be followed by a discussion on ancient medical practices. I wouldn’t expect anything less… unique from you.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you adore me.” He reached for your hand, his touch sending a thrill through you. “Shall we continue our discussion? Perhaps this time, you can focus on me instead of ancient Egypt.”

Despite your embarrassment, you found yourself laughing. “Deal. But only if you can keep up.”

Ratio’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, my dear, I always do.”

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #ratio x reader #cotl ratoo #veritas #veritas ratio #hsr veritas #veritas x reader #fluff #romantic comedy #kiss #nervous reader #banter

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honeyscara · 2 days ago

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❝not a joke ❞ — Shoyo Hinata

-haikyu{manga spoilers}

Synopsis: childhood besties to lovers, hinata is finally back from Brazil and things take a turn when he's back.

C/w: fem! reader x timeskip!hinata, no smut in this part but it's suggestive

~4.2k words, this is part 1

You fidgeted with the hem of your sweater as you stood near the arrival gates, your heart pounding in anticipation. It had been two years since you last saw Hinata. Two years since he had left for Brazil, chasing his dream. You had kept in touch—video calls, texts, the occasional voice note—but nothing could compare to seeing him in person again.

Then, finally, you spotted him.

The moment he stepped through the gates, your breath hitched.

This wasn’t the same scrawny, hyperactive boy who used to race you to the convenience store or challenge you to impromptu volleyball matches at the park. No, this Hinata was different. He stood taller, broader, his frame filled out with muscle in a way that made your stomach flip. His tanned skin, sharp jawline, and confident stride made it clear—Brazil had changed him.And damn, he looked good.

Your legs moved before your brain could catch up. "sho!"

His head snapped up, and the second his eyes landed on you, his entire face lit up. "___!"

In an instant, you crashed into him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as his strong ones curled around your waist. He lifted you off the ground effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you down, his laughter ringing in your ears.

"You're real," you mumbled into his shoulder, squeezing him tight. "You're actually here."

Hinata pulled back just enough to look at you, his wide grin never faltering. "Of course I’m here! Did you think I was some clone?" He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and you felt a lump form in your throat.

You smacked his arm playfully. "Shut up, you know what I mean."

Hinata chuckled, his grip on you tightening for a moment before he finally pulled back just enough to look at you. His bright eyes searched your face, as if making sure you were real too.

"And you haven’t changed at all!" he teased, ruffling your hair like he used to, though there was something softer in the way he did it now—more affectionate than playful.

You swatted his hand away with a pout. "Speak for yourself! What happened to the little tangerine I used to know?"

Hinata grinned, flexing his arm exaggeratedly. "Turns out playing beach volleyball in the sun every day does wonders!"

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, big shot. Let’s go—your mom’s been texting me every five minutes asking if you’re here yet."

His eyes widened. "Oh, crap. She’s gonna kill me if I don’t call her right now."

With a laugh, you grabbed his wrist and started dragging him toward the exit. The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you, a reminder that he was really back. No more time differences, no more lagging video calls. Just him. Here. Now.

As you walked side by side, Hinata glanced at you, a small smile playing on his lips. "I missed you."

Your steps faltered slightly before you caught yourself. The words were simple, but the way he said them—soft, sincere—made your heart stutter.

You swallowed, pushing away the sudden rush of emotions. "Yeah, me too, Sho."

The next day came quicker than you expected, and as you got ready, a strange mix of excitement and nervousness settled in your chest. It shouldn’t have felt like a big deal—you were just taking Hinata out for the meal you’d promised. But something about it felt… different. Maybe it was because you weren’t kids anymore. You had both grown, matured, changed. And though Hinata was still his usual energetic self, there was a newfound confidence in him that made your stomach flip.

You smoothed down the floral dress you’d picked out—simple, cute, just short enough to feel a little daring but not too revealing. With one last look in the mirror, you grabbed your bag just as the doorbell rang.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door.

And Hinata froze.

His brain seemed to short-circuit for a second as he took you in, eyes widening slightly before he quickly cleared his throat.

"You…" He blinked rapidly, trying to shake off whatever had just come over him. "You look—uh—wow."

You raised an amused brow. "Wow?"

A faint flush crept up his tanned cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean—you look really nice! Like, really, really nice."

Your lips curled into a teasing smile. "Thanks, Sho."

And just like that, his usual grin returned, though his heart still hammered in his chest as he stepped aside for you. What the hell was that? You’d always been pretty, but for some reason, tonight, seeing you like this, it felt like his heart might actually leap out of his chest.

The restaurant you picked was a cozy little spot, nothing too fancy but perfect for catching up. The two of you settled into a booth, ordering your food while slipping easily into conversation. Hinata had endless stories about Brazil—the intense training, the beautiful beaches, the culture, the food. His eyes practically sparkled as he talked, his excitement infectious.

At some point, between bites of your meal, the topic of dating came up.

"So," you leaned back, stirring your drink with your straw. "Did you see any hot girls in Brazil? You know, sitting on the benches watching you play?"

Hinata smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh yeah, plenty."

You hadn’t expected your stomach to twist at his response, but it did. You forced a laugh, taking a sip of your drink to mask the unexpected pang of disappointment. "Wow, look at you. Living the dream, huh?"

He grinned but didn’t say anything right away, just watching you with a knowing look. Then, after a beat, he leaned forward on his elbows. "I was just teasing, you know."

You blinked. "Huh?"

Hinata chuckled, shaking his head. "You looked kinda sad for a second."

You quickly waved him off. "Pfft, no way. I was just surprised, that’s all."

He didn’t seem convinced, but he let it slide. Instead, he tilted his head, curiosity dancing in his expression. "What about you? Did you like anyone while I was gone?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Please. No guys would go for me."

Hinata frowned. "What? That’s not true."

You gave a half-hearted shrug. "It’s fine, really. I mean, I guess I just wasn’t anyone’s type. Maybe I should start carrying a sign that says desperate and available might speed up the process." You laughed at your own joke, but Hinata didn’t.

Instead, his brows furrowed, and he leaned in just slightly, voice softer now. "You know, if any guy didn’t see how amazing you are, that’s their loss."

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around your glass.

He said it so naturally, like it was just a fact. Like it wasn’t something that made your heart stutter in your chest.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The way Hinata looked at you—earnest, unwavering—made your usual ability to deflect and joke disappear. You swallowed, breaking eye contact as you toyed with the rim of your glass.

"Well," you said, forcing a chuckle to lighten the mood, "good thing I have you to boost my ego."

Hinata huffed, shaking his head. "I’m serious." His voice was firmer this time. "You’re funny, kind, and you’ve always been there for me. I don’t get why some guy hasn’t already swept you off your feet."

Your heart pounded against your ribs. He said it so casually, like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t making your chest tighten in a way that felt dangerous.

You tried to brush it off with another laugh. "Guess I’m just too intimidating."

Hinata snorted. "Yeah, right." Then, after a beat, he grinned. "Maybe guys just think they don’t have a chance with you."

That caught you off guard. "What?"

He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. "I mean, think about it. You’re cool, you’re cute—maybe they’re just scared to confess."

Your breath hitched. Did he just—?

Before you could even process it, Hinata stretched his arms over his head, completely unaware of the effect his words had on you. "Anyway! Doesn’t matter. If they’re too dumb to see how great you are, then they don’t deserve you."

You stared at him, something fluttering in your chest. He was still the same Hinata—loud, a little clueless, always brimming with energy. But sometimes, just sometimes, he said things that made you wonder if maybe he saw you differently than he used to. And maybe… maybe you were starting to see him differently too.

As the two of you stepped out of the restaurant, a sudden downpour greeted you. The once-clear sky had turned dark, raindrops pelting down hard against the pavement.

"Ah, crap," you muttered, pulling your arms close to yourself as a chilly breeze followed. "I didn’t check the weather."

Hinata groaned, rubbing the back of his head. "Me neither." He glanced around before perking up. "hey, my place is closer. No one’s home either so you can stay over...maybe?"

You stared at him for a second before smirking. "Hinata Shoyo, are you trying to get me alone?"

Hinata choked. "Wha—?! No! I didn’t mean it like that!" He flailed his arms, face heating up. "It’s just—y-you always used to come over when we were kids, right? It’d be like a sleepover! But, uh, not in a weird way! Just—y'know—so you don’t have to walk home in the rain!"

You stared at him, amused by how fast he was unraveling.

He cleared his throat, still clearly flustered. "I-I have a spare pair of clothes you can borrow! So you don’t get sick!"

You bit back a smile, watching him trip over his words. "Relax, I’m just joking with you."

His shoulders slumped with relief. "Don’t do that to me," he whined.

You laughed, nudging his arm. "Alright, alright. Let’s go before we get completely drenched."

Hinata huffed, pulling his hoodie up. But as the two of you started jogging toward his place, you couldn’t help but feel that same strange flutter in your chest from earlier. Because as silly and panicked as he got… he still wanted to take care of you.

By the time you reached Hinata’s place, you were both soaked. Your dress clung uncomfortably to your skin, and Hinata’s hoodie was drenched, his damp hair sticking to his forehead.

"Okay, yeah, this was a terrible idea," he admitted between breaths, shaking out his arms like a wet dog.

You laughed, hugging yourself for warmth. "I told you we should’ve just called a cab."

"Where’s the fun in that?" He grinned before stepping aside to let you in.

You walked through the hallway, the familiar scent of Hinata’s home wrapping around you like a nostalgic hug. It felt like stepping into the past, except… everything felt different now.

His bedroom door was slightly ajar, and you peeked inside.

It was almost exactly how you remembered it—volleyball posters, random clothes on the chair, and his bed a little messy but still welcoming. The only real difference was the trophies and medals on his shelf, a testament to how far he’d come.

As you stepped inside, your fingers ran over the edge of his desk, your mind lost in memories of all the times you had spent in this room, whether it was watching dumb videos, challenging each other to games, or just lying on the floor talking about your dreams.

Then—

"Boo!"

"AH!" You jumped, spinning around just as Hinata burst into laughter, clutching his stomach.

"Hinata, you idiot!" You smacked his arm, but he barely flinched, too busy laughing at your reaction."Sorry, sorry! I couldn’t resist!" He grinned, holding out a towel and some dry clothes—a worn T-shirt and a pair of shorts. "Here, you can change into these."

You grabbed them, still glaring. "I should make you suffer for that scare."

Hinata smirked. "Oh no, are you gonna steal my bed and make me sleep on the floor?"

"Tempting," you muttered, looking down at the clothes. His T-shirt looked big—big enough that it would probably hang loosely over you. "Guess I’ll be swimming in these."

Hinata chuckled. "Better than staying in that wet dress."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, making your way to the bathroom. The second you shut the door, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

This felt… weird. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made your heart race a little too fast. You’d stayed over at Hinata’s plenty of times as kids, but this was different. You weren’t kids anymore.

As you changed in the bathroom, you realized with a sigh that your bra was just as drenched as your dress. There was no way you were putting it back on as it clung uncomfortably to your skin, cold and heavy with rain. You hesitated for a second before deciding to go without it, pulling on Hinata’s oversized t-shirt instead. The fabric was soft, slightly worn, and it smelled like him—fresh laundry mixed with something undeniably Hinata.You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to make yourself look somewhat presentable before stepping out.

When you stepped out, Hinata glanced up from where he was towel-drying his hair, and just like before, he froze. His brain short-circuited.

At first, he had just been prepared to tease you about how his clothes practically swallowed you whole. But then his gaze caught on the way the loose fabric draped over you, how it shifted with your movements, and...oh

You weren’t wearing a bra. The way the thin material did absolutely nothing to hide the erect peaks poking out from underneath, and the soft swell beneath it.

Hinata’s face went up in flames.

Oh. Oh.

He ripped his gaze away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, suddenly finding the most fascinating spot on the floor to stare at. Don't look, don't look, don't look—

But it was too late. That single glance was already burned into his brain, and no amount of panicked mental screaming was going to erase it.

"N-nothing!" His voice cracked, and he gripped the towel in his hands like it was a lifeline. "You just—uh—you look comfortable!"

You smirked, completely oblivious to the absolute war happening in his head. "What, jealous that I pull off your clothes better than you do?"

Hinata let out the most unconvincing laugh of his life. "Y-yeah! I mean, no! No way!" He could feel his ears burning, and he desperately tried to focus on literally anything else. "S-so, uh, movie?"

You stretched your arms over your head with a yawn, completely unaware of how his eyes almost flickered down again before he clenched his jaw and forced himself to stare straight ahead.

"Yeah, sure," you said, flopping onto the couch beside him.

Hinata grabbed the remote, fingers fumbling as he picked the first thing that appeared on the screen. He had no idea what he just put on. It could’ve been a horror movie, a documentary, or a three-hour-long ad, and he wouldn’t have noticed.Because no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about the fact that you—his best friend—were sitting next to him, wearing his clothes, and making his heart race in a way that felt far too dangerous.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Hinata—still reeling from his internal meltdown—mindlessly pressed play on whatever movie popped up first. Big mistake.

Because barely fifteen minutes in, the screen suddenly shifted to a scene that made both of you freeze.

Heavy breathing. Slow, lingering touches. Clothes slipping off way too easily.

Oh. Oh.

You choked on your own spit. "Hinata—"

Hinata, already red as a tomato, practically threw the remote in his panic, scrambling to grab it again. "I—I DIDN’T KNOW! I JUST CLICKED SOMETHING!"

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to burst into nervous laughter. "Oh my god."

Hinata, on the other hand, looked like he was fighting for his life. He was stiff as a board, eyes darting anywhere but the screen. "I’ve never watched this with you before!" he blurted out, as if that somehow made this less mortifying.

You raised an eyebrow. "So, you’ve watched this alone?"

Hinata nearly died on the spot. "THAT'S NOT—!" He smacked the remote until the screen finally blessedly went black. Silence.

Then you lost it, bursting into laughter while Hinata groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is the worst."

Still giggling, you leaned back against the couch, wiping a tear from your eye. "Oh my god, Sho, that was so bad."

Hinata groaned again, dragging his hands down his face. "I swear on volleyball, I didn’t mean to put that on."

You smirked, nudging his arm. "So you have watched that kinda stuff alone, huh?"

"STOP," he whined, throwing his head back dramatically. "I’m already suffering."

You couldn’t help but laugh at how flustered he was, cheeks still red, ears burning. You’d never seen him react like this before—it was… oddly cute.

After a moment, Hinata huffed, crossing his arms. "You didn’t exactly change the channel either, y'know."

Your face heated up. "HEY! I was shocked! I wasn’t expecting to see—" You clamped your mouth shut, shaking your head rapidly. "Nope. Not finishing that sentence."

Hinata snorted, finally cracking a grin. "Yeah, let’s just pretend that never happened."

You nodded. "Agreed. Now, please pick something safe. Like, a cartoon. Or a volleyball match. Something that won’t make us want to die."

Hinata grabbed the remote again, determined. "On it. No more accidental… that."

But as he scrolled through the options, a single, dangerous thought crossed his mind...Why was it so easy to picture watching something like that with you… and not just as a joke?

As Hinata scrolled through the movie options, his mind was still stuck on what had just happened. The sheer embarrassment of it. The way you had looked at him, teasing but also—maybe—just a little flustered too.

And then there was the part that was really messing with his head… the part where, for just a split second, he’d wondered what it would be like if—

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not going there.

But then, you stretched beside him, adjusting the oversized shirt you were wearing—his shirt—and the movement drew his eyes right to where the fabric clung to you. His throat went dry.

And as if the universe wanted to make things worse, you turned to him, tilting your head. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah!" His voice cracked, and he quickly looked away, staring so hard at the TV that he was surprised it didn’t catch fire.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You sure? You’re looking kinda nervous."

"N-no! I’m fine! Totally fine!" He forced a laugh, but the way his knee was bouncing gave him away completely.

You leaned in a little, resting your chin on your hand as you studied him. "Hmmm… is it ‘cause of that scene?" Hinata froze.

A slow, knowing smile spread across your lips. "Oh my god," you whispered, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Are you still thinking about it?"

"I—*NO!" he practically yelled, face burning hotter than the sun. "Why would I—?!"

You let out a low hum, clearly enjoying his reaction way too much. "I mean, I get it… it was a lot," you mused, voice just a bit too playful. "Not really something we’ve ever watched together before, huh?"

Hinata swallowed hard. "Nope! Definitely not!"

You traced random patterns on the couch, pretending to be lost in thought. "Kinda makes you wonder, though…"

His brain screeched to a halt. "*Wonder what?!*"

You grinned, leaning in a little closer, your voice dropping just enough to make his heart stutter. "What it’d be like to watch something like that… on purpose."

Hinata nearly died on the spot. His whole body tensed, his mind scrambling to process your words, but all he could come up with was pure, unfiltered panic.

"WHAT?!" His voice shot up so high it cracked, and he practically threw himself back against the couch as if that would somehow put distance between him and the very questionable situation unfolding.

You bit your lip, clearly enjoying every second of his meltdown. "What?" you teased, tilting your head. "Just saying…curiosity is normal, right?"

Hinata's brain was short-circuiting. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, his ears so hot they could probably fry an egg. "Curiosity—?!" He gulped, shaking his head furiously. "Nope! Nope! I refuse to be a part of whatever weird mind game this is!"

You just laughed, plopping back against the couch. "Relax, Sho. I’m just joking with you."

But that did not make him relax.

In fact, if anything, the damage was already done. Because now, no matter how hard he tried, his brain was not letting go of the thought. Watching something like that with you.On purpose. Or worse...you and him doing— no. Absolutely not.

Hinata swallowed thickly, shifting uncomfortably. He was so screwed.

You shifted closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, pretending like you weren’t feeling the heat creeping up your own neck. "Shoooo," you dragged out his name, voice laced with amusement. "Why are you so red?"

Hinata tensed like a live wire, jaw clenched, hands gripping his knees like they were the only things keeping him grounded. "I—I'm not!"

You let out a small hum, eyes flickering to the way his ears were practically glowing. "Liar," you whispered, your breath brushing against his skin. He jolted, his whole body stiffening like you’d electrocuted him.

You smirked. "Ohhh, you’re totally flustered!"

"No, I’m not!" Hinata shot back, turning to face you—big mistake. Because now, your faces were *way* closer than he expected, and for a split second, neither of you moved.

Your heart pounded. His eyes flickered down—to your lips, to the slight curve of your smirk—before snapping back up to meet your gaze.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

And you did what any reasonable person would do when faced with this much tension. You attacked. Your fingers darted out, finding that one ticklish spot on his side, the one you knew would break him.

"AH—HEY!" Hinata practically yelped, twisting away, but you were relentless. You pushed forward, giggling as you dug your fingers into his ribs, his stomach, anywhere you could reach.

"Admit it!" you laughed. "You’re so flustered!"

"*N-nohoho—!*" Hinata was losing it, squirming as uncontrollable laughter bubbled out of him. "Stohop! It tickles"

"Never!"

He tried to escape, but you were quick, dodging his weak attempts to grab your hands. He was laughing too hard, his strength betraying him.

Then, suddenly—

Hinata snapped.

With a burst of energy, he lunged forward, grabbing your wrists and flipping the whole situation on you.

You let out a surprised gasp as your back hit the couch, Hinata looming over you, pinning your wrists above your head. His breathing was heavy, his hair slightly disheveled from all the movement.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.Your shirt had ridden up way more than either of you had realized in the chaos, exposing the smooth skin of your stomach, the subtle dip of your waist. His hands were still pinning yours above your head, but his eyes—traitorous, stupid eyes—lingered a second too long.

Too long to be normal. Too long to be ignored.

And you noticed.You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest rising and falling a little too quickly. "Shoyo…"

Wow...this took a while and it's not complete. Second part coming soon which is gonna be smut so mdni!

#haikyuu #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyu #haikyu hinata #hinata shoyo #haikyuu shoyo #hq #hq x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq hinata #hinata shoyo x reader #honeyscara works

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spencessocks · 20 hours ago

Note

bucky AND spencer??!!! are you my brain? my brain has a tumblr? but seriously im so happy you exist.

i was originally coming to say how in ‘through the silence’ the theme and the conversation could be the same (okay maybe just similar) with post prison spencer x reader and how he is trying to get back to reality and leave prison behind

love you xx

a/n: omfg what... im literally going to eat ur face... this sort of got a little longer than i intended and it took me a while because i was busy with work so im sorry!😭😭 but thank u so much omg i was reeling from this ask, ur so sweet and ilysm!!!

what remains

summary: after spencer returns from prison, the trauma he endured drives a wedge between him and the one person who loves him most.

pairing: postprison!spencer reid x reader

wordcount: 6.8k

warnings: sad spencer, sad reader, everyones sad, reader drinks like a sip of wine

the apartment is quiet when spencer walks in. it’s late—again. you don’t know where he goes, but he never offers, and you’ve stopped asking.

he drops his keys onto the counter with a dull clink, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, and you watch from your place on the couch, heart aching at the sight of him. he looks different now. he's been home for months, but the man who walked through your door after prison isn’t the same one who left.

“hey,” you say gently, closing your book and setting it aside.

he glances at you but doesn’t hold your gaze for long. “hey.”

you swallow down the lump in your throat. “did you eat?”

“i'm not hungry.” his answer is clipped, automatic, the same response he’s given you almost every night since he’s been back.

you knew it wouldn’t be easy. that things would be different and he wouldn’t be the same. you had told yourself that over and over in the days leading up to his return, had braced yourself for the changes.

but you'd had hope—hope that, with time, things would settle. that he would come back to you—not just physically, but in the ways that mattered. that he would find his way back to the man he used to be, the man who used to curl up beside you on the couch, rambling about his latest case or a book he was reading. the man who used to laugh, used to smile, used to pull you into his arms like you were the safest place in the world.

but you had underestimated the impression this whole ordeal would leave on him.

it wasn't just in the way he carried himself, the way exhaustion clung to his frame or how the light in his eyes had dimmed. it was deeper than that. it was in the way he recoiled from touch when he used to seek it, in the way his voice lacked the excitement and curiosity it once held. in the distance that stretched between you, widening a little more each day, despite your best efforts to close it.

prison had carved something out of him, something you weren’t sure could ever be replaced. he had been home for months, but a harsh reality was starting to settle in you—that some wounds don’t heal the way you expect them to. some stay raw, lingering beneath the surface, invisible until they make themselves known in quiet moments—in the silence at the dinner table, in the way he avoids your gaze, in the way he flinches at your touch, in the walls he keeps building no matter how hard you try to tear them down.

he didn’t talk about what happened in there, and you didn’t press—even if sometimes curiosity clawed at you. but every laconic response, every empty stare, every night he disappeared without explanation told you more than words ever could. he was still there, trapped in a place you couldn’t seem to reach, and no matter how badly you wanted to, you weren’t sure you ever would.

you exhale slowly, measuring your words before speaking. "spencer, you know what i'm going to say." your voice is soft, careful, but it still makes him flinch, just barely.

"i'm fine," he mutters, turning away from you.

you hesitate, just for a moment, before the words slip out. a quiet, almost embarrassed whisper in the stillness of the room.

"will you at least sit with me for a little while?"

you regret the question the second it leaves your mouth, second-guessing yourself as soon as the vulnerability hits you. it sounds so small, so simple—sit with me, like it’s not asking for much, but in a way, it feels like you’re begging. you feel humiliation crawl up your neck.

"we don't have to talk," you add quickly, trying to soften the weight of your words. "we can just—"

"i'm tired," he interrupts, voice hollow. he’s already moving toward the bedroom, like he can't get away fast enough.

you stare blanky at him, his back already turned to you. you don't say anything. you can't. the words get stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled up with the shock and the sting of his dismissal. you just sit there, still as stone, the weight of his words settling over you like a thick, suffocating fog.

it shouldn't surprise you—this response, this distance, the way he shuts you out without a second thought. it’s been happening for weeks now, a slow unraveling of something that once felt unbreakable. and yet, it does surprise you.

because you still hoped—that he would just sit with you. that it couldn't possibly be that bad that your own husband couldn't sit on the the same goddamn couch as you.

you don’t know if your lack of response matters. maybe it does. maybe that’s why he hesitates in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame as if he's weighing his options. for a second, you think he might turn around, might give you something—anything. but then, just as quickly, he lets go and disappears into the darkness of the bedroom.

you sit there, motionless, as the door to the bedroom clicks shut behind him. the sound feels final, sharp.

the interaction plays in your head. "i'm tired."

the look on his face—or the lack of one. there’s nothing there. no fight, no frustration, not even the faintest trace of a desire to make things right.

you blink, once, twice, trying to shake the fog from your brain, but the shock is still there, thick in your chest. it’s like a pulse, steady and unrelenting, buzzing through your veins. you don’t know what to do with it. how to process it.

at this point, you can hardly recognize yourself. the person you used to be—before all this. you would have never let spencer walk away from that. you would’ve confronted him, spoken your truth, demanded that he listen. you were an opinionated person, it wasn't like you to let someone walk over you—spencer liked that about you. you would’ve never felt embarrassed by something so simple, so vulnerable, said to the man you loved.

the anger bubbles up, creeping through the shock like a slow poison, and suddenly, your skin feels tight. it feels wrong. how dare he? how can he just walk away, leave you in this empty room, in this awful, suffocating silence, after everything you’ve been through together?

surely, you wouldn't do this to him. that thought had crossed your mind before, only to be quickly pushed away by the reminder that you couldn't possibly know what he was going through—what he felt in that place.

but now, the thought clung to you, insistent, refusing to be ignored and with it came another. maybe he didn’t know how to let go of you—maybe he was too afraid to say the words, so instead, he kept hurting you without even realizing it. maybe he thought pulling away was easier than facing the truth. if the roles were reversed, you'd seek him out, wanting his comfort, his presence. so why wasn't he doing the same for you? why was he so unwilling to lean on you—when he had done it a million times before?

the pulse in your neck quickens, blood rushing, and you grip the edge of the couch, knuckles white. you don't even realize you're standing now, the instinct to do something, anything, pushing you forward. your breath comes quick and shallow as frustration and disbelief twist inside you like a knot that you can't untangle.

what are you supposed to do with this? what are you supposed to do when your own husband looks at you like you’re nothing—like you’re some kind of inconvenience he just can’t deal with tonight?

your body moves on its own, your legs carrying you to the door as if they have a will of their own—pyjamas and slippers be damned—the front door slams shut behind you with an almost violent finality. the apartment feels suffocating now, the weight of his absence, of his rejection, too much to bear. you need to leave.

you don’t bother to grab your phone. what would be the point? there’s nothing to say to him anymore—if he would even call. not when you’re standing on the edge of something you can’t even explain to yourself, a frustration and sadness mixing into something unrecognizable.

you walk fast, too fast, the cold air biting at your skin, and it helps. the briskness of the night, the sting of it, gives you a sense of purpose, something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness inside you. you don’t want to sit in that silence any longer, don’t want to stew in your thoughts, trapped in that apartment where the echoes of your broken attempts at connection are suffocating.

jj’s place isn’t far—just a few blocks—but it might as well be a world away. the walk feels like an eternity, but it’s the only thing you can control right now. you don't have to think about spencer. you don’t have to think about him.

you find yourself at jj’s door, your breath coming out in white clouds, and for the first time tonight, you feel a brief flicker of something approaching relief. you knock twice, hard, before pulling back and pressing your forehead against the doorframe, closing your eyes, letting the coolness of it ground you. what the hell am i doing?

when she opens the door, her eyes widen at the sight of you, but she doesn’t ask. she doesn’t need to. she just steps aside, pulling you in with a soft, understanding smile.

“you okay?” she asks gently, though you know she already knows the answer.

you nod, but only because you don't trust your voice not to break if you speak. she doesn’t push, just closes the door behind you and leads you to the couch. you sit without a word, leaning back against the cushions, closing your eyes, and for the first time in what feels like months, you let yourself breathe.

jj moves toward the kitchen without a word, and you hear the familiar sound of glasses clinking, followed by the admittedly soothing pour of wine. she returns with a glass in each hand, her expression knowing. she hands you one and sits down beside you, settling into the cushions with the kind of ease that makes you wish you could do the same.

"talk to me,” she says, her voice quiet, but firm enough to break the silence that’s settled between you. it’s not a question, really—more like a gentle command, the kind that only someone who knows you can give.

you let out a breath, leaning back into the couch, staring at the ceiling for a moment, unsure where to even begin. everything feels like a mess. but her presence, her calm, makes you feel like you might find the strength to sort it out.

“spencer—" you stop yourself, the words catching in your throat. you shake your head, a laugh escaping your lips at the disbelief of your situation. "i don’t even know what to say anymore. i don’t know how we got here. it’s like i don’t even know who he is anymore.”

jj listens, her eyes steady, her hands wrapped around her own glass, but her gaze never wavers. she’s waiting. you know she won’t interrupt.

“i thought... i thought he’d come back to me, you know?” the words slip out before you can stop them, and the sadness that follows hits you harder than anything before. “i thought, with time, things would get better. that i could get him back, the way he was. but... it’s like he’s not even here anymore. i don’t know how to reach him. and when i try, it feels like he just shuts me out more.”

you swallow hard, feeling a sharp sting behind your eyes. it feels pathetic, but you can’t stop it now. you can’t stop the flood of everything that’s been building up, everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

“he’s gone, jj. and i don’t know how to be with someone who’s... not really here,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word.

jj doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you breathe, lets you sit with it for a moment. “i know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but he’s not gone. he’s just... changed. and change is hard. for both of you.”

you scoff softly, shaking your head. “i feel like i'm going crazy."

jj watches you carefully, her gaze unwavering as she processes your words. you feel exhausted—physically, emotionally—like the weight of the past few months has finally settled on your shoulders all at once.

jj studies you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. then, she exhales, setting her wine glass down on the coffee table. “you’re not crazy,” she says simply. “you’re grieving.”

that catches you off guard. you blink at her. “grieving?”

she nods. “yeah. you’re grieving the life you had before. the spencer you had before.” she pauses. “and maybe... the version of yourself that existed before all this.”

you open your mouth, but no words come out. you want to argue, to tell her it’s not that simple, that you’re not mourning spencer like he’s some lost cause, but—god—doesn’t it feel like that sometimes? doesn’t it feel like the person you knew, the person you loved, is slipping further and further away?

jj sighs, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “i know what it’s like to watch someone you love disappear into themselves. to feel helpless while they struggle with something you can’t fix.” her voice is softer now, careful, like she’s walking a tightrope. “it’s terrifying.”

your fingers tighten around your wine glass. “so what do i do?” the question comes out more fragile than you want it to, barely above a whisper.

she’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “you—" her words are interrupted by an abrupt sound. jj’s phone is ringing, sharp and sudden in the quiet of the room. you flinch, your heart leaping into your throat before you even see the name on the screen. but you already know.

spencer.

panic grips you, fast and unrelenting, and before you can think, the words spill out. “don’t answer it.”

jj hesitates, glancing at the phone on the coffee table. the screen glows with his name, the sound vibrating between you like a living thing. “he’s your husband,” she says gently, but her fingers hover over the screen instead of answering.

“i don’t care,” you whisper, shaking your head. “please, jj. don’t.”

she studies you, eyes flicking over your face like she’s trying to gauge just how serious you are. if she picks up, you’ll have to hear him—his voice, his clipped tone, his inevitable question: where are you? and what then? you don’t have an answer.

jj sighs, silencing the call but not declining it. the ringing stops, but the silence that follows is almost worse.

“you know he’s worried,” she says carefully. “you left without your phone. you think he’s just going to let that go?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your glass like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment. “i don’t know,” you admit. “i just—I can’t do this right now. fuck.”

jj shifts closer, her voice calm but firm. “running won’t fix this.”

you let out a short, bitter laugh. “staying hasn't."

she doesn’t have an answer for that.

jj watches you carefully, then sighs. “stay here as long as you need. but at some point, you have to decide—are you going home? or are you walking away?”

your arm is moving suddenly, the wine glass at your lips. her words settle over you like a weight. and for the first time, you realize—you don’t know.

jj's phone buzzes again, and you flinch at the sight of spencer’s name lighting up the screen. the call goes to voicemail, and for a few seconds, there’s nothing but silence.

the phone rings a second time. you can almost hear spencer’s voice in your head, the exact tone he always takes when he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ll answer it,” jj says softly, but the words feel like a concession rather than a promise. she picks up the phone, and her thumb hovers over the screen.

you don’t stop her, but you wish you could. you wish you could shut everything down, turn it all off.

“spencer?” jj says, her voice calm, controlled.

you close your eyes, hearing his voice crackle through the speaker.

“jj... is she there?” spencer’s voice sounds worn, tight with something just beneath the surface. you can hear the familiar threads of guilt and concern tangled in his words. “i—i don’t know where she went. she just… she left without saying anything.”

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“yeah, she's here.” jj finally responds, her words careful. “but she's not ready to talk to you right now, spencer.”

a long pause follows. you can hear spencer’s breath, shallow, like he’s holding something back.

“i just... i just need to know she's okay,” he says, the frustration and desperation clear in his voice. “please.”

you wince at the pleading in his words. it cuts through you in a way you hadn’t expected.

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable, before she glances down at the phone again. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“she’s fine,” jj says, with a note of finality. “but I think you need to give her some time. she’s been through a lot, spencer. you both have.”

“time?” Spencer’s voice cracks. “jj, i don’t—“

but she cuts him off. “i’m not getting in the middle of this. just... take care of yourself for now, okay? you’ll talk when she’s ready. she’ll come back when she’s ready.”

the phone goes silent for a moment, and then the faint click of the line disconnecting. jj pulls the phone away from her ear and sets it down on the coffee table with a soft sigh.

jj sits back, her gaze still trained on you, like she’s waiting for something.

the silence in the room feels heavier now. It presses against your chest, and the weight of it makes your thoughts swirl faster than they should. spencer’s voice still echoes in your mind—i just need to know she's okay. you don’t want to admit it, but the desperation in his words cuts deeper than you anticipated. you don’t want to feel guilty. but it settles over you, thick and unavoidable, as you sit on jj’s couch, the comfort of her presence fading into the background.

“he sounded worried,” you murmur, more to yourself than to jj.

she nods, watching you carefully. “of course he’s worried.”

you press your lips together, exhaling slowly. “i didn’t think he’d care that much.” the words taste bitter on your tongue, because the truth is, you had wanted him to care. you had wanted him to call, to ask where you were, to prove—at least to himself—that there was still something left between you worth saving.

and he did.

he did.

but now, sitting here, away from him, away from that apartment, the weight of your actions starts creeping in, cold and insidious.

you left.

you walked out without a word.

you knew what it was like to feel abandoned, to reach for someone and find nothing but empty space. and now you’ve done the same to him.

the realization makes your chest tighten, and suddenly, the fight, the frustration, the resentment—it all feels distant, overshadowed by something heavier. something closer to shame.

jj shifts beside you, her voice quiet but knowing. “you’re thinking about going back.”

you shake your head quickly. “i don’t know.” but it’s a lie. you do know.

you inhale sharply, pressing your palm to your forehead, trying to ground yourself. “god, what am I doing, jj?”

“you’re allowed to feel this, you know,” she says simply. “you’re allowed to be angry. to be hurt. to need space.”

you swallow hard, blinking down at your hands. they feel foreign to you, like they belong to someone else. “i just—” you hesitate, voice cracking slightly. “i just got so mad. he was so dismissive of me, and i couldn't be there anymore.”

“i know.”

you stare down at your lap, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your sweater.

you shake your head, guilt curling in your chest. “but that’s not me, jj. that’s not who I am. i don’t just… walk away. i got angry and i overreacted.”

she sighs. “one moment doesn't define you. things are different now. you've never been in a situation like this before,” she pauses. “sometimes you have to walk away, to get your thoughts in order."

"it would've been worse if you blew up at him." she added.

"i think i still might." you said with a dry laugh.

jj smiled slightly, her gaze softening as she leaned back, “you’ve always been the one to hold things together,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, as if trying to remind you that it was okay to break sometimes. “but you can’t hold it all in forever. and sometimes… sometimes you need space to breathe, to think. you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

you let out a breath, unsure of what to say next. jj was always good at cutting through the noise, but the guilt still sat heavily in your chest. you couldn’t escape the feeling that walking away—no matter how much you needed to—had been the wrong choice.

jj watches you for a moment, then leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “listen, i know it feels like you did something wrong by leaving, but you didn’t. you needed space. that’s not the same as giving up.”

you nod slowly, staring down at your hands, but you don’t respond.

jj sighs, then reaches over and squeezes your arm. "look, if there’s anyone who understands why you did what you did, it’s spencer. he has spent his life studying human behavior—figuring out how they think and why they do what they do. spencer knows exactly why you walked out, even if he won't admit it. he knows it was about needing space, about trying to make sense of everything that’s been building up between you.”

she pauses, giving you a reassuring look. “this isn’t the end. this is just a bump in the road—you'll go back when you're ready, and you'll start working through it all."

spencer knows why you left.

the thought lingers, easing the guilt that’s been clawing at you since you walked out. maybe that’s why he didn’t come after you. maybe, in his own way, he understood that you needed this moment to step back, to breathe, to process.

you hope—no, you need—to believe that he’s coming to his own realization. that in the quiet of your absence, in the stillness of an apartment that no longer holds your presence, he’s starting to understand. that maybe, just maybe, he’s replaying every word, every moment, and seeing where it all went wrong.

you want him to recognize that pushing you away was a mistake. that shutting you out, closing himself off instead of letting you in, only built more distance between you. and most of all, you hope he understands now—truly understands—that love isn’t about shutting doors, but about keeping them open, even when it’s hard.

the irony of the situation dawns on you. sitting here, hoping he comes to the right conclusion on his own, won’t change anything. no matter how hurt or frustrated you are, you know one thing for certain—you aren’t going to push him away the way he did to you.

you glance at jj, her eyes soft with understanding, and suddenly, you don’t feel as lost as you did before.

“i have to go back,” you murmur, the words feeling right the moment they leave your lips.

jj studies you for a moment before nodding. “yeah, i figured.” there’s no judgment in her voice, only quiet support.

you stand, but before you can say anything, jj speaks again. “i’m driving you.”

you blink at her. “jj, i can—”

"it’s late, and it’s cold,” she interrupts, crossing her arms. “and i know you. you’ll spend the entire walk overthinking, or worse, you’ll turn around and come right back here.”

you open your mouth to argue, but she raises an eyebrow, daring you to fight her on this. you sigh, giving in. “fine. i'll still overthink in the car though.”

jj smirks as she grabs her keys. "yeah, but at least this way, you’ll be overthinking with heated seats and no risk of getting hit by a rogue cyclist."

you roll your eyes, but there's a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "alright, alright. guess I’ll overthink in comfort then." you step outside, the weight of everything that’s about to unfold on your back.

the ride back is quiet, the streets nearly empty as jj navigates the familiar roads. you stare out the window, your finger spinning your wedding band, mind racing with all the possibilities of what comes next.

you wonder how it will be when you walk through that door. will he be surprised to see you? will he be angry? will he apologize? the questions swirl in your mind, but you push them aside—you'll find out in a few minutes either way.

jj pulls up in front of the apartment building and turns to you, her expression gentle. “you don’t have to fix everything tonight,” she reminds you. “just… put all your cards on the table. don't sugarcoat anything.”

you nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and nervous anticipation. "thank you, jj," you say softly, giving her a small smile. "i don’t know what i would’ve done without you tonight."

she smiles back, her eyes warm with understanding. "you’ll be fine. just be honest, that’s all you can do."

with a final nod, you push the door open, the cold air immediately hitting you as you step out onto the sidewalk. your heart is pounding in your chest, each step towards the apartment feeling heavier than the last.

you twist the handle, it's unlocked, but you hesitate before pushing the door open, gathering your courage in the silent hallway. when you finally step inside, the apartment is quiet—but not empty. a single lamp illuminates the living room, casting long shadows across the walls.

and there's spencer, sitting on the couch hunched over with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

he looks up at the sound of the door, and for a brief moment, his face is completely unguarded. relief washes over his features, followed quickly by something that looks almost like fear. he stands immediately, his movements stiff and uncertain.

"you came back," he says, his voice hoarse.

you close the door behind you, still standing near the threshold. "i started feeling guilty." you sighed, jj's voice in the back of your head—just be honest.

spencer swallows, his gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "guilty?" he repeats, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

spencer exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “you shouldn't feel guilty," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "i mean, it makes sense,” he says quickly, his words picking up speed.

“studies show that guilt is often a response to perceived moral transgressions rather than actual wrongdoing. it’s the brain’s way of enforcing social cohesion—an evolutionary mechanism designed to maintain interpersonal relationships by making us feel responsible for potential harm, even when no actual harm has been inflicted.”

you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of disbelief and amusement as he rambled on. it was as if, in the middle of all this, the man you once knew had momentarily resurfaced. even if what he was saying wasn’t at all what you needed to hear right now, a part of you couldn't help but recognize the familiarity in it—the way he always got lost in his thoughts, trying to explain things when he didn’t quite know how to connect.

he shifts on his feet, his words picking up speed. “and in this case, your reaction makes perfect sense. you removed yourself from a heightened emotional situation in order to regulate your response, which, psychologically speaking, is a far healthier alternative to reactive conflict. but then, the cognitive dissonance sets in—the part where your brain tells you that leaving contradicts your usual patterns of behavior, and that discrepancy triggers guilt, even if logically—”

“spencer,” you interrupt gently.

his mouth snaps shut, and for a second, there’s just silence. a flicker of something vulnerable crosses his face, and you realize—he’s rambling because he doesn’t know what else to say. because this is easier for him than actually talking about what matters.

you step forward, closing a bit of the distance between you. “i don’t need an analysis,” you tell him gently. "i just want you to tell me what's going on."

spencer’s gaze flickers for a moment, like he’s trying to find the words, trying to make sense of the situation. "i never wanted you to feel like you needed to leave," he says, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “but i didn’t exactly make it easy for you to stay.”

you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, the weight of everything you haven’t said pressing heavily on your chest. "no, you didn’t," you admit, your voice just above a whisper.

his expression tightens, a flash of something—guilt, maybe—crossing his face before he looks away.

"i've been trying," he says quietly. "i have."

"have you?" the question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don't soften it. "because from where i'm standing, it feels like you've been doing everything possible to push me away."

spencer's gaze snaps back to you, a hint of defensiveness in his eyes. "that's not fair."

"isn't it?" you take another step forward, emboldened by the surge of emotions you've held back for too long. "you won't talk to me. you won't look at me. you won't even sit next to me on the couch. what am i supposed to think, spencer?"

he runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "it's not that simple," he says, his voice strained. "i want to be the person you remember, but i don't know if i can be that man anymore."

the admission hits you like a physical blow. "i'm not asking you to be exactly who you were before," you say softly. "i know that's not possible. i just... i need you to be present. to talk to me. to not shut me out completely."

spencer is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point beyond you. when he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "i don't know how to explain what it was like in there."

your breath catches. this is the closest he's come to talking about prison since he's been home. you don't know if you should say something. you hold your breath, afraid that if you move or speak, he'll retreat again.

his eyes are distant, far away, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even aware of how much you’re hanging on his every word. finally, he exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of it all is too much to bear.

“being in there… it broke something inside of me,” he says, voice low and strained. “i kept thinking about what it would be like to come back, to be here, with you. and then i just—" he paused for a moment. "i had to do something really bad. i had to do things in there that… things i never thought i would do."

"i hate myself for it. every second of it." his voice breaks on the last word, he shakes his head, hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair, frustration and guilt radiating from him.

"i wasn't just a victim in there—i became someone i don't even recognize anymore. i did things that went against everything i ever believed in, everything i told myself i would never do."

he looks at you now, and you can see the turmoil in his eyes—the deep-rooted shame and the self-loathing that’s consumed him. "and now i’m back here, with you, and i don’t even know who i am anymore. i’ve become this person who did unforgivable things. you don't deserve someone like me, someone who’s capable of—of that." he gestures vaguely, as if trying to encompass everything that’s happened to him.

"is that why you've been pushing me away?" you ask softly. "because you think i won't love who you are now?"

he doesn't answer, but the way he avoids your gaze tells you everything.

"baby," you whisper, shifting closer to him. "nothing could change how I see you."

you take a slow, unsteady breath, searching for the right words—any words—but everything feels inadequate. how do you explain something that goes beyond language?

"god, spencer," you exhale, shaking your head. "i wish i was better at this. i wish i had the right words, i wish i was some kind of poet, and that i could say the right things to make you understand, but i'm not."

you finally close the gap between you two and take his hands, gripping them tightly, pressing them against your chest as if somehow, if he just feels the way your heart beats for him, he’ll finally understand.

"it’s frustrating," you continue, voice thick with emotion. "because what i feel for you—it’s bigger than me. it’s bigger than words. i can’t explain it, and i hate that, because i need you to know. i need you to understand that this isn’t something breakable, something you can ruin, something you can chase away just because you think you should."

he swallows hard, his fingers curling around yours, but he doesn’t speak. maybe he can’t.

"i swear, spencer, if there was a way to pull this feeling out of me and give it to you, i would. if i could make you see yourself the way i see you, make you understand that what you did—what you had to do—doesn’t make you unworthy of love, i would do it in a heartbeat." your voice breaks slightly, tears now lining your eyes. "because i don’t just love you. it’s not that simple. it’s not just some feeling, some thing i could ever put into words. it’s more. it doesn’t begin or end with what you’ve done, or what’s happened to you, or who you think you’ve become. it just is."

he lets out a shaky breath, his eye are now wet, shining under the dim apartment light, his lips parted slightly like he wants to argue but can’t find the strength to. because maybe, just maybe, for the first time—he’s starting to believe you.

"i just wish—i wish you could feel it," you murmur, voice breaking. "i wish you could step into my skin, into my heart, and know how much i love you."

you don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches up, hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you. his hand is shaking, but he doesn’t pull away.

spencer’s expression falters, something breaking inside of him, and when he finally—finally—pulls you into his arms, it’s not desperate or frantic. his arms wrap around you slowly, almost reverently, as though he's trying to let the feeling of your love wash over him, to understand it the way you do.

at first, it’s just the slightest tremble in his shoulders, so faint you almost miss it. but then you feel it—the shaky exhale against your neck, the way his fingers clutch at the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid to let go. and then, slowly, silently, he starts to break.

his breath hitches, and before he can stop it, a quiet sob escapes him, muffled against your shoulder. his body shakes, all the pain and guilt unraveling all at once, and all you can do is hold him through it. his hands grasp at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the present, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into everything he’s been trying so hard to contain.

you don’t say anything. you don’t tell him it’s okay, because you know he wouldn’t believe it. or maybe because it isn't. but it will be. you'll make sure of that.

your fingers thread through his hair, your lips press against his temple, and you whisper the same words over and over, a promise and a lifeline: "i love you. i love you. i love you."

you stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the weight of everything that’s happened still lingering in the air between you. but it’s different now. lighter, somehow. not because everything is fixed—there are still conversations to have, wounds to tend to, pieces of him he hasn’t shown you yet.

but for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re on the same side again. you’re not standing in separate corners, silently blaming each other for things you can’t control.

the weight in your chest, the anxiety that has gnawed at you since that day you got the call about him being detained, begins to fade. you don’t need to fix everything tonight. you don’t need to have all the answers.

his breathing begins to steady, the tears slowing, but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a raw whisper as he says the only thing he can in this moment. “i’m sorry.”

you close your eyes for a moment, exhaling softly. “i know,” you whisper.

there's a beat of silence. "i've been having nightmares," he says, his voice so low you have to strain to hear him. "almost every night. that's where i go sometimes—i walk before going to bed. i walk so that i'm exhausted enough that my mind shuts down."

the sudden admission breaks your heart—but there's also a part of you that feels relief. relief that he wasn't turning to something worse or someone else to numb the pain.

"spencer, you could have told me." you said, fingers rubbings patterns into his back.

"i didn't want to burden you more than i already have," he says, shaking his head. "you've already been through so much because of me."

"that's not how this works," you say, squeezing his hand. "just forget all of that, okay? things will be different now. you not talking to me hurts more than that ever could."

he leans into you, his eyes closing for a brief moment. "i'm sorry," he whispers. "for pushing you away. for making you feel like you weren't enough. you've always been enough."

you lift a hand to his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek as you take in the exhaustion lining his features—the weight he’s been carrying alone for too long. slowly, carefully, you lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. just a warm, quiet reassurance that you’re here, that you’re staying.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, and he lets out a quiet sigh, his breath warm against your skin. he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "do you want to go to bed?" he asks, voice low.

you pause for a moment, you hadn’t realized just how exhausted you were until his mention of sleep. your shoulders feel heavy, and your body aches from the emotional toll it’s taken.

a deep, almost instinctual sigh escapes your lips, and you nod softly, “yeah."

spencer squeezes your hand gently and leads you toward the bedroom. the moment the covers are pulled back, you slip under the soft sheets, the cool fabric against your skin offering the smallest comfort after everything you've been through. spencer follows you in, his body warm and reassuring as he settles beside you.

he moves closer, carefully wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into him with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. you rest your head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. his presence, steady and constant, washes over you like a balm, soothing the frantic, scattered thoughts in your mind.

his hand moves slowly up and down your back, the rhythm soothing, and you realize just how much you've missed this—missed him.

you close your eyes, letting the weight of everything melt away as you drift closer to sleep. spencer’s voice is soft, a comforting murmur as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"i love you."

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #matthew gray gubler #prison reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid angst #postprison!spencer

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